“I do not believe it! The Carnthwackes—one of them, murdered my husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe said uncompromisingly. “I have the strongest possible——”
She was interrupted by an odd sound, a sort of choking gasp from Cecily. They all turned. The girl was deathly white. She caught her breath sharply in her throat.
“It—it can't be true! I don't believe it! Why should he want to hurt Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
“Why should who want to hurt Mrs. Carnthwacke?” the inspector counter-questioned.
“Because—oh, I don't know——. Oh, I know he didn't!” Cecily accompanied this asseveration with a burst of tears. “Nobody could be so cruel.”
“Somebody has!” the inspector said dryly. “Is it any consolation to you to think that there are two murderers at large instead of one, Miss Hoyle?”
Cecily stared at him, twisting her hands about, apparently in an agony of speechlessness. She made two or three hoarse attempts to answer him. Then, with a wild glance round at the amazed faces of Steadman and Mrs. Bechcombe, she turned and rushed out of the room.
The inspector glanced at John Steadman—a glance intercepted by Mrs. Bechcombe.
“Hysteria!” that lady remarked scornfully. “I fancy she thinks that you suspect Anthony, and that naturally—— But enough of Cecily Hoyle. What is this wild tale of yours about Mrs. Carnthwacke, inspector?”
“It is no wild tale, madam,” the inspector said coldly. “I have just come from the Carnthwackes' house, where Mrs. Carnthwacke lies at death's door. I came here by Mr. Carnthwacke's express desire to see whether I could induce Mr. Steadman to accompany me to consult with him as to the best measures to be taken now.”