She looked for a moment as though she did not mean to answer, but in the end she said sullenly: 'Francesca Beulah Birtley Meriden."
"I thought there was a foreign name in it," commented Hemingway, writing it down. "You got nine months, didn't you? Embezzlement?"
"Also forgery."
"How old are you?" he asked, glancing shrewdly at her. "Twenty-four."
"Parents?"
"Both dead."
"Any other relatives?"
"I have an uncle - though he would prefer me not to say so. I've neither seen him nor heard from him since my imprisonment. He's probably forgotten my existence by now: he's very good at forgetting unpleasantness." She shot him a darkling look. "What has all this got to do with what happened here tonight? I suppose you think that because I was convicted of theft and forgery you can pin this murder on to me?"
"Not without a bit of evidence I can't. Though it'd be just like the wicked police to fake up a lot of evidence against you, wouldn't it? Let's cut that bit! You'd be surprised the number of times I've listened to it before. How long had you known Seaton-Carew?"
"Since I came out of prison."