“Without so much as a tooth-brush,” broke in Maria.
“He might have had it in his pocket,” Annie reminded her gently. “We mustn’t condemn until we are certain.”
“They came down quite coolly to breakfast in the morning,” Maria continued. “Not a word of explanation to Tryphena—Hone’s eldest girl; the Hones of Marrow’s farm. I was always against Tryphena taking service at the Buttery. The Hones are in my district.”
There was a little pause. The baby broke it by cooing. Then Maria cried out suddenly:
“Good gracious! He can’t be the Birmingham murderer in hiding at the Buttery. He may be her husband, after all—which makes it all the more reprehensible. Mrs. Daborn tells me he looked a most suspicious character: one of those men with a bronzed face, bold eyes, and a suit with a large check.”
“Mrs. Si Daborn is nearly blind with cataract.”
“You always try to make out a good case for people, Annie. Mrs. Si Daborn can see a large-checked suit. She is a most respectable old soul; I think a great deal of her judgment. Her eldest daughter married a builder; he is in a large way of business at Walthamstow.”
“A murderer! Maria!” Aunt Sophy for once forgot to be diplomatically gentle. “I must say that it isn’t wise to talk so wildly. You’ll frighten Annie and upset the darling baby.”
“The Birmingham murderer! Is that the man who murdered his employer and his employer’s six motherless children? Boiled them in the copper, didn’t he?”
Annie put the questions quite calmly—as if they merely referred to a family recipe for making pickled walnuts.