She was silent, and the courtroom was silent too. To the red-headed girl, it seemed as though for a space everyone had foregone even the habit of breath and held it suspended until that voice should finish its dreadful tale. She could see Patrick Ives in his corner by the window. A long time ago he had buried his black head in his hands, and he did not lift it now. His mother had placed one small gloved hand on his knee. It rested there lightly, but she was not looking at him; her eyes had never wavered from Sue Ives’s white face. Long ago the winter roses had faded in her own, but it was as gravely and graciously composed as on that first day.
“Did you drive straight home, Mrs. Ives?”
“Straight home. Stephen spoke two or three times; I don’t remember saying anything at all. He told me to say that we’d driven over to Lakedale, and then he said that everything would be all right, because no one would know that Elliot had spoken to me, and no one could possibly know that we had gone to the cottage. I remember nodding, and then we were at our gate. Stephen said, ‘You might as well give me that signal that we decided on before to let me know whether Pat’s there; will you, Sue?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘You might ask him whether he heard from her this evening.’ I said, ‘Steve, it isn’t us that this is happening to, is it? It isn’t us—not Pat and you and I and Mimi?’ He said, ‘Yes, it’s us. I’ll wait right here. Hurry, will you?’
“I went into the house. All the lights were out except one in the hall, but I went out through the study and the dining room to the pantry. It connects with the servants’ quarters, and I wanted to make sure that none of them were about, as I had to go up and unlock the day nursery, and I was afraid that Kathleen Page might make a scene. It was all dark and quiet; there wasn’t anyone there. I passed the ice box as I came back, and I could see the fruit through the glass door. I remembered that Pat couldn’t have taken it to Mother Ives, and I put some on a plate and went upstairs. Her door was open; she always left it open so that we could say good-night if we came in before eleven.”
“Were you with her long?”
“Oh, no, only a minute. I told her that Steve and I had driven over to Lakedale instead of going to the movies, and kissed her good-night. Then I went around the gallery and on up to the nursery wing. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, but I didn’t go in. Pat was sitting by the table, reading. The door to Miss Page’s room was closed. He sat there looking at me for a moment, and then he stood up and came into the hall, pulling the nursery door to behind him. He said, ‘I didn’t know that you had it in you to play an ugly trick like that, Sue.’ I said, ‘I didn’t know it either.’ I went down to the study and lit the light—twice. I waited until I heard the car start, and then I went up to my room and took off my clothes and went to bed. There were several lights in the room, and I kept every one of them burning until after the sun was up. In the morning I got up and dressed and went to church, and it was just a little while after I got home that we heard that Mimi’s body had been found. And Monday evening both Stephen and I were put under arrest.”
She was silent for a moment, and then said in a small, exhausted voice, “That’s all. Must I wait?”
Lambert said gravely and gently, “I’m afraid so. When was the first time that you told this story, Mrs. Ives?”
“Night before last—to you—after they found my finger print, you know.”
“It is the full and entire account of how you spent the evening of the nineteenth of June, 1926?”