“You inherited these stocks as part of Harvey Macgowan’s estate?”
“Yes. If they’re the same ones.”
“They’re the same ones, Mrs. Priam,” Keats said dryly. “We’ve done a bit of checking with the old probate records. They were turned over to you at the settlement of your first husband’s estate. Where have you kept them all these years?”
“They were in a box. Not this box... It’s so long ago, I don’t remember.”
“But they were part of your effects? When you married Mr. Priam, you brought them along with you? Into this house?”
“I suppose so. I brought everything.” She was having difficulty enunciating clearly. Roger Priam kept watching her lips, his own parted in a grin.
“Can’t you remember exactly where you’ve kept these, Mrs. Priam? It’s important.”
“Probably in the storeroom in the attic. Or maybe among some trunks and boxes in the cellar.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“Stop badgering her, Keats,” said young Macgowan. Because he was bewildered, his jaw stuck out. “Do you remember where you put your elementary school diploma?”