They were passing through the hall on their way to the front door, when Justin Leigh came up.

“If you can spare me just a moment- I’m arranging to do some of my work down here until after the inquest, but I shall have to run up to town and get the papers I want. I thought of going up first thing in the morning. I’ll be back in time for lunch.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Leigh.”

It appeared that Mr. Leigh hadn’t finished.

“ Miss Lane would like the lift both ways. I suppose there’s no objection to that?”

The Chief Inspector didn’t answer so quickly this time. When he spoke, it was to say,

“I haven’t seen Miss Lane yet. She mayn’t be very important, but I want to see her. Will you make yourself responsible for having her back here by two o’clock tomorrow?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Lamb walked on, then halted rather suddenly and looked back.

“What does she want to go up for?”

“Her cousin, Lady Pemberley, is an invalid. She wants to go up and see her. She’s afraid all this may have been a shock. I’ve arranged to drop her there and pick her up again.”

There was another slight pause. Then the Chief Inspector said,

“All right, Mr. Leigh. But I shall be wanting to see her not later than two o’clock.”

Chapter XXIV

Martin Oakley met them with a flat refusal. “My wife’s ill-she can’t see anyone.”

“Have you a doctor’s certificate, Mr. Oakley?”

“No, I haven’t, and I don’t need one. I know my wife a great deal better than any doctor. She’s not fit to see anyone. Good heavens, man-a gentle, delicate woman has a man killed practically next door to her, and you expect her to be able to discuss it! Why, the shock was enough to kill her. And she’s got nothing to say, any more than I have myself. We were all there, standing close together. Mr. Porlock had gone over towards the stairs. Then he began to come towards us again, and the lights went out. We heard a groan and a fall, and less than a minute after that the lights came on, and there was Porlock lying dead on the floor with a dagger in his back. That’s all I know, and that’s all my wife knows. She’s very sensitive and tender-hearted. She went down on her knees to see if there was anything to be done, and when she found he was dead she became hysterical.”

Lamb said, “So I understand.”

They were in the study, among its incongruous chromium plating and scarlet velvet, registered by the Chief Inspector as ‘gimcrackery.’ He knew what an English gentleman’s study ought to look like, and it wasn’t anything like this. He said,

“How long have you known Mr. Porlock?”

“A couple of months.”

“And Mrs. Oakley-how long has she known him?”

“She never met him until he paid a formal call on Wednesday last.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“Of course I am-you can ask anyone you like. I’d met him in the way of business. She didn’t so much as know him by sight.”

“Then will you explain why she should have called him Glen?”

“She did nothing of the kind.”

“Mr. Oakley, there were eight people present besides yourself and your wife. They all agree that Mrs. Oakley called out repeatedly, ‘Oh, Glen! Glen’s dead-he’s dead! Oh, Glen- Glen-Glen!’ ”

“I should say they had made a mistake. How could she call him Glen? His name was Gregory. We were all calling him Greg. She was in the habit of hearing me speak of him as Greg. What she said was, ‘Greg’s dead! He’s dead-dead-dead!’ She was sobbing and crying, you understand, and I can’t think why anyone should have thought she said Glen-it makes nonsense.”

The Chief Inspectai allowed a pause to follow this statement. When he thought it had lasted long enough he said,

“I should like to see Miss Dorinda Brown and Mrs. Oakley’s maid. Perhaps I might begin with the maid.”

Martin Oakley stiffened.

“The maid? She’s only been with my wife a week. She wasn’t there last night.”

“I should like to see her, Mr. Oakley.”

Hooper came into the room in a black dress with a small old-fashioned brooch at the neck. The faded hair might have been a wig, or the part-wig which is called a front. It had small, close curls fitting tightly on to the head. Under it one of those round bony foreheads, dull pale cheeks, and a tight mouth. She came up to the table and stood there with an air of professional respect.

“Your name is Hooper, and you are Mrs. Oakley’s personal maid?”

The tight lips opened the smallest possible way.

“Yes, sir-Louisa Hooper.”

“How long have you been with Mrs. Oakley?”

“It will be ten days. I came in on the Saturday. We came down here on the Tuesday.”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. She kept her eyes down. The lids reminded Frank Abbott of those little hooded awnings which you see at the seaside, keeping out the light, hiding the windows.

Lamb’s next question came rather quickly.

“How long had you known Mr. Porlock?”

“Mr. Porlock?”

He said sternly, “Come, come-we know you knew him. We know you were in the habit of telephoning to him. Your conversations were overheard. What’s the good of wasting time? You were in his pay-I want to know why?”

The lids did not rise, the lips were tight. Then quite suddenly they produced a smile-not a nice smile.

“If a gentleman takes an interest in a lady, I don’t see that it’s any business of the police.”

“Then you’d better do some thinking. When a gentleman’s murdered everything to do with him is of interest to the police. Got that? Now-why did he pay you?”

The smile persisted.

“He took an interest in Mrs. Oakley.”

“Whom he’d never seen till Wednesday last.”

The lids came up with a jerk. The eyes behind them were cold, with a bright point of malice.

“Who says so?”

“Mr. Oakley does. If you know any different you’d better say so.”

The lids came down again.

“He came to see her on Wednesday afternoon. I suppose a gentleman can come and call on a lady he’s taken a fancy to?”

Lamb fixed her with his bulging stare.

“Now look here, Miss Hooper, it’s no good your giving me that kind of stuff. I’ve told you your conversations with Mr. Porlock were overheard. You rang him up on Tuesday night and told him about Mrs. Oakley finding a crumpled-up photograph and being very much upset over it. You asked him if you should tell him whose photograph it was, and he said to give the photographer’s name, which you did-Rowbecker & Son, Norwood. Now-whose photograph was it?”

“How should I know?”

“You knew all right when you were talking to Mr. Porlock.”

She looked up again, not meeting the stare but, as it were, sliding past it.

“Well then, it was Mr. Porlock.”

“Sure about that?”

She nodded.

“He takes a good photograph.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“The little boy must have got at it. It was in his toy-cupboard. Nurse was saying how spoilt he’d got whilst she was away. She said Miss Brown picked up a photograph from the nursery floor and took it away.”

“What happened to the photograph?”

“Mrs. Oakley said it was spoilt, and she went over and dropped it in the fire.”

“Mr. Porlock came to see her on Wednesday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she see him?”

“Upstairs in her sitting-room.”

“And how much of their conversation did you overhear?”

“I don’t listen at doors.”

“Is there a door you could have listened at-a door through to her bedroom?”

“I don’t listen at doors.”

“I’m asking you if there’s a door through from her bedroom. I can ask Mrs. Oakley, you know.”

“There’s a door.”

“And you don’t listen at doors? Look here, Miss Hooper, I’m making no threats, and I’m making no promises-I’m just poiting out one or two facts. This is a murder case. It’s a serious thing to obstruct the police in their inquiries. If you listened at that door and got any information that would help the police, it’s your duty to tell them what it is. If you have any idea of trying to dispose of that information for your own profit, it would be a very serious offence-it would be blackmail. Blackmail is a very serious offence. You know best what your past record is- whether it will bear looking into. I don’t want to have to look into it. Now then-how much of that conversation between Mrs. Oakley and Mr. Porlock did you hear?”