Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn’t love her husband, and Natalie was angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie’s bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as Joyce’s. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly.
Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,—or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as Blake snapped on the key, and then—discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue. Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted. Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either woman’s action was quite compatible with a criminal’s sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman’s horror at the scene before her.
But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed he’d find out which was which before his week was up.
Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric’s rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.
But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question.
Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake’s experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?
Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment’s hesitation, she spoke to him.
“Mr. Roberts, I’ve had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?”
“In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?”
“Come in the studio. I’ll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him.”