“Well,” said the detective, “he’s not a pretty sight, that’s all. There’s few as is what shoots themselves in the head.”
I stared at him; I would ask no more. In a minute we were on our way.
“Since when have you known this, Jannaway?” asked Mr Shapter, pale and breathless, as we hurried on.
“Only since early this morning for certain, sir,” answered the man. “But I’d been awake and busy half the night before, while the Italian gentleman, I suppose, was a-fuming and a-packing of his bag. He’d better have waited a little longer. I couldn’t have kept the truth from him another day.”
“How long have you been keeping it from him, from us all, as it is?”
“I mentioned, since this morning, didn’t I, sir? I don’t say as that covers the whole process of my reasoning up to it. But, as to that, you’ll hardly blame me, I suppose, for sitting close. Anyway, its the inferior English method, Mr Shapter, and, being an inferior English detective myself, I’m stupidly prejudiced in favour of it.”
It was wounded dignity’s last shot. We hardly spoke another word as we sped across the fields. For myself, I was so overcome with agitation as to find the mere effort of speech a labour. Yet once I found voice to ask Jannaway a question appalled: “What will be done with her?”
He shook his head, grating his chin.
“What indeed, sir? It might be proved incitement to suicide. More like she’ll be found incapable to plead. I’m detaining her as a matter of form; but the County Asylum’s more in her line than the police station. Don’t you be afraid for her, sir.”
Afraid? Merciful heavens! if this might be found the solution!—my mother—never as yet so realised—never, until made a widow for the second time, and by her own revengeful act, it seemed. Yet, dreadful as that might prove itself, it restored her somehow in my mind to her right place in the triple tragedy of my life.