“Well, sir, I seem to think there’s a good deal in the old lady myself.”
“Yes, Gibson, and so will everybody else. But why, why, why does she want the body? Can you tell me that, Gibson?”
“Because she’s mad, sir?” Gibson ventured.
“It won’t cover everything. She screamed the roof off when the injury was discovered. She wouldn’t go and see him when he was dying. If she killed him why, mad or sane, should she want to take him home? The funeral could have been arranged to leave from the house with all the trappings and the suits of woe, if that’s what she’s after. It may be, and yet — and yet — it doesn’t seem to me like the inconsistency of a homicidal lunatic, but lord knows I’m no alienist. I don’t think I’ve got the dowager right, somehow, and that’s a fact. All right, Gibson. My compliments to his lordship and I’d be glad if he’d see me. The others may go to bed, of course.”
“Yes, sir. Martin asked me to mention, sir, that Mr. Bathgate has arrived and is with the family. He’s been asking if he could see you.”
“So they did ring him up,” Alleyn muttered. “Incredible! I’d better see him now, Gibson, before you give the message to Lord Charles.”
“Very good, sir.”
Nigel lost no time in making his appearance. Alleyn heard him hurrying along the passage and in a moment he burst into the dining-room.
“Look here, Alleyn,” Nigel cried, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Talk away,” said Alleyn, “but not at the top of your voice and not, if you’ve any mercy, at great length. I’m on duty.”