“That’s so—go on, I don’t see——”
“Has it ever struck you that Mrs. Bertenshaw, the housekeeper who arrived so opportunely, shall we say, to release Branston—might just as easily have shot the bolt that held him prisoner? She was the only person that you can swear was in the house with Branston and the murdered girl.” He looked at Bannister anxiously—scanning the Inspector’s impassive face to see how his theory was being received.
“By Jove,” whispered Bannister—almost to himself. Then he shook his head in disagreement. “Where did she get the poison from, Godfrey—have you thought of that?”
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I can’t answer that for the moment—but it might be answered in several ways.”
“Have you looked her up at all? I’m relying on you for spade work,” asked Bannister.
Godfrey was ready with his facts. “She’s a widow—lost her husband about nine years ago. She’s got one son—believed to be abroad—in India, I believe. She herself comes of a West Country family. Her maiden name was Warrimore.”
“Nothing against her, then?”
“Nothing.”
“How do you explain the stolen notes getting to Branston? You can’t get away from Morley’s story.”
“Suppose we go to see him, Inspector,” declared Godfrey.