“Who is Sylvia?” demanded Mrs. Forrest with considerable amazement.
“Who is Sylvia? What is she?” gabbled Wimsey, irrepressibly. “Shakespeare always has the right word, hasn’t he? But, God bless my soul, it’s no laughing matter. It’s very serious and you’ve no business to laugh at it. Sylvia is very much upset, and the doctor is afraid it may have an effect on her heart. You may not know it, Mrs. Forrest, but Sylvia Lyndhurst is my cousin. And what she wants to know, and what we all want to know—don’t interrupt me, Inspector, all this shilly-shallying doesn’t get us anywhere—I want to know, Mrs. Forrest, who was it dining here with you on the night of April 26th. Who was it? Who was it? Can you tell me that?”
This time, Mrs. Forrest was visibly taken aback. Even under the thick coat of powder they could see the red flush up into her cheeks and ebb away, while her eyes took on an expression of something more than alarm—a kind of vicious fury, such as one may see in those of a cornered cat.
“On the 26th?” she faltered. “I can’t—”
“I knew it!” cried Wimsey. “And that girl Evelyn was sure of it too. Who was it, Mrs. Forrest? Answer me that!”
“There—there was no one,” said Mrs. Forrest, with a thick gasp.
“Oh, come, Mrs. Forrest, think again,” said Parker, taking his cue promptly, “you aren’t going to tell us that you accounted by yourself for three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and two people’s dinners.”
“Not forgetting the ham,” put in Wimsey, with fussy self-importance, “the Bradenham ham specially cooked and sent up by Fortnum & Mason. Now, Mrs. Forrest—”
“Wait a moment. Just a moment. I’ll tell you everything.”
The woman’s hands clutched at the pink silk cushions, making little hot, tight creases. “I—would you mind getting me something to drink? In the dining-room, through there—on the sideboard.”