At mention of Curtis’ name Penfield glanced involuntarily toward the spot where the surgeon was sitting and Mrs. Meredith caught his look. Until then she had not observed Curtis and had not realized that he might be in the room. Mrs. Meredith smoothed the frown from her forehead and again fixed her gaze on Coroner Penfield.
“When did you last see John Meredith alive?” he asked.
“At dinner,” she answered. “He complained of a headache and went to his room soon afterward.” Penfield paused and referred to his notes, before putting the next question. “Did you retire early, Mrs. Meredith?”
“No, it must have been about eleven-thirty or a quarter of twelve.” She twisted her lorgnette chain in and out of her fingers. “I read in bed for a little while and then fell asleep.”
“And did no sound disturb you? Did you sleep through the entire night?” asked Penfield. A certain eagerness crept into his voice and Mrs. Meredith caught its warning note in time to be on her guard.
“On the contrary, I was very restless,” she said. “My daughter Anne is a wretched sleeper and I heard her moving about a number of times during the night.”
Penfield looked at her steadily for a second. “And what was your daughter doing in the hall at the time John Meredith died?” he asked.
The crepe trimming on Mrs. Meredith’s gown betrayed her rapid breathing, otherwise she sat calmly facing them.
“Anne started to get a book from the library,” she explained, and her voice was admirably controlled. “I heard her walking through the boudoir which separates our bedrooms and went to remonstrate with her. When we found the hall in darkness she returned to her bedroom.”
Penfield raised his eyebrows. “Without being aware that her uncle lay dead only a short distance down the hall?” he asked.