‘No; I never saw Madame Chicot off the stage. But I am deeply interested in the discovery of her murderer: not for my own sake, but for the protection of some one I esteem. Have you seen John Chicot since the murder?’
‘No. If I had——’
George Gerard stopped suddenly, and left his sentence unfinished.
‘If you had you would have given him up to the police, as his wife’s murderer. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Something very near it. I have strong reason to believe that he killed her; and yet there is ground for doubt. If he were the murderer, why should he alarm the house? He might have gone quietly away, and the crime would not have been discovered for hours afterwards.’
‘An excess of caution, no doubt. Murderers often over-act their parts. Yet, if you look at the thing, you will see he was obliged to give the alarm. Had he not done so, had he gone away and left his wife lying dead, it would have been obvious that he, and he alone, was her assassin. By rousing the household he put on at least the semblance of innocence, however his flight might belie it afterwards.’
‘It is a profound mystery,’ said Gerard.
‘A mystery only to those who refuse to accept the natural solution of the enigma. Here was a man with a drunken wife. It is an acknowledged fact, I believe, that Madame Chicot was a drunkard?’
‘Yes, poor soul. He might have let her kill herself with a brandy bottle. He would not have had long to wait.’
‘A man so fettered may get desperate. Suppose that I could prove to you that this Chicot had the strongest possible temptation to rid himself of his wife by any means, fair or foul. Suppose I could tell you that his inheritance of a large estate was contingent upon his marriage with another woman, that he had already, in order to secure that estate, contracted a bigamous marriage with that other woman—she innocent as an angel, poor girl, throughout the plot. Suppose I could prove all this, what would you say of Jack Chicot then?’