“Mrs. Spooner in No. 7-I do for her regular, but she’s gone away to join the A.T.S. Mr. Drake in No. 5-Mr. Bell does for him. And Mrs. Willard in No. 6-she has me twice a week, Monday and Thursday, to give the place a good clean up. Mrs. Underwood in No. 3-she’s got her own maid, and I don’t go there, not without there’s extra cleaning to be done. Miss Garside in No. 4-she used to have me all the time I could spare till she began to get rid of her furniture. Lovely stuff it was, and she said it was gone to be mended but it never come back. But that’s neither here nor there, as you might say. Then on the ground floor there’s old Mrs. Meredith, in No. 1, and I do the scrubbing there. A maid and a companion she keeps, but I do the floors. And Mrs. Lemming in No. 2-well, most times I go there once a week, but not regular. But Miss Roland that was, poor thing, I did for her regular.”

Frank Abbott, in a chair to the right of the table, sometimes made a note, and sometimes allowed his gaze to rest upon that portion of the smoothly painted wall where a cornice might have been if Miss Roland’s scheme of decoration had been less modern.

The Inspector listened patiently enough. If you want to know something about people, listen to those who go in and out of their houses and do their work. The listening may be tedious, but the gossipy information sometimes comes in handy.

“Well now, Mrs. Smollett,” he said, “just tell us how you found the body.”

Mrs. Smollett gave a recital in which she did full justice to her premonition that all was not well, the horrid feeling which came over her when she found the door of the flat ajar, the manner in which her blood ran cold when she saw the body, and the spasms which had been afflicting her ever since.

“And if I’d a-thought what was going to come of it when I heard what I did hear with my own two ears-well, it’s no good saying it mightn’t have been any different, and it’s no good trying to hush me up like Mr. Bell did.”

“What did you hear, Mrs. Smollett?”

Mrs. Smollett’s large face was warmly flushed. On the strength of the spasms she had accepted the offer of brandy from Miss Crane-“We always keep it in case of Mrs. Meredith being taken ill, and I’m sure, Mrs. Smollett, you’d be the better of a sip.” Mrs. Smollett had had considerably more than a sip.

Her face was flushed, her natural sense of drama heightened, and her tongue a runaway. She embarked with gusto upon a highly decorative narrative of what she had heard when she was washing the top landing on Wednesday morning.

“I been down to fill my pail. The water wasn’t hot right up at the top there, the way Mr. Bell has to spare the furnace these days, so I been down for a drop from the kettle, and when I come back, there they were at it hammer and tongs, and both doors open so you couldn’t help but hear them. I’m not one to listen at doors, I’d have you know, but as I said to Mr. Bell, I can’t be expected to go putting cotton wool in my ears, and there’s never been anyone deaf in our family.”

Frank Abbott gazed at the ceiling. This sort of woman went on for hours. Lamb said,

“Who was talking?”

Mrs. Smollett nodded affably. The brandy was having a levelling effect. She was a star witness-she was hobnobbing with the police-the Chief Inspector hung upon her lightest word.

“Ah!” she said. “Who indeed? Miss Roland and Miss Meade Underwood-that’s who! ‘And what’s brought her up here?’ I says to myself. And there she was, asking Miss Roland, ‘What’s this about Giles and you?’-Giles being Major Armitage that Miss Underwood got engaged to in America and that everyone thought was drowned till Monday, when he turned up again, none the worse by all accounts if it wasn’t that he’d lost his memory along of getting a crack on the head when his ship was torpedoed.”

Frank Abbott’s pencil had begun to travel. Lamb said,

“Miss Underwood asked Miss Roland what about her and Giles-meaning Major Armitage?”

Mrs. Smollett nodded again.

“That’s right,” she said. “And Miss Roland, she says, ‘Didn’t he tell you about me? Some people might think he’d mention he’d got a wife already.’”

“What?”

“That’s what she said-‘You’d think he’d mention there was one Mrs. Armitage already.’ And when Miss Underwood says she’s engaged to him, Miss Roland she flares up and says it isn’t her fault if he’s lost his memory, and she’s got her money to think about. And she says it was four hundred a year Major Armitage was giving her, and she says, ‘I’m Mrs. Armitage, and don’t you forget it.’ And Miss Underwood says, ‘He don’t love you.’ And when Miss Roland laughs, she says very loud and angry, ‘It’s no wonder he hates you!’ And with that she comes out and past me, and down the stairs.”

CHAPTER 23

The door closed upon Mrs. Smollett. Frank Abbott returned and cocked an eyebrow at his Chief Inspector. Lamb frowned at him.

“We’ll have to see this Armitage, and Miss Underwood.”

“What about the sister, sir-Mrs. Jackson?”

“She can wait. I’ll see Miss Underwood at once. But what I want is a time-table. If this Armitage was here yesterday, I want to know when he came, when he left, and whether anyone saw Miss Roland alive after he left. All these people in all these flats- Curtis was going through them. I’d like the results as soon as he’s finished. I want to know who saw her last, and when- and who saw Armitage, and when. Let me see, the Underwoods have got a maid, haven’t they? See her yourself-she’ll know whether he was about. Get on with it! And send Miss Underwood up!”

Meade Underwood came into the blue and silver room and saw a large man sitting at an inadequate table. Lamb saw a small girl in a grey frock with dark hair curling on her neck, and dark grey eyes with smudges under them. Her pallor and fragility were evident. He found himself hoping that she wasn’t the fainting kind. His voice was pleasant enough as he said good-morning and told her to sit down, indicating a spidery chair all chromium tubes and silver leather. Meade was vaguely reminded of going to the dentist’s. The tubes were cold against her back. A little shiver went over her.

“Now, Miss Underwood-if you will just answer a few questions. Did you know Miss Roland?”

“I knew her to say good-morning to when we met in the lift or on the stairs.”

“No more than that?”

“No.”

“But you were in this flat yesterday morning.”

A very faint tinge of colour stained the pale cheeks. She said,

“Yes, I had come up to the opposite flat to get something for Mrs. Spooner, and Miss Roland asked me in.”

“It was the first time you had been here?”

“Yes.”

“You had some conversation with Miss Roland?”

“Yes.”

“Was the conversation a friendly one?”

That faint flush had gone again. She was dreadfully pale as she said,

“I hardly knew her. We were not friends.”

Lamb’s small, shrewd eyes looked straight into hers.

“Miss Underwood, I must tell you that your conversation with Miss Roland was overheard. It was not a friendly one-was it?”

“No-” The word was barely audible.

Lamb sat back in his chair and said in a kind, easy voice,

“Well now, I want you to look round the room and tell me whether there’s anything here that you recognise. That photograph on the mantelpiece for instance-do you recognise that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognise it when you came into the flat yesterday morning?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me who it is?”

“It’s Giles Armitage-Major Armitage.”

“And you are engaged to him?”

“Yes.”

Every single one of those monosyllables was like a drop of blood dripping from her heart, draining her strength and her courage away. The voice that sounded kind but was quite unrelenting went on.

“It must have been a shock to you to see your fiancé’s photograph on Miss Roland’s mantelpiece.”