“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Forrest was saying, “that in that case I can’t help you. I did have a friend dining with me on the 26th, but he has not, so far as I know, been murdered, nor has he murdered anybody.”
“It was a man, then?” said Parker.
Mrs. Forrest bowed her head with a kind of mocking ruefulness. “I live apart from my husband,” she murmured.
“I am sorry,” said Parker, “to have to press for this gentleman’s name and address.”
“Isn’t that asking rather much? Perhaps if you would give me further details—”
“Well, you see,” cut in Wimsey again, “if we could just know for certain it wasn’t Lyndhurst. My cousin is so frightfully upset, as I said, and that Evelyn girl is making trouble. In fact—of course one doesn’t want it to go any further—but actually Sylvia lost her head very completely. She made a savage attack on poor old Lyndhurst—with a revolver, in fact, only fortunately she is a shocking bad shot. It went over his shoulder and broke a vase—most distressin’ thing—a Famille Rose jar, worth thousands—and of course it was smashed to atoms. Sylvia is really hardly responsible when she’s in a temper. And, we thought, as Lyndhurst was actually traced to this block of flats—if you could give us definite proof it wasn’t him, it might calm her down and prevent murder being done, don’t you know. Because, though they might call it Guilty but Insane, still, it would be awfully awkward havin’ one’s cousin in Broadmoor—a first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she’s not irritated.”
Mrs. Forrest gradually softened into a faint smile.
“I think I understand the position, Mr. Templeton,” she said, “and if I give you a name, it will be in strict confidence, I presume?”
“Of course, of course,” said Wimsey. “Dear me, I’m sure it’s uncommonly kind of you.”
“You’ll swear you aren’t spies of my husband’s?” she said, quickly. “I am trying to divorce him. How do I know this isn’t a trap?”