Tommy nodded. That agreed perfectly with the policeman’s story. He had seen the woman with the white furs go in at the gate, probably three minutes had elapsed before he and Tuppence had reached the same spot. He had glanced at his own watch then and had noted that it was just one minute after the time of their appointment.
There was just the faint chance that someone might have been waiting for Gilda Glen in the room upstairs. But if so, he must still be hiding in the house. No one but James Reilly had left it.
He ran upstairs and made a quick but efficient search of the premises. But there was no one concealed anywhere.
Then he spoke to Ellen. After breaking the news to her, and waiting for her first lamentations and invocations to the Saints to have exhausted themselves, he asked a few questions.
“Had anyone come to the house that afternoon asking for Miss Glen? No one whatsoever. Had she herself been upstairs at all that evening? Yes, she’d gone up at six o’clock as usual to draw the curtains-or it might have been a few minutes after six. Anyway it was just before that wild fellow come breaking the knocker down. She’d run downstairs to answer the door. And him a black hearted murderer at the time.”
Tommy let it go at that. But he still felt a curious pity for Reilly, an unwillingness to believe the worst of him. And yet there was no one else who could have murdered Gilda Glen. Mrs. Honeycott and Ellen had been the only two people in the house.
He heard voices in the hall, and went out to find Tuppence and the policeman from the beat outside. The latter had produced a notebook, and a rather blunt pencil which he licked surreptitiously. He went upstairs and surveyed the victim stolidly, merely remarking that if he was to touch anything the Inspector would give him beans. He listened to all Mrs. Honeycott’s hysterical outbursts and confused explanations, and occasionally he wrote something down. His presence was calming and soothing.
Tommy finally got him alone for a minute or two on the steps outside, ere he departed to telephone headquarters.
“Look here,” said Tommy. “You saw the deceased turning in at the gate, you say. Are you sure she was alone?”
“Oh, she was alone all right. Nobody with her.”
“And between that time and when you met us, nobody came out of the gate?”
“Not a soul.”
“You’d have seen them if they had?”
“In course I should. Nobody come out till that wild chap did.”
The majesty of the law moved portentously down the steps and paused by the white gate post which bore the imprint of a hand in red.
“Kind of amateur he must have been,” he said pityingly. “To leave a thing like that.”
Then he swung out into the road.
It was the day after the crime. Tommy and Tuppence were still at the Grand Hotel, but Tommy had thought it prudent to discard his clerical disguise.
James Reilly had been apprehended, and was in custody. His solicitor, Mr. Marvell, had just finished a lengthy conversation with Tommy on the subject of the crime.
“I never would have believed it of James Reilly,” he said simply. “He’s always been a man of violent speech, but that’s all.”
Tommy nodded.
“If you disperse energy in speech, it doesn’t leave you too much over for action. What I realise is that I shall be one of the principal witnesses against him. That conversation he had with me just before the crime was particularly damning. And in spite of everything, I like the man, and if there was anyone else to suspect, I should believe him to be innocent. What’s his own story?”
The solicitor pursed up his lips.
“He declares that he found her lying there dead. But that’s impossible, of course. He’s using the first lie that comes into his head.”
“Because, if he happened to be speaking the truth, it would mean that our garrulous Mrs. Honeycott committed the crime-and that is fantastic. Yes, he must have done it.”
“The maid heard her cry out, remember.”