“A clue? Do you mean they know who did it?”
“No, dear. I don’t mean that they know; but there is somebody whom they suspect. Of course, it is their business to suspect people; but I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Of course, it is their business to find out who did it. I am only glad it isn’t mine—and yet I can’t help wondering. I keep thinking about it, even though I try hard to put it out of my mind.”
“That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I find myself wondering——”
Joan interrupted, “And the worst of it is that one’s thoughts take one no further. Mine just go round and round, I haven’t the ghost of an idea who it was.”
“What I came to tell you, Joan, was this. Of course, it can’t be true; but the police suspect—your stepfather.”
Joan had been standing, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece; but at Marian’s words she went very white, and her body swayed. She gripped the mantelpiece to steady herself, and felt her way to a chair. For a moment she said nothing. Then, so low as to be just audible, her answer came. “Marian, tell me at once what makes you think that.”
“I don’t think it, my dear. But, unfortunately, the police do. That man, Inspector Blaikie, has quite convinced himself of it. I had better tell you exactly what I know.”
Then Marian told Joan all about the inspector’s visit to Charis Lang. Joan listened in silence, barely moving. Her colour came back slowly, and, as she realised that the police had built up a real case against her stepfather, a look of determination came into her face.
“I wonder if he knows,” she said. “I must go to him at once.”