“I see,” I responded. Then murmured a few words of condolence.
“Thank you,” she said, “thank you. As you say, Mr. Cunningham, his death is a terrible thing—but the idea that he has been murdered, and that his memory will be attached for always to that murder, I find even more terrible and nerve-racking. If I don’t summon all my strength to my aid—I fear I shall give way to the horror of it.”
I expressed my most sincere sympathy, and Mary Considine caught her two hands and pressed them.
“You’re wonderful,” she cried, “to endure things as you have. And I’m going to try to help you to endure them even better.”
Mrs. Prescott smiled very sweetly. “You are very kind, my dear,” she said. “But I feel this, Mr. Cunningham,” she turned in my direction, “that I owe it to my son’s memory to leave no stone unturned to find the man or woman who killed him.” The look of patient resignation on her face gave way to one of steady resolution. She continued—talking seemed to relieve her grief a little, perhaps.
“I’m certain of one thing. I’m absolutely certain, in my own mind, that when Gerald came down here to Considine Manor, he had no worries, no trouble on his mind, and that whatever dark passions encompassed his end—were awakened very recently.”
Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Prescott,” she said. “I can’t bear to think that this came to him when he was our guest—I’ve just been telling Mr. Cunningham the same thing.”
Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly. “You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, my dear. I just know that when Gerald came here he was intensely happy and glad to come. Therefore, whatever cause brought about his death, had its origin down here. That’s all I mean.” She put her arm round Mary’s shoulders. I heard a step behind—it was Anthony. Mary introduced him.
“I am pleased to meet Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott. “I have heard already from Sir Charles Considine of what you have done for him. Perhaps you will be able to do something for me.”