“Sir Philip Clevedon! Murder!” she cried. “Oh, but I had nothing to do with that.”
“You stabbed him with a hatpin.”
“But he was dead before—I mean—I don’t know anything about it—I don’t know what you mean.”
“How did you know he was dead when you stabbed him?” I asked.
“I—but I didn’t stab him—I know nothing about it—I never saw the hatpin—I never had one like it.”
“Sometimes,” I went on remorselessly, “the police do not tell all they know. Sir Philip Clevedon was murdered with a hatpin—just so. But we mustn’t say that. Let us suppose he died of poison and that will throw the real murderer of her guard. Or suppose he had taken poison and was still living when you stabbed him. If a doctor had been promptly brought he might have been saved. Or he may have been dying and you merely finished him. How you would stand then, legally, I mean, I am not quite sure. An interesting query would arise over which the lawyers would waste many words. Did he die from poison or from the hatpin? Either would have been sufficient, but which was first—hatpin or poison? You see, Miss Lepley, the case is not simple. If the police arrest you it may not be easy for you to wriggle out.”
“But I tell you I know nothing of it!” she cried, her voice rising a little.
“Well,” I went on, “let me tell you one or two things I have learned, one or two facts, just to refresh your memory. In France, you know, the reconstruction of a crime is part of their criminal procedure. It is not often adopted in this country—no, sit down, please—but it may be useful now. I think you must hear me out—for your own sake and your parents’—”
“Leave my parents out of it,” she cried, her face reddening violently.
“Unfortunately, we can’t do that,” I rejoined equably. “What affects you touches them, also. You cannot separate yourself from them. But we won’t quarrel over that. Let us go back to the morning of February 24th, when you discovered Sir Philip’s body—”