“Honest Injun?”
“I’m sure of it. If anything, the death of Adelaide Melhuish cleared the scales off their eyes. Those two have never kissed or squeezed—yet. They’ll be starting quite soon now.”
“How old is Doris?”
“Nineteen.”
“But a really good-looking girl of nineteen must have had admirers before Grant went to the village.”
“She had, and has. Having educated herself out of the rut, however, she left many runners at the post. One is persistent—a youngish horse-coper named Elkin. Adelaide Melhuish probably saw her with Grant. Neither Doris nor Grant knew that Adelaide Melhuish, as such, was in Steynholme. That is to say, the girl had seen Miss Melhuish in the post office, and recognized her as a famous actress, but that is all. And now I shan’t tell you any more, or you’ll know all that I know, which is too much.”
The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the fracture, so Winter’s thoughts could be given exclusively to the less important matter of the Steynholme affair.
“To begin with,” he said instantly. “Ingerman can establish a cast-iron alibi.”
“So I imagined. But he’s a bad lot. I throw in that item gratuitously.”
The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in sight. Winter pulled out a watch.