‘Fegs! ye needna fash about the likes o’ him, sir! I warrant ye it’s no the first clortie[[1]] job he’s done!’
There was more than the Queen of the Cadgers could fathom in the honest man’s trouble; more lying on his heart, as he drove away down the street, than she, looking after him, could guess. The sordid knowledge of his wife’s nature had been with him for years, shut behind bars through which he would not glance, like some ignoble Caliban. That morning he had been forced to look the hateful thing in the face.
A letter had come to Mrs. Somerville from Cecilia, directing her to the private entrance at Morphie Kirk. ‘I hope Captain Somerville is well,’ was its conclusion; ‘with the exception of a note of congratulation from Mr. Barclay I have heard nothing of anyone at Kaims since I left Fullarton.’
Mrs. Somerville had read it aloud, stopping suddenly in the middle of the last sentence, remembering Barclay’s semi-jocular suggestion of delaying the letter, and turned scarlet. She was apt, in difficulties, to lose her head.
‘I’m sure it is no fault of Mr. Barclay’s!’ she exclaimed. ‘I told him how urgent it was.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the Inspector, turning in his chair.
Then, seeing how she had incriminated herself, she had plunged into explanations. The door had been ajar—she had been unable to help hearing what Mrs. Stirk had said on the day when he had written to Miss Raeburn—the words had forced themselves on her. It was not her fault. She had never moved from where he had left her sitting at the breakfast-table.
Somerville looked squarely at his wife. The door had not been ajar, for he had fastened it carefully, as he always did before hearing private business. He remembered doing so, perfectly.
‘It was not ajar,’ he said, in a voice she had rarely heard; ‘it was shut. And it is impossible to hear between the two rooms.’