"Sure I did, but without prejudice, until Joe came."
She was silent for a moment, not doubting his sincerity, yet unable to believe that he was not regarding Joseph with a distorted vision. "He got Nat to make a will in your favour."
"Do you always believe what Joe tells you?" asked Stephen. "He worried him into making a will. I don't know what happened: I wasn't there. Joe saw to that. But I can imagine Uncle Nat giving in to Joe, and then making the will out in my favour. That would have been a joke he'd have appreciated. Only Joe was clever, and he saw to it that the will should be invalid."
"You've never spoken a word of this!"
His lips curled. "No. Only to you, and you think I'm unhinged, don't you? What do you suppose everyone else would think? I can tell you, if you don't know."
She looked up at him, dawning horror in her eyes. "Yes, of course I know. If you're right, it puts a hideous complexion on so much that has happened! I haven't stayed here often enough to be able to judge. I always ascribed the trouble that Joe has such a knack of starting to incurable tactlessness. But I see that your explanation might be correct."
"You can take it from me that it is. If anyone but you had provided Joe with his alibi, I would, moreover, have been ready to swear that it was he who murdered Uncle Nat."
"It isn't possible, Stephen. When he wasn't chatting to me he was humming snatches of song."
He lifted her hand to his lips, and fleetingly kissed it. "All right, my sweet. Yours is the only word I would take for that."
They had come in sight of the house again by this time, and in a few minutes they entered it, through the front door, just as Inspector Hemingway was seeing a finger-print expert and a photographer off the premises.