“Have you found out where the peaches came from?” asked Kitty.
“No, worse luck.” Mitchell frowned. “Very few fruit stores make deliveries on Sunday and those few deny sending any fruit here.”
“How about the Italian fruit stands? Have you questioned the dealers?”
Mitchell smiled wryly. “Not many fruit dealers carry peaches at this season. Our operatives have been pretty thorough in their investigations.” He paused before adding, “According to their reports no one, man, woman, or child, purchased peaches on Sunday last.”
Kitty hesitated. “They may have come from a distance,” she suggested. “By parcel post or express. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, and we found that no package was left here by the express company or post office employees.” Mitchell paused to replace his notebook and pencil in his pocket. “No, Miss Baird, the murderer brought those peaches with him.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Kitty, thoughtfully.
“And it must have been some one who knew that your aunt liked peaches,” went on Mitchell. “Were her tastes generally known among your friends?”
Kitty caught her breath sharply. The question recalled an incident forgotten in the rush of events. Leigh Wallace, on the few occasions when he had been invited to tea with them, had invariably preceded his visit with a basket of fruit, and—each basket had contained peaches!
“I suppose our friends knew that Aunt Susan liked peaches,” she said. Her hesitation, slight as it was, was not lost on Mitchell. “I never gave the matter a thought.”