“Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined enterprises?”
“It’s a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper frame of mind in a witness.”
“Does that mean that you want me to blurt out bitter and prejudiced accusations against Mr. Grant?”
“I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You forced the cross-examining role on me. I’m doing my best.”
Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured voice was suave as ever.
“Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “You gave me a strong hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was directly concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within the past fortnight a rapprochement between my wife and myself became possible. It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have her letters. Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it that they have been found?”
“Yes,” said Furneaux.
“Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of winning the man she loved—not me, her husband, but that handsome dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead. Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her one-time lover and a charming village girl. Imagine the effect of this discovery on one of the artistic temperament. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ and my unhappy wife would lash herself into an emotional frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her very training on the stage would come to her aid in scathing words—perhaps threats. If Grant remained cold to her appeal the village beauty should be made to suffer. Then he would flame into storm. And so the upas-tree of tragedy spread its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some demon whispered, ‘Kill!’ I find no flaw in my theory. It explains the inexplicable. Now, how does it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?”
“As piffle.”
“Is that so? I have the advantage, of course, in knowing my wife’s peculiarities. And I have made some study of Grant. He admits already that he is under suspicion. Why, if he is innocent? Mind you, I pay little heed to the crude disposal of the body. Horace, I think, has a truism that art lies in concealing art. My wife’s presence in Steynholme was no secret. She would have been missed from the inn. Search would be made. The murder must be revealed sooner or later, and the murderer himself was aware that by no twisting or turning could his name escape association with that of his victim. Why not face the music at once? he would argue. The very simplicity of the means adopted to fasten a kind of responsibility on him might prove his best safeguard. Even now I doubt whether any jury will find him guilty on the evidence as it stands, but my duty to my unhappy wife demands that I shall strengthen the arm of justice by every legitimate means in my power.”