“Can you prove you didn't go out of the cottage again that night?” Giles said.
“No, because I did: I took Bill for a run somewhere about half-past eleven, and he had a dust-up with a retriever.”
“That may be useful. Anyone with the retriever?”
“Yes, a woman like a moulting hen. But it isn't useful, in fact, rather the reverse, because I walked towards the village, as far as the cross-roads, and I was coming back when I met the hen-and-retriever outfit. So I might quite easily have stuck a knife into Arnold before that. And perhaps I ought to tell you that I got retriever-blood on this skirt, and had to wash it. Because when the police came I was drying it. So what with that, and my being a trifle snarkish with them at first, on account of thinking they'd come about the dog-fight, I daresay I may have set them against me.”
“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Giles. “One other question: Does Kenneth know you're here?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he doesn't. He was out when I got Arnold's letter. But you know what he is: I daresay he hasn't even noticed that I'm not at home. If he has, he'll merely suppose I told him I was going away for the night and he forgot.”
“I wasn't worrying about that. Did anyone know you were coming here?”
“Well, I didn't say anything to anyone,” replied Antonia helpfully. She regarded him with a certain amount of anxiety. “Do you suppose they'll think I did it?”
“I hope not. The fact that you spent the night at the cottage ought to tell in your favour. But you must stop fooling about, Tony. The police want you to account for your movements last night. We must trust that they won't inquire too closely into the letter Arnold wrote you. Otherwise you've nothing to conceal, and you must tell them the truth, and answer any questions they put to you.”
“How do you know I've nothing to conceal?” inquired Antonia, eyeing him wickedly. “I wouldn't have minded murdering Arnold last night.”