I am human enough to feel that I agree over the matter of Slack’s promotion. A man who goes about systematically rubbing people up the wrong way cannot hope to be popular.
“Dr. Haydock thinks rather like I do,” went on Dennis. “He’d never give a murderer up to justice. He said so.”
I think that that is the danger of Haydock’s views. They may be sound in themselves – it is not for me to say – but they produce an impression on the young, careless mind which I am sure Haydock himself never meant to convey.
Griselda looked out of the window and remarked that there were reporters in the garden.
“I suppose they’re photographing the study windows again,” she said, with a sigh.
We had suffered a good deal in this way. There was first the idle curiosity of the village – every one had come to gape and stare. There were next the reporters armed with cameras, and the village again to watch the reporters. In the end we had to have a constable from Much Benham on duty outside the window.
“Well,” I said, “the funeral is tomorrow morning. After that, surely, the excitement will die down.”
I noticed a few reporters hanging about Old Hall when we arrived there. They accosted me with various queries to which I gave the invariable answer (we had found it the best), that, “I had nothing to say.”
We were shown by the butler into the drawing-room, the sole occupant of which turned out to be Miss Cram – apparently in a state of high enjoyment.
“This is a surprise, isn’t it?” she said, as she shook hands. “I never should have thought of such a thing, but Mrs. Protheroe is kind, isn’t she? And, of course, it isn’t what you might call nice for a young girl to be staying alone at a place like the Blue Boar, reporters about and all. And, of course, it’s not as though I haven’t been able to make myself useful – you really need a secretary at a time like this, and Miss Protheroe doesn’t do anything to help, does she?”
I was amused to notice that the old animosity against Lettice persisted, but that the girl had apparently become a warm partisan of Anne’s. At the same time I wondered if the story of her coming here was strictly accurate. In her account the initiative had come from Anne, but I wondered if that were really so. The first mention of disliking to be at the Blue Boar alone might have easily come from the girl herself. Whilst keeping an open mind on the subject, I did not fancy that Miss Cram was strictly truthful.
At that moment Anne Protheroe entered the room.
She was dressed very quietly in black. She carried in her hand a Sunday paper which she held out to me with a rueful glance.
“I’ve never had any experience of this sort of thing. It’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it? I saw a reporter at the inquest. I just said that I was terribly upset and had nothing to say, and then he asked me if I wasn’t very anxious to find my husband’s murderer, and I said ‘Yes.’ And then whether I had any suspicions, and I said ‘No.’ And whether I didn’t think the crime showed local knowledge, and I said it seemed to certainly. And that was all. And now look at this!”
In the middle of the page was a photograph, evidently taken at least ten years ago – Heaven knows where they had dug it out. There were large headlines:
“WIDOW DECLARES SHE WILL NEVER REST TILL SHE HAS HUNTED DOWN HUSBAND’S MURDERER.”
“Mrs. Protheroe, the widow of the murdered man, is certain that the murderer must be looked for locally. She has suspicions, but no certainty. She declared herself prostrated with grief, but reiterated her determination to hunt down the murderer.”
“It doesn’t sound like me, does it?” said Anne.
“I dare say it might have been worse,” I said, handing back the paper.
“Impudent, aren’t they?” said Miss Cram. “I’d like to see one of those fellows trying to get something out of me.”