“Now, there's nothing to be nervous about, my dear!” said that lady bracingly. “These are two detectives from Scotland Yard, but you've no need to be alarmed! They're very nice, and I shall remain with you all the time!”
“Oh, thank you! I'm sorry to be so silly,” Mavis said, with a fleeting look at Hemingway. “I think it must all have been a little too much for me. Of course, I know I must be prepared to answer questions, and I shall do my best to help you in any way I can. I know it's my duty to, however painful it may be.”
She then proceeded, with very little encouragement, to relate the whole story of her activities on the previous afternoon, not omitting a description of her qualms at leaving the late Mr. Warrenby alone in the house, and what she had said to Mrs. Haswell on perceiving how late it was. Not unnaturally, since she had by now told her story a good many times, it had grown a little in its details, and she had talked herself into almost believing that she had had a premonition of evil when she had left the house. But in two essentials the tale was identical with the version Sergeant Carsethorn had already heard: she knew of no one who could have had any reason to kill her uncle; and she had seen no one at the time when she had been startled by the shot.
“Do you know,” she said simply, “I can't help feeling glad I didn't see anyone? It would be such a terrible thing to know I mean, it can't bring Uncle back, and I'd much, much rather not know!”
“We know just how you feel, dear,” Mrs. Midgeholme assured her. “But you wouldn't want your uncle's murderer to go unpunished! Besides, we can't have a killer allowed to wander about our dear little village. We should none of us be able to sleep in our beds. I don't believe in trying to conceal things. I was just talking it over with Miss Warrenby when you arrived, Inspector, trying to think who might have done it.”
“I don't think one ought to,” said Mavis, in a troubled tone.
“Well, if you'll pardon me,” said Hemingway, “that's where you're wrong! If you do know of anyone who might have done it, it's your plain duty to talk about it to me!”
“Oh, but I don't! I can't imagine!”
“Really, Mavis, that's going too far!” protested Mrs. Midgeholme. “It's all very well to be loyal to your uncle's memory—not that you've any reason to be!—but when you tell the Inspector that your uncle had no enemies—well, it just isn't true, dear, because you know very well that he had! I don't say it was his fault—though of course it was—but facts are facts! Heaven knows I'm not one to gossip about my neighbours, but I should very much like to know what Kenelm Lindale was doing after he left that party. I've always said there was something fishy about the Lindales. The way they live, never going anywhere, or taking a real part in Thornden society. It's all very well for Mrs. Lindale to say she can't leave the baby, but I think she's just standoffish. Why, when they first came to Rushyford Farm I went to call immediately, and did my best to be a friend to her, but she was quite unresponsive: in fact, she made it very clear that she'd rather I didn't drop in at the Farm without being invited.”
“I'm sure she's always been very nice to me,” said Mavis repressively.