“The late baronet wasn’t exactly popular—?” I began.
“Popular!” the old lady cried explosively. “Popular!”
She left it there and, indeed, she had no need to go into further detail. Her inflection on the word was sufficient.
“But, anyway, I didn’t kill him,” she went on. “There is a lot of difference between a desire to box a man’s ears and stabbing him with a hatpin. If I stabbed everybody I quarrelled with I should have some busy days.”
“It was your hatpin,” I murmured, possibly in the hope that I might irritate her into talking, a plan which, if indeed I had really formed it, Dr. Crawford frustrated.
“Well, anyway, you did not kill Sir Philip Clevedon,” he said roughly.
“You are a true friend,” the old lady cried, with grim and satirical humour. “Thank God! somebody believes me innocent. If I come to the gallows—”
“I know you did not kill him,” the doctor repeated half sullenly, but with so much emphasis that I could not help wondering what was behind it.
“How can you know?” Lady Clevedon cried. “Perhaps I did. I have felt like it many a time, anyway. And it was my hatpin—as Mr. Holt reminded me. Pepperpot suspects me at all events. But here comes Kitty.”
The old lady drew Dr. Crawford aside and began to discuss with him some matters connected, I fancy, with village doings. Kitty Clevedon and I were left by ourselves in the huge bay window that looked out over the rough, uncultivated garden. The girl made no effort to avoid my company but greeted me with a cool tranquillity that was, however, of that careful variety which suggested some anxiety to show that she was not afraid of me. For my part I merely returned a conventional reply and stood looking out into the garden, leaving it to her to open a conversation or not just as she thought proper. I took it that, being a woman, she would, and I was not far out.