“You have no explanation as to why Mrs. Draycott went to the farm?”
“As I’ve already said, I didn’t know Mrs. Draycott. Why she should have gone there is a mystery to me.”
Leslie went back to his seat to the accompaniment of a low murmur of voices, as the crowds composed mostly of his own friends and neighbours, exchanged their whispered comments on the unexpected turn the inquiry had taken. He was popular in the district and Fayre noticed that, in spite of the damning evidence the police had brought forward, there was little hostility, so far, in the faces that were turned so eagerly in Leslie’s direction. His heart sank when Cynthia was called. He had hoped that she might escape this ordeal.
“Will you tell us in your own words exactly what happened on the evening of March 23rd?” said the Coroner.
Cynthia’s colour was a little deeper, her eyes a trifle brighter, than usual; otherwise she showed no embarrassment at the position in which she found herself.
“I met Mr. Leslie, as we had arranged, on the edge of the Galston copse . . .” she began.
“What time was that?” interrupted the Coroner.
“About a quarter past four. We talked for about three-quarters of an hour and then I went back to Galston and Mr. Leslie walked away through the copse in the direction of Besley.”
“Good girl,” murmured Kean in Fayre’s ear. “She’s got her wits about her.”
“You are sure you noticed the direction in which Mr. Leslie went?”