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“Sir Bartholomew was proved to have been poisoned, remember,” said Sir Charles.
“Then it must have been the work of a lunatic.”
Sir Charles went on:
“Mrs. Babbington, I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to find out the truth. And I feel there is no time to lose. Once the news of the exhumation gets about our criminal will be on the alert. I am assuming, for the sake of saving time, what the result of the autopsy on your husband’s body will be. I am taking it that he, too, died of nicotine poisoning. To begin with, did you or he know anything about the use of pure nicotine?”
“I always use a solution of nicotine for spraying roses. I didn’t know it was supposed to be poisonous.”
“I should imagine (I was reading up the subject last night) that in both cases the pure alkaloid must have been used. Cases of poisoning by nicotine are most unusual.”
Mrs. Babbington shook her head.
; “I really don’t know anything about nicotine poisoning—except that I suppose inveterate smokers might suffer from it.”
“Did your husband smoke?”
“Yes.”
“Now tell me, Mrs. Babbington, you have expressed the utmost surprise that anyone should want to do away with your husband. Does that mean that as far as you know he had no enemies?”
“I am sure Stephen had no enemies. Everyone was fond of him. People tried to hustle him sometimes,” she smiled a little tearfully. “He was getting on, you know, and rather afraid of innovations, but everybody liked him. You couldn’t dislike Stephen, Sir Charles.”
“I suppose, Mrs. Babbington, that your husband didn’t leave very much money?”
“No. Next to nothing. Stephen was not good at saving. He gave away far too much. I used to scold him about it.”
“I suppose he had no expectations from anyone? He wasn’t the heir to any property?”
“Oh, no. Stephen hadn’t many relations. He has a sister who is married to a clergyman in Northumberland, but they are very badly off, and all his uncles and aunts are dead.”
“Then it does not seem as though there were anyone who could benefit by Mr. Babbington’s death?”
“No, indeed.”
“Let us come back to the question of enemies for a minute. Your husband had no enemies, you say; but he may have had as a young man.”
Mrs. Babbington looked sceptical.
“I should think it very unlikely. Stephen hadn’t a quarrelsome nature. He always got on well with people.”
“I don’t want to sound melodramatic,” Sir Charles coughed a little nervously. “But—er—when he got engaged to you, for instance, there wasn’t any disappointed suitor in the offing?”
A momentary twinkle came into Mrs. Babbington’s eyes.
“Stephen was my father’s curate. He was the first young man I saw when I came home from school. I fell in love with him and he with me. We were engaged for four years, and then he got a living down in Kent, and we were able to get married. Ours was a very simple love story, Sir Charles—and a very happy one.”
Sir Charles bowed his head. Mrs. Babbington’s simple dignity was very charming.
Egg took up the rôle of questioner.
“Mrs. Babbington, do you think your husband had met any of the guests at Sir Charles’s that night before?”
Mrs. Babbington looked slightly puzzled.
“Well, there were you and your mother, my dear, and young Oliver Manders.”
