The Inspector, placing no dependence on this statement, waited for her to continue.
“When I found out what he was up to—collecting information about all the times Warrenby was absolutely brutal to her, and trying to prove by time, and measurements, and I don't know what beside, that she could have shot her uncle—well, I didn't hesitate to tell him what I thought of him! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, I said to him, and I should have said a good deal more if I'd known then what I know now! Would you believe it?—he actually had the impertinence to pump Gladys! She's Miss Warrenby's cook, and I know this for a fact, because she was on the same bus this morning, and she told me with her own lips! I don't know when I've been so shocked! Well! I said, and I decided then and there that it was my bounden duty to put the Chief Inspector on his guard. For it's nothing but spite! Thaddeus Drybeck is one of those old bachelors who never have a good word to say for the modern generation. You must warn the Chief Inspector not to believe a word he says!”
“Very well, madam,” said Harbottle. “But it isn't at all necessary. If I may say so, you've no need to worry.”
“It's all very well for you to say that,” argued Mrs. Midgeholme, “but he is a lawyer, and if you can't believe what a lawyer tells you, I ask you, who are you going to believe?” She paused in a challenging way, but the Inspector proffered no suggestion. “It stands to reason!” she said. “Now, I say it's just spite, because, to my mind, he's too much of an old woman to have shot Warrenby himself, though I've no doubt he'd have liked to. Abby Dearham—she's Miss Patterdale's niece—believes he did it, and is trying to divert suspicion from himself, but although I must say she's worked it all out really very cleverly, somehow I can't credit it. No. The longer I live the more certain I am that my own theory is the right one. It was Ladislas. It's no use talking to me about the time being wrong: I don't know anything about that, but what I do know is that he's double-faced. There's no other word for it.”
“I daresay,” replied the Inspector. “In my experience, a lot more people are than you'd think. In any case,—”
“Wait!” commanded Mrs. Midgeholme. “Before any of this happened, it was common talk that he was running after Miss Warrenby. He's a handsome young man, if you admire that foreign type, and, of course, there's no denying that the poor girl took a fancy to him. Well, it's not to be wondered at, because she isn't attractive to men usually, and I daresay she was flattered. I think he's an adventurer. He must have guessed, if he didn't know it for a fact, that she would come into money when her uncle died. So if that isn't a motive for murdering him, I don't know what is! And no sooner is Warrenby dead than what do you think Ladislas does? Pretends he was never interested in Miss Warrenby! He was at the Red Lion yesterday,—a thing he hardly ever does, I may tell you!—trying to make everyone believe that nonsense! My husband said it was really quite ridiculous, and merely made people think he was badly frightened. Well, I might not have made anything much of that, if it hadn't been for what I discovered after dinner.”
“What was that?” enquired the Inspector mechanically.
“I happened to ring Miss Warrenby up, and that maid of hers answered the call. And what do you think she said?”
“I don't know.”
“She said she thought Miss Warrenby was sitting in the summerhouse—you wouldn't know it: it's at the bottom of the garden, at the back of the house—talking to Mr. Ladislas! You could have knocked me down with a feather! After all that fine talk of his, sneaking off when he knew no one would be about, to visit Miss Warrenby! I just told Gladys not to bother, and rang off, and made up my mind that the thing to do was to report it to the Chief Inspector.”