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"Protégés? What do you mean?"

 

"I just wondered. Some young cadging artist, or musician - or something of that kind. Someone she might have let in that day, and who killed her for her loose cash. Perhaps an adolescent - they're so queer at that age sometimes - especially if they're the neurotic arty type. I mean, it seems so odd to break in and murder her in the middle of the afternoon. If you break into a house surely you'd do it at night."

 

"There would have been two women there then."

 

"Oh yes, the companion. But really I can't believe that anyone would deliberately wait until she was out of the way and then break in and attack Cora. What for? He can't have expected she'd have any cash or stuff to speak of, and there must have been times when both the women were out and the house was empty. That would have been much safer. It seems so stupid to go and commit a murder unless it's absolutely necessary."

 

"And Cora's murder, you feel, was unnecessary?"

 

"It all seems so stupid."

 

Should murder make sense? Mr Entwhistle wondered. Academically the answer was yes. But many pointless crimes were on record. It depended, Mr Entwhistle reflected, on the mentality of the murderer.

 

What did he really know about murderers and their mental processes?

 

Very little. His firm had never had a criminal practice. He was no student of criminology himself. Murderers, as far as he could judge, seemed to be of all sorts and kinds. Some had had over-weening vanity, some had had a lust for power, some, like Seddon, had been mean and avaricious, others, like Smith and Rowse had had an incredible fascination for women; some, like Armstrong, had been pleasant fellows to meet. Edith Thompson had lived in a world of violent unreality, Nurse Waddington had put her elderly patients out of the way with business-like cheerfulness.

 

Maude's voice broke into his meditations.

 

"If I could only keep the newspapers from Timothy! But he will insist on reading them - and then, of course, it upsets him. You do understand, don't you, Mr Entwhistle, that there can be no question of Timothy's attending the inquest? If necessary, Dr Barton can write out a certificate or whatever it is."

 

"You can set your mind at rest about that."

 

"Thank goodness!"

 

They turned in through the gates of Stansfield Grange, and up a neglected drive. It had been an attractive small property once - but had now a doleful and neglected appearance. Maude sighed as she said:

 

"We had to let this go to seed during the war. Both gardeners called up. And now we've only got one old man - and he's not much good. Wages have gone up so terribly. I must say it's a blessing to realise that we'll be able to spend a little money on the place now. We're both so fond of it. I was really afraid that we might have to sell it. Not that I suggested anything of the kind to Timothy. It would have upset him - dreadfully."

 

They drew up before the portico of a very lovely old Georgian house which badly needed a coat of paint.

 

"No servants," said Maude bitterly, as she led the way in. "Just a couple of women who come in. We had a resident maid until a month ago - slightly hunchbacked and terribly adenoidal and in many ways not too bright, but she was there which was such a comfort - and quite good at plain cooking. And would you believe it, she gave notice and went to a fool of a woman who keeps six Pekinese dogs (it's a larger house than this and more work) because she was 'so fond of little doggies,' she said. Dogs, indeed! Being sick and making messes all the time I've no doubt! Really, these girls are mental! So there we are, and if I have to go out any afternoon, Timothy is left quite alone in the house and if anything should happen, how could he get help? Though I do leave the telephone close by his chair so that if he felt faint he could dial Dr Barton immediately."

 

Maude led the way into the drawing-room where tea was laid ready by the fireplace, and establishing Mr Entwhistle there, disappeared, presumably to the back regions. She returned in a few minutes' time with a teapot and silver kettle, and proceeded to minister to Mr Entwhistle's needs. It was a good tea with home-made cake and fresh buns. Mr Entwhistle murmured:

 

"What about Timothy?" and Maude explained briskly that she had taken Timothy his tray before she set out for the station.

 

"And now," said Maude, "he will have had his little nap and it will be the best time for him to see you. Do try and not let him excite himself too much."

 

Mr Entwhistle assured her that he would exercise every precaution.

 

Studying her in the flickering firelight, he was seized by a feeling of compassion. This big, stalwart matter-of-fact woman, so healthy, so vigorous, so full of common sense, and yet so strangely, almost pitifully, vulnerable in one spot. Her love for her husband was maternal love, Mr Entwhistle decided. Maude Abernethie had borne no child and she was a woman built for motherhood. Her invalid husband had become her child, to be shielded, guarded, watched over. And perhaps, being the stronger character of the two, she had unconsciously imposed on him a state of invalidism greater than might otherwise have been the case.

 

"Poor Mrs Tim," thought Mr Entwhistle to himself.

 

II

 

"Good of you to come, Entwhistle."

 

Timothy raised himself up in his chair as he held out a hand. He was a big man with a marked resemblance to his brother Richard. But what was strength in Richard, in Timothy was weakness. The mouth was irresolute, the chin very slightly receding, the eyes less deep-set. Lines of peevish irritability showed on his forehead.

 

His invalid status was emphasised by the rug across his knees and a positive pharmacopoeia of little bottles and boxes on a table at his right hand.

 

"I mustn't exert myself," he said warningly. "Doctor's forbidden it. Keeps telling me not to worry! Worry! If he'd had a murder in his family he'd do a bit of worrying, I bet! It's too much for a man - first Richard's death - then hearing all about his funeral and his will - what a will! - and on top of that poor little Cora killed with a hatchet. Hatchet! Ugh! This country's full of gangsters nowadays - thugs - left over from the war!

 

Going about killing defenceless women. Nobody's got the guts to put these things down - to take a strong hand. What's the country coming to, I'd like to know? What's the damned country coming to?"

 

Mr Entwhistle was familiar with this gambit. It was a question almost invariably asked sooner or later by his clients for the last twenty years and he had his routine for answering it. The non-committal words he uttered could have been classified under the heading of soothing noises.

 

"It all began with that damned Labour Government," said Timothy.