“Then do you mean to imply that this particular quarrel was no more serious than others that had taken place, and that it was likely to have been made up?”

She said easily,

“He wouldn’t have turned me out, you know.”

“Mrs. Repton, Miss Maggie Repton has stated that she had a conversation with her brother this afternoon just before three o’clock in which he told her that he had come to the end, and that you must go. Now I think you saw him after that.”

“Who says so?”

“You were seen coming out of the study.”

She drew at the cigarette and let the smoke go up between them.

“All right-so what?”

“The person who saw you states that both you and Colonel Repton were talking very loudly. She received the impression that you were quarrelling. Then the door opened and you were coming out, but you turned back again and spoke. And she heard what you said.”

A little ash dropped on the front of the emerald jumper. Scilla Repton brushed it off with a careless flick.

“Really, Mr. March?”

“She states that she heard you say, ‘You’d be a lot more good to me dead than alive,’ and after that you came away.”

“Quite a good curtain,” said Scilla Repton.

March said gravely,

“And within an hour he was dead.”

“It didn’t mean anything. It was the sort of thing one says.”

“Not, I think, with a reconciliation in sight.”

She leaned over to stub out the cigarette where she had left the match in Roger Repton’s pen-tray.

The action set off a curious spark of anger in him. She had quarrelled with the husband who had found her out, she had wished him dead to his face, she had heard another woman accuse her over his dead body, and here, on the very spot where these things had happened, she could lean over and stub out her cigarette! It was a small thing, but it got him. He said sharply,

“You wished him dead, and he was dead within the hour. You have been accused of having brought that death about.”

She actually laughed.

“You’ve been listening to Mettie Eccles. My dear man, don’t be silly! She was head over ears in love with Roger- always has been, I can’t think why. And she has always been just about as jealous of me as anyone could be, so naturally if there was anything wrong it would be my fault. I should think even a policeman could see that.”

He said abruptly,

“There was cyanide in the gardener’s shed, wasn’t there?”

“Cya-what?”

“Cyanide. I suppose you’ve heard of it?”

“No. What is it?”

“I haven’t had the surgeon’s report yet, but it could have been the poison which caused Colonel Repton’s death.”

She stared at him.

“And what would it be doing in the gardener’s shed?”

“It is used to destroy wasps’ nests.”

She gave quite a natural shudder.

“I can’t sit in the room with a wasp! That’s the worst of the country-all these insects! But if this cya stuff was used for them, how did it get into the house-unless-Oh, do you mean that Roger took it on purpose?”

Randal March said very gravely indeed,

“No, Mrs. Repton, I didn’t mean that.”

CHAPTER 27

About half an hour later March stopped his car on the other side of the Green, lifted the latch of a gate, and made his way with the help of a torch to the sideways-looking door of Gale’s Cottage. His knocking upon it brought a somewhat delayed and reluctant answer. There was no bell and no knocker. He was obliged to switch off his torch and use that, and he was beginning to wonder whether Mr. James Barton could be out, when there was the sound of a slow footstep and the door was opened a bare two inches, and on the chain at that, since an unmistakable rattle came through the gap. A deep breathy voice said, “Who’s there?”

“My name is March. I am the Chief Constable of the county, and I would like to have a word with you.”

The voice from within said, “Why?”

“Because you were one of the last people to see Colonel Repton.”

There was a gasp, the rattle of the chain which held the door, and the sound of the door creaking back upon its hinges. There was no light in the narrow passage, but a door on the right stood half open and enough light came from it to throw up the figure of a tall man standing back about a yard from the threshold.

“What’s this about Colonel Repton?”

“I believe you were one of the last people to see him.”

Barton repeated the words almost in a whisper.

“To see him?”

March said, “Mr. Barton, if Colonel Repton was a friend of yours, I’m afraid you must be prepared for a shock, because he is dead.”

James Barton said, “Oh, my God!” And then, “But he can’t be-I was talking to him-Oh, come in!”

The room with the half open door was the kitchen, and it was warm and comfortable, with an oil lamp on the dresser, a bright fire, and thick red curtains at the window. There was a table covered with a crimson cloth, an old leather-covered armchair, and a strip of carpet in front of the fireplace upon which lay seven large tabby cats.

In the light Mr. Barton was seen to be a thin and rather stooping person with a good deal of grizzled hair and a straggling beard, but even the beard and the bushy eyebrows did not hide the terrible scar which ran across his face. Before March had taken in these particulars he was saying,

“Colonel Repton-what has happened? I was up there- he wasn’t ill.”

“Yes, that is why I have come to see you. He wasn’t ill, and he is dead. I believe that he was murdered.”

“Murdered-”

There were a couple of plain wooden chairs in the room. Barton sank down on one of them and leaned forward over the table, folding his arms and dropping his head upon them. His breathing quickened into sobs. After a minute or two he straightened himself.

“He was a very good friend to me. It’s knocked me over. Will you tell me what happened?”

“He was poisoned-we believe, with cyanide.”

“That’s the stuff they use for wasps?”

“Yes.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

March had taken the other chair. He said,

“I hope you can help us to find out.”

Barton raised a hand and let it fall again.

“Isn’t that what the police always say when they’re talking about the chap they’ve got it in for?”

“If you mean have we any special reason to suspect you at present, the answer is no. But since you were one of the last people to see Colonel Repton alive-By the way, just when did you leave him?”

“It would be four o’clock, or a little later. I don’t carry a watch.”

“Do you mind telling me why you went to see him, and what passed between you?”

“I went to pay my rent.”

“I see. And just what do you pay for this cottage?”

Barton was leaning on an elbow, staring down at the red tablecloth. He jerked his head up at that and said roughly,

“What’s that got to do with the police?”

“Is there any reason why you should mind answering the question?”

“Oh, no-no-I just wondered why you should ask it, that’s all. If you must know, it was what is called a peppercorn rent.”

“You mean you didn’t pay him anything at all?”

“No, I don’t. I mean I paid him a peppercorn-one a month-and we’d sit talking for a bit. He was about the only one I ever did talk to, and I suppose you’ll try and make out I did him in.”

“Will you tell me what you talked about this afternoon?”

Barton went back to staring down upon the red tablecloth.

“Most times I’d go up after dark, but I didn’t today.”

“Why was that?”

“I don’t know. I’d a fancy to go when I did, that’s all. I’d been thinking of things, and I’d got to the point where they didn’t bear thinking about, so it came to me I’d go up and see the Colonel.”

March’s memory produced a date. He wouldn’t have sworn to it in court, but short of that he was as certain of it as makes no difference. This was the thirteenth of October, and on the thirteenth of October some thirty years ago… He said,