Flamborough was completely taken aback by this charge. He stared open-mouthed at his superior. Sir Clinton occasionally did things which mystified him; but this seemed something completely out of the common.
“He must have got a search-warrant without saying anything about it to me,” the Inspector reflected. “But why on earth didn't he take me with him, even if he wanted to go through her papers personally?”
Sir Clinton's face had become an inscrutable mask.
“Perhaps you wouldn't mind being a little more explicit, Miss Deepcar,” he suggested. “I'm not quite sure that I understand your grievance.”
Avice Deepcar's face showed that she had nothing but contempt for this apparent quibbling.
“If you think it worth while, I'll give you details,” she said, disdainfully. “But you're not thinking of denying it, are you? I've got a witness to prove the facts, you know.”
With a gesture, Sir Clinton invited her to tell her story.
“I've been away from home for a day or two,” Avice began. “This morning, I came back to Westerhaven by the eleven o’clock train and drove to my house in a taxi. I left my maid alone in the house while I was away; and when I got home again, I found her in a great state of excitement. It seems that last night you came to the door, showed her your card, and told her that you had come to search the house on some matter connected with these awful murders. Naturally she was greatly shocked; but there was nothing for it but to let you in. You went over the whole place, searched in every corner of the house, opened every drawer, poked your nose into all my private possessions—in fact, you behaved as if I were a criminal under suspicion.”
She paused, as though to rein in her temper after this sudden outpouring. Indignation had brought a slight flush to her cheeks, and her quickened breathing betrayed the agitation she was trying to keep under control. Mechanically she changed the position of her feet and smoothed down her skirt; and Flamborough's sharp eye noted a trembling in her hand as she did so. Sir Clinton maintained his silence and gazed at her as though he expected further information.
“My maid was very much put about, naturally,” she went on. “She asked you again and again what was at the back of it all; but you gave her no explanation whatever. When you'd completed your search of my house, you sat down with a pile of correspondence you'd collected—you see I know all about it—and you began to read through my private letters. Some of them you put aside; others you laid down in a pile on my desk. When you'd finished reading them all, you took away the ones you'd selected and left the rest on the desk. Then you left the house, without offering the slightest explanation of this raid of yours. I shan't stand that, you know. You've no right to do things of that sort—throwing suspicion on me in this way, without the faintest ground for it. Naturally, my maid has been babbling about it and everyone knows the police have been on the premises. It's put me in a dreadful position; and you'll have to give me an explanation and an apology. It's no use trying to deny the facts, you know. I can prove what I've said. And I want my letters back at once—the ones you stole. . . . You've no right to them, and I simply won't put up with this kind of thing.”