It was The Tundish who replied. “She will never come out of Highfield Asylum alive. Now she is neither living nor dead, but I believe no more accountable for what has happened than any of us here.”
“You suspected her all the time, didn’t you?” I asked him.
“Yes I did, but how could I say anything? What might not Allport here have thought had I attempted to put forward such a facile solution, and what would have been gained? Besides, I had nothing very much to go on and I could have proved her neither guilty nor insane. But her family history alone was enough to make me wonder. You caught me looking it up again in Hanson’s case-book that afternoon, Jeffcock. Hanson himself suspected her of taking drugs, and it was I who persuaded Ethel to ask her to stay here for the tournament. Ethel didn’t want to because young Bennett was coming and she knew that she still cared for him, and that unfortunately, from her point of view, he no longer cared for her. But I wanted her to come because I was interested in her case. I felt certain from the very first that it was she who had poisoned Stella, but I certainly hadn’t anything definite to back up suspicions and at times they weakened. For instance, when I caught you in the box-room, Jeffcock. I only had little things to go on. You remember when I asked her and you to witness me making up that medicine for Ethel? Well, you wouldn’t notice anything, but I was watching her closely—she was simply thrilled—the idea of another sleeping draft, the association was too strong for her to hide. It was horrible. I dared not allow her to take it up to Ethel. If you had been here then, Mr. Allport, I should have told you of what I suspected; I should have risked your possible misconstructions. I was terrified lest there should be some further catastrophe. As you know there were very nearly two, but I felt that it would have been quite useless for me to have made any statement to Inspector Brown. I felt that he would have locked me up on the spot if I had made any suggestions of the sort, and that until you arrived on the scene again I was better at large.
“I’ve been unhappy about Margaret, Ethel, ever since the time your father ran over that dog. About eighteen months ago, wasn’t it? The poor brute was in agony of pain when we got out of the car, and unawares I caught a glimpse of Margaret’s face. It bore a look of—no, there’s no other word for it—a look of simply hellish delight. In a flash it was gone and she was all womanly sympathy and sorrow. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and I remember your mother saying how tender-hearted she was.”
“Do you mean to tell us that she has been mad for more than a year without any one being the wiser?” Allport queried.
“No, not mad, but she was abnormal, wildly excitable, a borderland case. Anything might have pushed her over the line. There was insanity on both sides of the family.”
It was too ghastly for comment, and we were silent for a space. “And now I think it’s time we made our way to bed,” he added. “I for one have arrears to make good.”
“And to-morrow I suppose I must write post-haste for Aunt Emmeline,” Ethel said with an uncomplimentary sigh.
“Couldn’t I—would you like me to stay on for a few days?” Janet asked in her sweet low voice. “I should be really glad to, if you’d prefer it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” The Tundish said with his usual decision, “but it will be neither you nor Aunt Emmeline. I’m going to pack Ethel off to Folkestone by the first available train. I’ve already arranged it all over the telephone with Mrs. Hanson, and Annie can look after me.”