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The visitor, however proved to be an elderly gentleman who raised his hat when Susan opened the door and said, beaming at her in avuncular style.

 

"Mrs Banks, I think?"

 

"Yes."

 

"My name is Guthrie - Alexander Guthrie. I was a friend - a very old friend, of Mrs Lansquenet's. You, I think, are her niece, formerly Miss Susan Abernethie?"

 

"That's quite right."

 

"Then since we know who we are, I may come in?"

 

"Of course."

 

Mr Guthrie wiped his feet carefully on the mat, stepped inside, divested himself of his overcoat, laid it down with his hat on a small oak chest and followed Susan into the sitting-room

 

"This is a melancholy occasion," said Mr Guthrie, to whom melancholy did not seem to come naturally, his own inclination being to beam.

 

"Yes, a very melancholy occasion. I was in this part of the world and I felt the least I could do was to attend the inquest - and of course the funeral. Poor Cora - poor foolish Cora. I have known her, my dear Mrs Banks, since the early days of her marriage. A high-spirited girl - and she took art very seriously - took Pierre Lansquenet seriously, too - as an artist, I mean. All things considered he didn't make her too bad a husband. He strayed, if you know what I mean, yes, he strayed - but fortunately Cora took it as part of the artistic temperament. He was an artist and therefore immoral! In fact I'm not sure she didn't go further: he was immoral and therefore he must be an artist! No kind of sense in artistic matters, poor Cora - though in other ways, mind you, Cora had a lot of sense - yes, a surprising lot of sense."

 

"That's what everybody seems to say," said Susan. "I didn't really know her."

 

"No, no, cut herself off from her family because they didn't appreciate her precious Pierre. She was never a pretty girl - but she had something. She was good company! You never knew what she'd say next and you ever knew if her naiveté was genuine or whether she was doing it deliberately. She made us all laugh a good deal. The eternal child - that's what we always felt about her. And really the last time I saw her (I have seen her from time to time since Pierre died) she struck me as still behaving very much like a child."

 

Susan offered Mr Guthrie a cigarette, but the old gentleman shook his head.

 

"No thank you, my dear. I don't smoke. You must wonder why I've come? To tell you the truth I was feeling rather conscience-stricken. I promised Cora to come and see her, some weeks ago. I usually called upon her once a year, and just lately she'd taken up the hobby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me to look at some of them. My profession is that of art critic, you know. Of course most of Cora's purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it isn't such a bad speculation. Pictures go for next to nothing at these country sales and the frames alone are worth more than you, pay for the picture. Naturally any important sale is attended by dealers and one isn't likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other day, a small Cuyp was knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quite, interesting. It had been given to an old nurse by the family she had served faithfully for many years - they had no idea of it's value. Old nurse gave it to farmer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing! Yes, yes, these things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures. She hadn't, of course. Wanted me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked the last year. A Rembrandt! Not even a respectable copy of one! But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi engraving - damp spotted unfortunately. I sold it for her for thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had bought at some sale and I promised I'd come along and see it."

 

"That's it over there, I expect," said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.

 

Mr Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.

 

"Poor dear Cora," he said at last.

 

"There are a lot more," said Susan.

 

Mr Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hopeful Mrs Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, "Tchk, Tchk," occasionally he sighed.

 

Finally he removed his spectacles.

 

"Dirt," he said, "is a wonderful thing, Mrs Banks! It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painter's art. I'm afraid that Bartolozzi was beginner's luck. Poor Cora. Still it gave her an interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her."

 

"There are some pictures in, the dining-room," said Susan, "but I think they are all her husband's work."

 

Mr Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.

 

"Do not force me to look at those again. Life classes have much to answer for! I always tried to spare Cora's feelings. A devoted wife - a very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs Banks, I must not take up more of your time."

 

"Oh, do stay and have some tea. I think it's nearly ready."

 

"That is very kind of you." Mr Guthrie sat down again promptly.

 

"I'll just go and see."

 

In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrist was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea-tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.

 

"There's a Mr Guthrie here, and I've asked him to stay for tea."

 

"Mr Guthrie? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs Lansquenet's. He's the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; I've made a nice lot of scones and that's some home-made strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. I'll just make the tea - I've warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs Banks, don't carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything."

 

However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr Guthrie, and they set to.

 

"Hot scones, that is a treat," said Mr Guthrie, "and what delicious jam!

 

Really, the stuff one buys nowadays."

 

Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party. Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.

 

"Well, thank you, perhaps I will," said Mr Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. "I do feel rather guilty, though - enjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered."

 

Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victorian reaction to this.

 

"Oh, but Mrs Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. You've got to keep your strength up."

 

"Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knew - actually knew - can have been murdered!"

 

"I agree," said Susan. "It just seems - fantastic."

 

"And certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, you know, reasons why Cora might have been murdered."

 

Susan said quickly, "Can you? What reasons?"