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By Root 444 0

fact, that’s just the difficulty. It always is my difficulty. I can never think of even one plot at a time. I always think of at least five, and it’s agony to decide between them. I can think of six beautiful reasons for the murder. The trouble is I’ve no earthly means of knowing which is right. To begin with, perhaps Shaitana was a moneylender. He had a very oily look. Roberts was in his clutches, and killed him because he couldn’t get the money to repay the loan. Or perhaps Shaitana ruined his daughter or his sister. Or perhaps Roberts is a bigamist, and Shaitana knew it. Or possibly Roberts married Shaitana’s second cousin, and will inherit all Shaitana’s money through her. Or—How many have I got to?’

‘Four,’ said Rhoda.

‘Or—and this is a really good one—suppose Shaitana knew some secret in Roberts’ past. Perhaps you didn’t notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something rather peculiar at dinner—just beforea rather queer pause.’

Anne stooped to tickle a caterpillar. She said, ‘I don’t think I remember.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Rhoda.

‘Something about—what was it?—an accident and poison. Don’t you remember?’

Anne’s left hand tightened on the basketwork of her chair.

‘I do remember something of the kind,’ she said composedly.

Rhoda said suddenly, ‘Darling, you ought to have a coat. It’s not summer, remember. Go and get one.’

Anne shook her head.

‘I’m quite warm.’

But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke.

‘You see my theory,’ went on Mrs Oliver. ‘I dare say one of the doctor’s patients poisoned himself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctor’s own doing. I dare say he’s murdered lots of people that way.’

A sudden colour came into Anne’s cheeks. She said, ‘Do doctors usually want to murder their patients wholesale? Wouldn’t it have rather a regrettable effect on their practice?’

‘There would be a reason, of course,’ said Mrs Oliver vaguely.

‘I think the idea is absurd,’ said Anne crisply. ‘Absolutely absurdly melodramatic.’

‘Oh, Anne!’ cried Rhoda in an agony of apology. She looked at Mrs Oliver. Her eyes, rather like those of an intelligent spaniel, seemed to be trying to say something. ‘Try and understand. Try and understand,’ those eyes said.

‘I think it’s a splendid idea, Mrs Oliver,’ Rhoda said earnestly. ‘And a doctor could get hold of something quite untraceable, couldn’t he?’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Anne.

The other two turned to look at her.

‘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 Major 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.

Chapter 13

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.