“We are engaged, Madam,” he began, with formal severity, “on an inquiry relative to certain events connected with the 26th of last month. I think you were in town at that time?”

Mrs. Forrest frowned slightly in the effort to recollect. Wimsey made a mental note that she was not as young as her bouffant apple-green frock made her appear. She was certainly nearing the thirties and her eyes were mature and aware.

“Yes, I think I was. Yes, certainly. I was in town for several days about that time. How can I help you?”

“It is a question of a certain bank-note which has been traced to your possession,” said Parker, “a £5 note numbered x/y58929. It was issued to you by Lloyds Bank in payment of a cheque on the 19th.”

“Very likely. I can’t say I remember the number, but I think I cashed a cheque about that time. I can tell in a moment by my cheque-book.”

“ I don’t think it’s necessary. But it would help us very much if you can recollect to whom you paid it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s rather difficult. I paid my dressmaker’s about that time- no, that was by cheque. I paid cash to the garage, I know, and I think there was a £5 in that. Then I dined at Verry’s with a woman friend- that took the second £5, I remember, but there was a third. I drew out £25- three fives and ten ones.Where did the third note go? Oh, of course, how stupid of me! I put it on a horse.”

“Through a Commission Agent?”

“No. I had nothing much to do one day so I went down to Newmarket. I put £5 on some creature called Brighteye or Attaboy or some name like that, at 50 to 1. Of course the wretched animal didn’t w they never do. A man in the train gave me the tip and wrote the name down for me. I handed it to the nearest bookie I saw-a funny little grey-haired man with a hoarse voice- and that was the last I saw of it.”

“Could you remember which day it was?”

“I think it was Saturday. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Forrest. It will be a great help if we can trace the notes. One of them has turned up since in- other circumstances.”

“May I know what the circumstanc are, or is it an official secret?”

Parker hesitated. He rather wished, now, that he had demanded point-blank at the start how Mrs. Forrest’s £5 note come to be found on the dead body of the waitress at Epping. Taken by surprise, the woman might have got flustered. Now he had let her entrench herself securely behind this horse story. Impossible to follow up the history of a bank-note handed to an unknown bookie at a race-meeting. Before he could speak, Wimsey broke in for the first time, in a high, petulant voice which quite took his friend aback.

“You’re not getting anywhere with all this,” he complained. “I don’t care a continental curse about the beastly note, and I’m sure Sylvia doesn’t.”

“Who is Sylvia?” demanded Mrs. Forrest with considerable amazement.”

“Who is Sylvia? What is she?” gabbled Wimsey irrepressibly. “Shakespeare always has the right word, hasn’t he? But, God bless my soul, it’s no laughing matter. It’s very serious and you’ve no business to laugh at it. Sylvia is very much upset, and the doctor is afraid it may have an effect on her heart. You may not know it, Mrs. Forrest, but Sylvia Lyndhurst is my cousin. And what she wants to know, and what we all want to know- don’t interrupt me, Inspector, all this shilly-shallying doesn’t get us anywhere- I want to know, Mrs Forrest, who was it dining here with you on the night of April 26th. Who was it? Who was it? Can you tell me that?”

This time, Mrs. Forrest was visibly taken aback. Even under the thick coat of powder they could see the red flush up into her cheeks and ebb away, while her eyes took on an expression of something more than alarm- a kind of vicious fury, such as one may see in those of a cornered cat.

“On the 26th?” she faltered, “I can’t-”

“I knew it!” cried Wimsey. “And that girl Evelyn was sure of it too. Who was it, Mrs. Forrest? Answer me that!”

“There- there was no one,” said Mrs. Forrest, with a thick gasp.

“Oh, come, Mrs. Forrest, think again,” said Parker, taking his cue promptly, “you aren’t going to tell us that you accounted by yourself for three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and two people’s dinners.”

“Not forgetting the ham,” put in Wimsey with fussy self-importance, “the Bradenham ham specially cooked and sent up by Fortnum & Mason. Now, Mrs. Forrest-”

“Wait a moment. Just a moment. I’ll tell you everything.”

The woman’s hands clutched at the pink silk cushions, making little hot, tight creases. “I- would you mind getting me something to drink? In the dining-room, through there- on the sideboard.”

Wimsey got up quickly and disappeared into the next room. He took rather a long time, Parker thought. Mrs. Forrest was lying back in a collapsed attitude, but her breathing was more controlled, and she was, he thought, recovering her wits, “Making up a story,” he muttered savagely to himself. However, he could not, without brutality, press her at the moment.

Lord Peter, behind the folding doors, was makng a good deal of noise, chinking the glasses and fumbling about. However, before very long, he was back.

“’Scuse my taking such a time,” he apologized, handing Mrs. Forrest a glass of brandy and soda. “Couldn’t find the syphon. Always was a bit wool-gathering, y’know. All my friends say so. Starin’ me in the face all the time, what? And then I sloshed a lot of soda on the sideboard. Hand shakin’. Nerves all to pieces and so on. Feelin’ better? That’s right. Put it down. That’s the stuff to pull you together. How about another little one, what? Oh, rot, it can’t hurt you. Mind if I have myself? I’m feelin’ a bit flustered. Upsettin’, delicate business and all Just another spot. That’s the idea.”

He trotted out again, glass in hand while Parker fidgeted. The presence of amateur detectives was sometimes an embarrassment. Wimsey clattered in again, this time, with more common sense, bringing decanter, syphon three glasses, bodily, on a tray.

“Now, now,” said Wimsey, “now we’re feeling better, do you think you can answer our question, Mrs. Forrest?”

“May I know, first of all, what right you have to ask it?”

Parker shot an exasperated glance at his friend. This came of giving people time to think.

“Right?” burst in Wimsey. “Right? Of course we’ve a right. The police have a right to ask questions when anything’s the matter. Here’s murder the matter! Right, indeed?”

A curious intent look came into her eyes. Parker could not place it, but Wimsey recognised it instantly. He had seen it last on the face of a great financier as he took up his pen to sign a contract. Wimsey had been called to witness the signature, and had refused. It was a contract that ruined thousands of people. Incidentally, the financier had been murdered soon after, and Wimsey had declined to investigate the matter, with a sentence from Dumas: “Let pass the justice of God.”

“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Forrest was saying, “that in that case I can’t help you. I did have a friend dining with me on the 26th, but he has not, so far as I know, been murdered, nor has he murdered anybody.”

“It was a man, then?” said Parker.

Mrs. Forrest bowed her head with a kind of mocking ruefulness. “I live apart from my husband,” she murmured.

“I am sorry,” said Parker, “to have press you for this gentleman’s name and address.”

“Isn’t that asking rather much? Perhaps if you would give me further details-?”

“Well, you see,” cut in Wimsey again, “if we could just know for certain it wasn’t Lyndhurst. My cousin is frightfully upset, as I said, and that Evelyn girl is making trouble. In fact- of course one doesn’t want it to go any further- but actually Sylvia lost her head very completely. She made a savage attack on poor old Lyndhurst – with a revolver, in fact, only fortunately she is a shocking bad shot. It went over his shoulder and broke a vase- most distressin’ thing- a Famille Rose jar, worth thousands- and of course it was smashed to atoms. Sylvia is really hardly responsible when she’s in a temper. And, we thought, as Lyndhurst was actually traced to this block of flats- if you could give us definite proof it wasn't him, it might calm her down and prevent murder being done, don’t you know. Because they might call it Guilty but Insane, still, it would be awfully awkward havin’ one’s cousin in Broadmoor-a first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she’s not irritated.”