“You think Mrs. Forrest is an accomplice?”
“I do. I don’t know what she has to gain by it—probably money. But I feel sure there is some connection. Partly because of Bertha Gotobed’s £5 note; partly because Mrs. Forrest’s story was a palpable fake—I’m certain the woman’s never had a lover, let alone a husband—you can’t mistake real inexperience; and chiefly because of the similarity of method. Criminals always tend to repeat their effects. Look at George Joseph Smith and his brides. Look at Neill Cream. Look at Armstrong and his tea-parties.”
“Well, if there’s an accomplice, all the better. Accomplices generally end up by giving the show away.”
“True. And we are in a good position because up till now I don’t think they know that we suspect any connection between them.”
“But I still think, you know, we ought to get some evidence that actual crimes have been committed. Call me finicking, if you like. If you could suggest a means of doing away with these people so as to leave no trace, I should feel happier about it.”
“The means, eh?—Well, we do know something about it.”
“As what?”
“Well—take the two victims—”
“Alleged.”
“All right, old particular. The two alleged victims and the two (alleged) intended victims. Miss Dawson was ill and helpless; Bertha Gotobed possibly stupefied by a heavy meal and an unaccustomed quantity of wine; Trigg was given a sufficient dose of veronal to send him to sleep, and I was offered something of probably the same kind—I wish I could have kept the remains of that coffee. So we deduce from that, what?”