“I don't suppose the police have the slightest wish to do so,” replied Miss Patterdale, correctly assessing the Chief Inspector's feelings. “I looked in to see how you're getting on, Mavis, and to ask you if you'd like to come down to the cottage to share my supper. Abby's gone to the Haswells.”
“My own errand!” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme, struck by the coincidence. “And Lion would be only too pleased to escort her back later, but will she be sensible, and come? No!”
“It's very, very kind of you both,” said Mavis earnestly, “but somehow I'd rather stay at home today, by myself.”
“Well, I shall leave Miss Patterdale to deal with you, my dear!” said Mrs. Midgeholme, perceiving that Hemingway was about to leave the house, and determined to accompany him.
The Ultimas still tucked under her arms, she sailed down the garden path beside him, saying mysteriously that there was something important she felt she ought to tell him. “I couldn't say anything in front of Miss Warrenby, so I just bided my time till I could get you alone,” she said confidentially.
The Sergeant could have told Hemingway that Mrs. Midgeholme was unlikely to have anything of the smallest interest to impart. He grimaced expressively at Harbottle, but that saturnine gentleman merely smiled grimly, and shook his head.
Encouraged by an enquiring look from Hemingway, Mrs. Midgeholme said: “To my mind, there isn't a shadow of doubt who shot Mr. Warrenby. It's one of two people—for although I always think Delia Lindale is a hard young woman, I don't think she would actually shoot anyone. No, I never quite like people with those pale blue eyes, but I beg you won't run away with the idea that I have the least suspicion about her! It's her husband. What's more, if he did it, it's my belief she knows it. I popped in to see her this morning, just to talk things over, and the instant I opened my mouth she tried to turn the subject. She gave me the impression of being in a very nervy state—not to say scared! She didn't talk in what I call a natural way, and she didn't seem able to keep still for as much as five minutes. Either she thought she heard the child crying, or she had to go out to speak to Mrs. Murton, her daily woman. Something fishy here, I thought to myself.” She nodded, but added surprisingly: “But that's not what I wanted to say to you. It may have been Kenelm Lindale, but only if it wasn't someone else. Ladislas Zama-something-or-other!”
“Yes, I wondered when we were coming to him,” said Hemingway, with deceptive affability.
“Now, I couldn't say a word about him in front of Miss Warrenby, because the poor girl, I'm afraid, is very fond of him. I always did think it would be a most unsuitable match, and, of course, if he killed Mr. Warrenby, it really wouldn't do at all.”
“Well, if he did that, madam, he won't be in a position to marry Miss Warrenby, or anyone else,” Hemingway pointed out. “But what makes you think he did?”