“And the front door open—” Mitchell broke in rudely. He turned to Mrs. Parsons. “Your house is an English basement, with the drawing room on the second floor. Where is your dining room?”
“On the first floor.” Mrs. Parsons had been following the dialogue with unwavering attention. At her answer Mitchell nodded his head with an air of triumph.
“I’ll amend my statement, Miss Baird,” he said. “You did not carry those peaches home to your aunt, but Major Wallace did—when he called here to see her alone on Sunday afternoon.”
Wallace’s air of indifference dropped from him and he swung to his feet, his hands clenched. “You’re a damned liar!” he shouted.
“Shouting won’t help matters,” Mitchell remarked. “For I have the goods on you.” He tapped the papers in front of him. “Here is the sworn testimony of Mrs. Murray, who saw you enter this house on Sunday afternoon with a paper package under your arm, and when you left you carried no package and were so agitated that you weren’t even conscious of bumping into Mrs. Murray as you hurried down the street toward Washington.”
Wallace stared at the Inspector and then at the others, but always his eyes passed over Nina Potter, sitting huddled in her chair, her eyes upraised in mute pleading.
“Well,” his voice was hoarse—discordant. “What if I did bring some peaches to Miss Susan as a ‘peace offering?’” His lips twitched into a ghastly smile. “It doesn’t follow that I murdered her.”
“No—?” Mitchell’s tone expressed incredulity. “That’s for the jury to decide.” He looked across at Kitty. “You I charge with being an accessory to the crime.”