‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘A sad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep.’ ‘I know,’ said my sister again.
This time I was annoyed.
‘You can’t know,’ I snapped. ‘I didn’t know myself until I got there, and haven’t mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she must be a clairvoyant.’ ‘It wasn’t Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the Ferrarses’ cook.’ As I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information. She sits at home and it comes to her.
My sister continued: ‘What did she die of? Heart failure?’ ‘Didn’t the milkman tell you that?’ I inquired sarcastically.
Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.
‘He didn’t know,’ she explained.
After all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might as well hear from me.
‘She died of an overdose of veronal. She’s been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Caroline immediately. ‘She took it on purpose. Don’t tell me!’ It is odd, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the. voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech.
‘There you go again,’ I said. ‘Rushing along without rhyme or reason. Why on earth should Mrs Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow, fairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do but enjoy life. It’s absurd.’ ‘Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. It’s been coming on for the last six months. She’s looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasn’t been able to sleep.’ ‘What is your diagnosis?’ I demanded coldly. ‘An unfortunate love affair, I suppose?’ My sister shook her head.
”Remorse,1 she said, with great gusto.
‘Remorse?’ ‘Yes. You never would believe me when I told you she poisoned her husband. I’m more than ever convinced of it now.’ ‘I don’t think you’re very logical,’ I objected. ‘Surely if a woman committed a crime like murder, she’d be sufficiently cold-blooded to enjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such as repentance.’ Caroline shook her head.
‘There probably are women like that – but Mrs Ferrars wasn’t one of them. She was a mass of nerves. An overmastering impulse drove her on to get rid of her husband because she was the sort of person who simply can’t endure suffering of any kind, and there’s no doubt that the wife of a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal ‘ I nodded.
‘And ever since she’s been haunted by what she did. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’ I don’t think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs Ferrars whilst she was alive. Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can no longer be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotions of pity and comprehension.
I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she had said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truth simply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn’t going to encourage that sort of thing. She will go round the village airing her views, and everyone will think that she is doing so on medical data supplied by me. Life is very trying.
‘Nonsense,’ said Caroline, in reply to my strictures.
‘You’ll see. Ten to one she’s left a letter confessing everything.’
‘She didn’t leave a letter of any kind,’ I said sharply, and not seeing where the admission was going to land me.
‘Oh!’ said Caroline. ‘So you did inquire about that, did you? I believe, James, that in your heart of hearts, you think very much as I do. You’re a precious old humbug.’ ‘One always has to take the possibility of suicide into consideration,’ I said impressively.
‘Will there be an inquest?’ ‘There may be. It all depends. If I am able to declare myself absolutely satisfied that the overdose was taken accidentally, an inquest might be dispensed with.’ ‘And are you absolutely satisfied?’ asked my sister shrewdly.