The policeman mused. “You say it was Jane Cross who locked the back door in the wall?”
“Yes,” said Matilda. “She had locked it before I got downstairs. We liked to lock that door early, because it could be opened from the outside—while the front door could not be.”
“And she had not put these things on the table when you went out for the beer?”—pointing to the dishes.
“No: she was only then putting the cloth. As I turned round from taking the beer-jug from its hook, the fling she gave the cloth caused the air to whiffle in my face like a wind. She had not begun to reach out the dishes.”
“How long were you away?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she answered, with a moan. “Rather longer than usual, because I took my letter to the post before going to the Swan.”
“It was about ten minutes,” I interposed. “I was at the window next door, and saw Matilda go out and come back.”
“Ten minutes!” repeated the policeman. “Quite long enough for some ruffian to come in and fling her over the stairs.”
“But who would do it?” asked Matilda, looking up at him with her poor pale face.
“Ah, that’s the question; that’s what we must find out,” said Knapp. “Was the kitchen just as it was when you left it?”