“I don’t think he was to blame at all, sir.”
“Thank you. Good-day, Martin. Here’s a half-crown to plaster that damaged lip of yours.”
Left to themselves, the magistrate and superintendent discussed the advisability of taking proceedings against Betsy Thwaites.
“I’m sure Pickering made up his story in order to screen the woman,” said the police officer. “A rusty fork was found in the stackyard, but it was thirty feet away from the nearest point of the track made by the drops of blood, and separated from the garden by a stout hedge. Moreover, Pickering and Kitty were undoubtedly standing in the orchard, many yards farther on. Then, again, the girl was collared by Thomas Metcalfe, of the Leas Farm, and the knife, one of Mrs. Atkinson’s, fell from her hand; while a dozen people will swear they heard her sister calling out that she had murdered George Pickering.”
Beckett-Smythe shook his head doubtfully.
“It is a queer affair, looked at in any light. Do you think I ought to see Pickering himself? You can arrest Betsy Thwaites without a warrant, I believe, and, in any event, I’ll not sit on the bench if the case comes before the court.”
The superintendent was only too glad to have the squire’s counsel in dealing with a knotty problem. The social position of the wounded man required some degree of caution before proceedings were commenced, in view of his emphatic declaration that his wound was self-inflicted. If his state became dangerous, there was only one course open to the representatives of the law; but the doctor’s verdict was that penetration of the lung had been averted by a hair’s breadth, and Pickering would recover. Indeed, he might be taken home in a carriage at the end of the week. Meanwhile, the hayfork and the blood-stained knife were impounded.
The two men went upstairs and were shown to the room occupied by the injured gallant. Kitty Thwaites, pale as a ghost, was flitting about attending to her work, the hotel being crowded with stock-breeders and graziers. Her unfortunate sister, even more woebegone in appearance, was nursing the invalid, at his special request. It was a puzzling situation, and Mr. Beckett-Smythe, who knew Pickering intimately, was inclined to act with the utmost leniency that the law allowed.
Betsy Thwaites, who was sitting at the side of the bed, rose when they entered. Her white face became suffused with color, and she looked at the police officer with frightened eyes.
The magistrate saw this, and he said quite kindly: