- she was utterly devoted to that very unrewarding girl! Praise be to God, here's my intended at last! How are things, darling?"
"Nightmareish!" Beulah said, shuddering. "We've got her to bed, and Mrs. Foston's going to sit with her till she goes to sleep. I don't think it'll be long. I'm sorry for Miss Pickhill, having to take on the job of looking after her. I know she's a bit drunk, and, of course, shock does make people react queerly, but when I left she seemed to be deriving consolation from the thought that she would now be frightfully well-off, and could do anything she liked. For God's sake, take me out, and give me something to eat! With the slightest encouragement, I shall pass out, which is probably because I've had nothing but a cup of tea and a biscuit since luncheon."
"You will get no encouragement from either of us," said Timothy, taking her arm in a sustaining way, and propelling her towards the door. "Come on, Jim! Dinner!"
Chapter Seventeen
It was some little time later that Sergeant Snettisham returned to Charles Street, and laid before his chief Mrs. Haddington's household bills. He explained that it had taken him rather a long time to complete the journey, because in each instance he had just missed a train. His timing added ten minutes to Beulah's estimate of the double journey; he gave it as his opinion that to allow only half an hour from door to door was running it very fine.
"That seems to let her out, then," Hemingway said. "Not that I ever fancied her much, I'm bound to say." He glanced at his watch, and once more turned to the stand which held the telephone directories, and drew out one of the volumes. As he flicked over the pages, he said: "I don't think there's anything more you can do tonight: you can get off home."
"Thank you, sir. What's going to happen about the Inquest tomorrow?"
"We shall ask for an adjournment. I'm meeting Mrs. Haddington's solicitor here later in the morning. You've sealed up those two rooms? All right: tell your chaps they can clear off now!"
He himself, when he left the house, was driven to the street in Chelsea where Lord Guisborough shared a maisonette with his sister. It was by this time after nine o'clock, and it was apparent to Hemingway, as he alighted from the police-car, that someone in the house was entertaining a party. One or two small cars were parked outside; and from the lower floor issued a muffled roar of sound, strongly reminiscent of the lion-house at the Zoo, but indicated to the initiated that a number of persons, being gathered together, were all talking together. The noise was obviously too great to allow of anyone's hearing the front-door bell, so, after keeping his finger on it for nearly a minute, Hemingway resorted to the knocker. At the third assault on the door, it was opened to him by a dark young woman in a crumpled skirt, and an orange knitted jumper, who held a large jug in one hand, and had a half-smoked cigarette between her lips. She blinked at Hemingway, and said: 'Hallo! Who are you? Not that it matters: come right in! The gin ran out twenty minutes ago, but there's plenty of beer. Have some!"
She raised the jug, and seemed to be about to pour some beer into a non-existent glass. Hemingway thoughtfully straightened the perilously poised jug, saying: "No, thank you, miss. Are you the Honourable Beatrice Guisborough?"