"It's natural in a relative, miss," said the detective looking hard at the withered little face.
Miss Pewsey laughed in a shrill manner, and spoke between her teeth more than ever, emphasising every word as usual. "Oh, dear me, no," said she. "Miss Wharf and Olivia never got on well. The girl hated her aunt, though dearest Sophia--Miss Wharf, you know, sir--brought her up, when she hadn't a shilling or a friend in the world."
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?" asked Rodgers wondering how much of this spiteful speech was true, and seeing plainly enough that the speaker was no friend to the niece.
"I am Lavinia Pewsey," said that lady, "and for years I have been the cherished friend and dearest companion of Sophia. We were at school together, and were--as I may say--like two cherries on one stalk. Anything I can do to avenge her death will be done."
"Punishment by the law, doesn't come under the head of vengeance!"
"It comes under the head of hanging, and I'll be glad to see the rope round his neck."
"Of whom are you talking?" asked Rodgers phlegmatically.
"Of the man who killed my dearest friend."
"Oh. I understood from the Superintendent that the affair was quite a mystery."
"Not to me," snapped Miss Pewsey, "Rupert Ainsleigh strangled her to get the fan."