"Go on."
"He was in his shirt-sleeves. That's how I remember. It was the first time I'd ever seen him in his shirtsleeves. He just said Vicky wasn't at home, and closed the door in my face. Rather rudely, I thought. I went away."
The account was unadorned and even commonplace, but her listeners found it anything but commonplace.
Courtney felt again the sense of evil, whose origin he could not trace, but which had touched him the night before. Ann's story conjured up visions of unexpected things behind starched window-curtains: of a dark house, and something lying on a sofa. It is not always wise to explore too far the possibilities of a summer night.
"And that's all you know?"
"That's everything, I swear!"
Masters was uneasy. "And not very much either, miss, if you don't mind my saying so. However, we'll go into this! I can promise you that. But—"
"But what, son?" asked H.M. quietly.
"Somebody killed Mr. Fane! First you show me a great big beautiful case against Mrs. Fane. Then you try to tear it down by saying she hadn't got a motive, just because she hated her husband so much. What's up your sleeve, sir? Because I'm smacking well certain there is something."
H.M. twiddled his thumbs.