“Yes, you possess a latchkey to this house.”
“Oh, that!” Alma smiled and I felt sure it was a smile of relief. “Yes, I have always had a latchkey. My uncle gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Oh, years ago. When I lived here. Then when I went to live on the island he bade me keep it so I could come over whenever I chose and let myself in.”
“Yes. That gave you what we call opportunity.”
“And my desire to inherit his estate gave me motive!” she wasn’t quite smiling, but nearly. “Well, Mr. Coroner, that may be true, but I didn’t come over here with my latchkey and kill my uncle and trick out his bed with flowers. The motive was not strong enough and the opportunity was negligible. I hope you can find my uncle’s murderer, but it was not I.”
There was something in her simple plain speech that carried conviction. Had I been one of those jurymen I could not have helped believing in the sincerity of that clear, sweet young voice that rang true in its every cadence.
“Then, Miss Remsen, you know nothing of the missing waistcoats?”
“Missing waistcoats?” she repeated, and now I saw that eyelid quiver pitifully.
“Yes, don’t repeat my words to gain time. Where are those two waistcoats that disappeared the night your uncle was killed?”