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“Do you remember the name?”
“It was a queer name, sir.” Beatrice hesitated. “Mrs. de Rushbridger—something like that.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Charles soothingly. “Not an easy name to get right on the telephone. Well, thank you very much, Beatrice. Perhaps we could see Alice now.”
When Beatrice had left the room Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite compared notes by an interchange of glances.
“Miss Wills poked and pried, Captain Dacres got drunk, Mrs. Dacres displayed no emotion. Anything there? Precious little.”
“Very little indeed,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Let’s pin our hopes on Alice.”
Alice was a demure, dark-eyed young woman of thirty. She was only too pleased to talk.
She herself didn’t believe Mr. Ellis had anything to do with it. He was too much the gentleman. The police had suggested he was just a common crook. Alice was sure he was nothing of the sort.
“You’re quite certain he was an ordinary honest-to-God butler?” asked Sir Charles.
“Not ordinary, sir. He wasn’t like any butler I’ve ever worked with before. He arranged the work different.”
“But you don’t think he poisoned your master.”
“Oh, sir, I don’t see how he could have done. I was waiting at table with him, and he couldn’t have put anything in the master’s food without my seeing him.”
“And the drink?”
“He went round with the wine, sir. Sherry first, with the soup, and then hock and claret. But what could he have done, sir? If there’d been anything in the wine he’d have poisoned everybody—or all those who took it. It’s not as though the master had anything that nobody else had. The same thing with the port. All the gentlemen had port, and some of the ladies.”
“The wine glasses were taken out on a tray?”
“Yes, sir, I held the tray and Mr. Ellis put the glasses on it, and I carried the tray out to the pantry, and there they were, sir, when the police came to examine them. The port glasses were still on the table. And the police didn’t find anything.”
“You’re quite sure that the doctor didn’t have anything to eat or drink at dinner that nobody else had?”
“Not that I saw, sir. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“Nothing that one of the guests gave him—”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Do you know anything about a secret passage, Alice?”
“One of the gardeners told me something about it. Comes out in the wood where there’s some old walls and things tumbled down. But I’ve never seen any opening to it in the house.”
“Ellis never said anything about it?”
“Oh, no, sir, he wouldn’t know anything about it, I’m sure.”
“Who do you really think killed your master, Alice?”
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t believe anyone did…I feel it must have been some kind of accident.”
“H’m. Thank you, Alice.”
“If it wasn’t for the death of Babbington,” said Sir Charles as the girl left the room, “we could make her the criminal. She’s a good-looking girl…And she waited at table…No, it won’t do. Babbington was murdered; and anyway Tollie never noticed good-looking girls. He wasn’t made that way.”
“But he was fifty-five,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
