“But where? Not in the wardrobe, for we opened that, nor under the bed, for we looked there, and there really was no place else.”
“Oh, yes, there was. You remember that the very next day, I think, Prudence sent away two boxes, ostensibly full of her sister’s belongings. Now my theory is, and time will prove whether I am not right, that in one of those boxes, the big grey one, bound with iron, was the body of Miss Semaphore!”
By this time the medical woman’s hearers were trembling in every limb.
“How awful!” quaked Mrs. Whitley. “Why it is just like that East End tragedy. I forget the name—when a woman—no, a man, was taken away dead in a box.”
“This is a serious accusation,” said Mrs. Wilcox, after a time of digestive silence, “and it doesn’t seem to me to be proved.”
“Doesn’t it?” enquired the medical woman indignantly. “Well, I presume you’ll believe it when you see the poor creature dead before you, and are called on to identify her remains, as I have no doubt you will be.”
“But Miss Prudence is really so gentle; besides, what motive could she have for killing her sister?”
“Gentle? A woman—a hypocrite like that, with her baby-farmers and detectives after her? Don’t tell me! And as for motives, it seems plain enough that she may have had several that we cannot guess at. Mary tells me the Semaphores had a violent quarrel about a fortnight ago, and probably that decided her.”
“Oh, they often quarrelled. Poor Miss Semaphore, you know, was trying enough at times, but Miss Prudence never bore malice.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, it seems to me you think she is a plaster saint, and if so, there is no use my saying anything more—but I warn you. Time will tell.”