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Haydock was talking to a woman. She moved away from him and came towards Evans and the inspector recognized her. It was Mrs Merrowdene. On an impulse he put himself deliberately in her path.
Mrs Merrowdene was rather a fine-looking woman. She had a broad serene brow, very beautiful brown eyes, and a placid expression. She had the look of an Italian madonna which she heightened by parting her hair in the middle and looping it over her ears. She had a deep rather sleepy voice.
She smiled up at Evans, a contented welcoming smile.
‘I thought it was you, Mrs Anthony – I mean Mrs Merrowdene,’ he said glibly.
He made the slip deliberately, watching her without seeming to do so. He saw her eyes widen, heard the quick intake of her breath. But her eyes did not falter. She gazed at him steadily and proudly.
‘I was looking for my husband,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you seen him anywhere about?’
‘He was over in that direction when I last saw him.’
They went side by side in the direction indicated, chatting quietly and pleasantly. The inspector felt his admiration mounting. What a woman! What self-command. What wonderful poise. A remarkable woman – and a very dangerous one. He felt sure – a very dangerous one.
He still felt very uneasy, though he was satisfied with his initial step. He had let her know that he recognized her. That would put her on her guard. She would not dare attempt anything rash. There was the question of Merrowdene. If he could be warned . . .
They found the little man absently contemplating a china doll which had fallen to his share in the penny dip. His wife suggested going home and he agreed eagerly. Mrs Merrowdene turned to the inspector:
‘Won’t you come back with us and have a quiet cup of tea, Mr Evans?’
Was there a faint note of challenge in her voice? He thought there was.
‘Thank you, Mrs Merrowdene. I should like to very much.’
They walked there, talking together of pleasant ordinary things. The sun shone, a breeze blew gently, everything around them was pleasant and ordinary.
Their maid was out at the fête, Mrs Merrowdene explained, when they arrived at the charming old-world cottage. She went into her room to remove her hat, returning to set out tea and boil the kettle on a little silver lamp. From a shelf near the fireplace she took three small bowls and saucers.
‘We have some very special Chinese tea,’ she explained. ‘And we always drink it in the Chinese manner – out of bowls, not cups.’
She broke off, peered into a bowl and exchanged it for another with an exclamation of annoyance.
‘George – it’s too bad of you. You’ve been taking these bowls again.’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ said the professor apologetically. ‘They’re such a convenient size. The ones I ordered haven’t come.’
‘One of these days you’ll poison us all,’ said his wife with a half-laugh. ‘Mary finds them in the laboratory and brings them back here, and never troubles to wash them out unless they’ve anything very noticeable in them. Why, you were using one of them for potassium cyanide the other day. Really, George, it’s frightfully dangerous.’
Merrowdene looked a little irritated.
‘Mary’s no business to remove things from the laboratory. She’s not to touch anything there.’
‘But we often leave our teacups there after tea. How is she to know? Be reasonable, dear.’
The professor went into his laboratory, murmuring to himself, and with a smile Mrs Merrowdene poured boiling water on the tea and blew out the flame of the little silver lamp.
Evans was puzzled. Yet a glimmering of light penetrated to him. For some reason or other, Mrs Merrowdene was showing her hand. Was this to be the ‘accident’? Was she speaking of all this so as deliberately to prepare her alibi beforehand? So that when, one day, the ‘accident’ happened, he would be forced to give evidence in her favour. Stupid of her, if so, because before that –
Suddenly he drew in his breath. She had poured the tea into the three bowls. One she set before him, one before herself, the other she placed on a little table by the fire near the chair her husband usually sat in, and it was as she placed this last one on the table that a little strange smile curved round her lips. It was the smile that did it.
He knew!
A remarkable woman – a dangerous woman. No waiting – no preparation. This afternoon – this very afternoon – with him here as witness. The boldness of it took his breath away.
It was clever – it was damnably clever. He would be able to prove nothing. She counted on his not suspecting – simply because it was ‘so soon’. A woman of lightning rapidity of thought and action.
He drew a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Mrs Merrowdene, I’m a man of queer whims. Will you be very kind and indulge me in one of them?’
She looked inquiring but unsuspicious.
He rose, took the bowl from in front of her and crossed to the little table where he substituted it for the other. This other he brought back and placed in front of her.
‘I want to see you drink this.’
Her eyes met his. They were steady, unfathomable. The colour slowly drained from her face.
She stretched out her hand, raised the cup. He held his breath. Supposing all along he had made a mistake.
She raised it to her lips – at the last moment, with a shudder, she leant forward and quickly poured it into a pot containing a fern. Then she sat back and gazed at him defiantly.
He drew a long sigh of relief, and sat down again. ‘Well?’ she said.
Her voice had altered. It was slightly mocking – defiant.
He answered her soberly and quietly: ‘You are a very clever woman, Mrs Merrowdene. I think you understand me. There must be no – repetition. You know what I mean?’
‘I know what you mean.’
Her voice was even, devoid of expression. He nodded his head, satisfied. She was a clever woman, and she didn’t want to be hanged.
‘To your long life and to that of your husband,’ he said significantly, and raised his tea to his lips.
Then his face changed. It contorted horribly . . . he tried to rise – to cry out . . . His body stiffened – his face went purple. He fell back sprawling over his chair – his limbs convulsed.
Mrs Merrowdene leaned forward, watching him. A little smile crossed her lips. She spoke to him – very softly and gently.
‘You made a mistake, Mr Evans. You thought I wanted to kill George . . . How stupid of you – how very stupid.’
She sat there a minute longer looking at the dead man, the third man who had threatened to cross her path and separate her from the man she loved.
Her smile broadened. She looked more than ever like a madonna. Then she raised her voice and called:
‘George, George! . . . Oh, do come here! I’m afraid there’s been the most dreadful accident . . . Poor Mr Evans . . .’
Chapter 32
Next to a Dog
‘Next to a Dog’ was first published in Grand Magazine, September 1929.
The ladylike woman behind the Registry Office table cleared her throat and peered across at the girl who sat opposite.
‘Then you refuse to consider the post? It only came in this morning. A very nice part of Italy, I believe, a widower with a little boy of three and an elderly lady, his mother or aunt.’
Joyce Lambert shook her head. ‘I can’t go out of England,’ she said in a tired voice; ‘there are reasons. If only you could find me a daily post?’
Her voice shook slightly – ever so slightly, for she had it well under control. Her dark blue eyes looked appealingly at the woman opposite her.
‘It’s very difficult, Mrs Lambert. The only kind of daily governess required is one who has full qualifications. You have none. I have hundreds on my books – literally hundreds.’ She paused. ‘You have someone at home you can’t leave?’
Joyce nodded.
‘A child?’
‘No, not a child.’ And a
faint smile flickered across her face. ‘Well, it is very unfortunate. I will do my best, of course, but –’
The interview was clearly at an end. Joyce rose. She was biting her lip to keep the tears from springing to her eyes as she emerged from the frowsy office into the street.
