‘There’s not a mortal within earshot,’ he said. ‘Now, my good soul, don’t waste any more time. It’s evident you know all about this murder.’
‘I believe I know who did it,’ said the old woman.
‘Who?’
‘I can remember that awful night as well as if it was yesterday,’ began Mrs. Evitt, making strange swallowing noises, as if to keep down her agitation. ‘There we all stood on the landing outside this door—Mrs. Rawber, Mr. Desrolles, me, and Mr. Chicot. Mrs. Rawber and me was all of a twitter. Mr. Chicot looked as white as a ghost; Mr. Desrolles was the coolest among us. He took it all quiet enough, and I felt it was a comfort to have somebody there that had his wits about him. It was him that proposed sending for a policeman.’
‘Sensible enough,’ said Gerard.
‘Nothing was further from my thoughts than to suspect him,’ pursued Mrs. Evitt. ‘He had been with me, off and on, for five years, and he’d been a quiet lodger, coming in at his own time with his own key, and giving very little trouble. He had only one fault, and that was his liking for the bottle. He and Madame Chicot had been very friendly. He seemed to take quite a fatherly care of her, and had brought her home from the theatre many a night, when her husband was at his club.’
‘Yes, yes,’ cried Gerard impatiently. ‘You’ve told me that often before to-night. Go on, for heaven’s sake. Do you mean to say that Desrolles had anything to do with the murder?’
‘He did it,’ said Mrs. Evitt, whispering into the surgeon’s ear.
‘How do you know? What ground have you for accusing him?’
‘The best of grounds. There was a struggle between that poor creature and her murderer. When I went in to look at her as she lay there, before the doctor had touched her, one of her hands was clenched tight—as if she had clutched at something in her last gasp. In that clenched hand I found a tuft of iron-gray hair—just the colour of Desrolles’ hair. I could swear to it.’