Her colour rose, flaming into her naturally pale face. “Of course I knew it! I didn't tell the Sergeant—but I'm nearly sure I did!—it must have been because I was so shocked and startled by the news that Mr. Warrenby had been shot that it momentarily slipped my mind!”
“What brought it back to your mind—if I may ask?” said Hemingway.
“When I had time to think—going back over what I did after I got home on Saturday—” She broke off, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her thin hands together.
Hemingway shook his head. “You shouldn't have kept it from the Sergeant when he came to pick up your husband's rifle this morning,” he said, more in sorrow than in anger.
“If you like to come upstairs you can see for yourself!”
“I don't disbelieve you,” said Hemingway, adding apologetically: “That you can see the water-meadow from the attic, I mean.”
There was a moment's silence. “Look here!” said Delia Lindale fiercely. “I can tell you you're wasting your time! We hardly knew Mr. Warrenby, and we can't tell you anything! Why don't you ask Mr. Ainstable what he did after he parted from my husband on Saturday? Why didn't he go home in the car, with his wife? Why did he suddenly decide to visit his plantation? I suppose, just because the Ainstables have lived here for centuries, they're above suspicion! Like Gavin Plenmeller! You might find out what he was up to, instead of coming here to badger me! Why shouldn't it have been he? He loathed Mr. Warrenby! Ask Miss Patterdale if it isn't true that he said steps would have to be taken to get rid of him! I was standing beside her when he said it, at a cocktail-party the Ainstables gave last month, and so was Mr. Cliburn! The Warrenbys were both at the party, and I can tell you this!—everyone was saying how extraordinary it was of the Squire to have invited them! Particularly when he knew that Mr. Warrenby was pretty well barred in the neighbourhood!”
“Why was that?” enquired Hemingway.
“Because he was a bounder, I suppose. The sort of person the Ainstables look down their noses at. They don't welcome Tom, Dick, and Harry to Old Place, I assure you! In fact, I'm dead sure Mrs. Ainstable wouldn't have called on me if it hadn't been for Miss Patterdale's asking her to! She as good as said so! I—I don't want to try to cast suspicion on anyone, but I do wonder whether Mr. Warrenby had some sort of hold over the Squire. Since this happened, I've naturally thought about it a good deal, trying to think who might have had a reason for shooting Mr. Warrenby, and remembering all sorts of little incidents, which, at the time, I didn't attach any importance to—”
“Such as?” interpolated Hemingway.