My one feeling of regret at this time was that Josephine was out of it all. She would have enjoyed it all so much.

Her recovery was rapid and she was expected to be back any day now, but nevertheless she missed another event of importance.

I was in the rock garden one morning with Sophia and Brenda when a car drew up to the front door. Taverner and Sergeant Lamb got out of it. They went up the steps and into the house.

Brenda stood still, staring at the car.

"It's those men," she said. "They've come back, and I thought they'd given up _ - I thought it was all over."

K I saw her shiver.

She had joined us about ten minutes s before. Wrapped in her chinchilla coat, she had said "If I don't get some air and - exercise, I shall go mad. If I go outside the gate there's always a reporter waiting to pounce on me. It's like being besieged. Will it go on for ever?"

Sophia said that she supposed the reporters would soon get tired of it.

"You can go out in the car," she added.

"I tell you I want to get some exercise."

Then she said abruptly:

"You've given Laurence the sack, Sophia.

Why?"

Sophia answered quietly:

"We're making other arrangements for Eustace. And Josephine is going to Switzerland." 

"Well, you've upset Laurence very much.

He feels you don't trust him."

Sophia did not reply and it was at that moment that Taverner's car had arrived.

Standing there, shivering in the moist autumn air, Brenda muttered, "What do they want? Why have they come?"

I thought I knew why they had come. I had said nothing to Sophia of the letters I had found by the cistern, but I knew that they had gone to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

Taverner came out of the house again.

He walked across the drive and the lawn towards us. Brenda shivered more violently.

"What does he want?" she repeated nervously. "What does he want?"

Then Taverner was with us. He spoke curtly in his official voice using the official phrases.

"I have a warrant here for your arrest - you are charged with administering eserine to Aristide Leonides on September 19th last. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence at your trial."

And then Brenda went to pieces. She screamed. She clung to me. She cried out,

"No, no, no, it isn't true! Charles, tell them it isn't true! I didn't do it. I didn't know f anything about it. It's all a plot. Don't let them take me away. It isn't true, I tell you… It isn't true… I haven't done anything…"

It was horrible - unbelievably horrible.

I tried to soothe her, I unfastened her fingers from my arm. I told her that I would arrange for a lawyer for her - that she was to keep calm - that a lawyer would arrange everything…

Taverner took her gently under the elbow.

"Come along, Mrs. Leonides," he said.

"You don't want a hat, do you? No? Then we'll go off right away."

She pulled back, staring at him with enormous cat's eyes.

"Laurence," she said. "What have you done to Laurence?"

"Mr. Laurence Brown is also under arrest," said Taverner.

She wilted then. Her body seemed to collapse and shrink. The tears poured down her face. She went away quietly with Taverner across the lawn to the car. I saw Laurence Brown and Sergeant Lamb come out of the house. They all got into the car… The car drove away.

I drew a deep breath and turned to Sophia. She was very pale and there was a look of distress on her face.

"It's horrible, Charles," she said. "It's quite horrible."

"I know."

"You must get her a really first class solicitor - the best there is. She - she must have all the help possible."

"One doesn't realise," I said, "what these things are like. I've never seen anyone arrested before."

"I know. One has no idea."

We were both silent. I was thinking of the desperate terror on Brenda's face. It had seemed familiar to me and suddenly I realised why. It was the same expression that I had seen on Magda Leonides's face the first day I had come to the Crooked House when she had been talking about the Edith Thompson play.

"And then," she had said, "sheer terror, don't you think so?"

Sheer terror - that was what had been on Brenda's face. Brenda was not a fighter.

I wondered that she had ever had the nerve to do murder. But possibly she had not.

Possibly it had been Laurence Brown, with his persecution mania, his unstable personality who had put the contents of one little bottle into another little bottle - a simple easy act - to free the woman he loved.

"So it's over," said Sophia.

She sighed deeply, then asked:

"But why arrest them now? I thought there wasn't enough evidence."

"A certain amount of evidence has come to light. Letters."

"You mean love letters between them?"

"Yes."

"What fools people are to keep these things!"

Yes, indeed. Fools. The kind of folly which never seemed to profit by the experience of others. You couldn't open a daily newspaper without coming across some instance of that folly - the passion to keep the written word, the written assurance of love.

"It's quite beastly, Sophia," I said. "But it's no good minding about it. After all, it's what we've been hoping all along, isn't it?

It's what you said that first night at Mario's.

You said it would be all right if the right person had killed your grandfather. Brenda was the right person, wasn't she? Brenda or Laurence?"

"Don't. Charles, you make me feel awful."

"But we must be sensible. We can marry now, Sophia. You can't hold me off any longer. The Leonides family are out of it."

She stared at me. I had never realised before the vivid blue of her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "I suppose we're out of it now. We are out of it, aren't we? You're sure?"

"My dear girl, none of you really had a shadow of motive."

Her face went suddenly white.

"Except me, Charles. I had a motive."

"Yes, of course -" I was taken aback.

"But not really. You didn't know, you see, about the will."

"But I did, Charles," she whispered. •| "What?" I stared at her. I felt suddenly cold.

"I knew all the time that grandfather had left his money to me."

"But how?"

"He told me. About a fortnight before he was killed. He said to me quite suddenly 5 'I've left all my money to you, Sophia. You must look after the family when I'm gone.' "

I stared.

"You never told me."

"No. You see, when they all explained about the will and his signing it, I thought perhaps he had made a mistake - that he was just imagining that he had left it to me.

Or that if he had made a will leaving it to me, then it had got lost and would never turn up. I didn't want it to turn up - I was afraid."

"Afraid? Why?"

"I suppose - because of murder."

I remembered the look of terror on Brenda's face - the wild unreasoning panic.

I remembered the sheer panic that Magda had conjured up at will when she considered playing the part of a murderess. There would be no panic in Sophia's mind, but she was a realist, and she could see clearly enough that Leonides's will made her a suspect. I understood better now (or thought I did) her refusal to become engaged to me and her insistence that I should find out the truth. Nothing but the truth, she had said, was any good to her. I remembered the passion, the earnestness with which she had said it.

We had turned to walk towards the house and suddenly, at a certain spot, I remembered something else she had said.

She had said that she supposed she could murder someone, but if so, she had added, it must be for something really worth while.