“I remember something else,” she said. “Mr. Shaitana said something about a doctor’s opportunities in a laboratory. He must have meant something by that.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Shaitana who said that.” Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “It was Maj
or Despard.”
A footfall on the garden walk made her turn her head.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “Talk of the devil!”
Major Despard had just come round the corner of the house.
Thirteen
SECOND VISITOR
At the sight of Mrs. Oliver, Major Despard looked slightly taken aback. Under his tan his face flushed a rich brick red. Embarrassment made him jerky. He made for Anne.
“I apologize, Miss Meredith,” he said. “Been ringing your bell. Nothing happened. Was passing this way. Thought I might just look you up.”
“I’m so sorry you’ve been ringing,” said Anne. “We haven’t got a maid—only a woman who comes in the mornings.”
She introduced him to Rhoda.
Rhoda said briskly:
“Let’s have some tea. It’s getting chilly. We’d better go in.”
They all went into the house. Rhoda disappeared into the kitchen. Mrs. Oliver said:
“This is quite a coincidence—our all meeting here.”
Despard said slowly, “Yes.”
His eyes rested on her thoughtfully—appraising eyes.
“I’ve been telling Miss Meredith,” said Mrs. Oliver, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, “that we ought to have a plan of campaign. About the murder, I mean. Of course, that doctor did it. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Couldn’t say. Very little to go on.”
Mrs. Oliver put on her “How like a man!” expression.
A certain air of constraint had settled over the three. Mrs. Oliver sensed it quickly enough. When Rhoda brought in tea she rose and said she must be getting back to town. No, it was ever so kind of them, but she wouldn’t have any tea.
“I’m going to leave you my card,” she said. “Here it is, with my address on it. Come and see me when you come up to town, and we’ll talk everything over and see if we can’t think of something ingenious to get to the bottom of things.”
“I’ll come out to the gate with you,” said Rhoda.
Just as they were walking down the path to the front gate, Anne Meredith ran out of the house and overtook them.
“I’ve been thinking things over,” she said.
Her pale face looked unusually resolute.
“Yes, my dear?”
“It’s extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Oliver, to have taken all this trouble. But I’d really rather not do anything at all. I mean—it was all so horrible. I just want to forget about it.”
“My dear child, the question is, will you be allowed to forget about it?”