“At the seaside you suppose,” echoed the medical woman with fine scorn. “No, my dear madam, she is dead—and Prudence Semaphore murdered her—murdered her in this very house. Oh, you need not look at me like that. I’ve not spoken until I have traced every link in the chain of crime.”
“What did I say?” interposed Mrs. Dumaresq.
“What did I say from the very first?” She looked round appealingly at Mrs. Whitley. “I said I hoped she had not been murdered. You remember I used those very words.”
No one heeded her, for everyone was looking at the medical woman, as she gloated over the sensation she had caused.
“For pity sake, tell us all—all in strict confidence,” gasped Mrs. Wilcox. “What Captain Wilcox will say, I really cannot imagine.”
“Well,” said the medical woman, “I had my suspicions front the first, but they were vague. I felt that something was wrong, but did not know what that something was. The confusion of manner of Prudence Semaphore, her refusal to say plainly what ailed her sister, her reluctance to call in a doctor, and the extraordinarily small amount of nourishment she provided for her, were all remarkable. Then she would let no one see her. She put you off, Mrs. Wilcox, and she burst into quite a rage when, in the interests of humanity, I desired to visit the poor neglected sufferer. No doubt by that time Miss Semaphore was beyond human help, for now I recall, there was an indescribable air of guilt about that unhappy woman, and she showed a ferocity of character for which I had not given her credit. Still, I said nothing. Then came the discovery that Miss Semaphore had disappeared. That threw me off the scent for a time. I am always disposed to think as well of other people as possible, and while her leaving the house so suddenly and mysteriously seemed to point to her having a dangerous and possibly infectious illness, and being smuggled out of the way by Prudence, I did not seriously think she was dead. Our search of the room revealed nothing. The renewed calm of manner shown by that wretched creature, and the plausible story she told of her sister having gone to the seaside, I confess, lulled my suspicions to sleep. The story was queer, but it was not too improbable. Then came the visit paid Prudence by a drunken woman, who insisted on seeing her, and made such an uproar in the hall. Mrs. Dumaresq declares that she heard her say something about a cheque and an infant—”
“So I did,” corroborated Mrs. Dumaresq.
“Well I didn’t catch the words, but events have proved that you were right. Next followed”—she hesitated.
“Her fainting,” said Mrs. Whitley.
“Yes, her fainting suddenly in the drawing-room, when Major Jones was reading out something about that horrid baby farming case. I did not connect these events, Mrs. Dumaresq did.”