Rice immediately,’ said Paul Temple.
‘And now I suppose I’d better see this woman, Miss—er— Parchment,’ said the Commissioner with a mighty sigh.
Paul Temple’s plan was now fixed. Sir Graham was leaving the details of its execution to the novelist while he himself kept the guiding reins. Miss Parchment had been waiting his pleasure for some time, and he felt it was time he interviewed her, though the immediate prospect did not fill him with any great satisfaction. Nevertheless, he pressed the bell on his desk.
‘Miss Parchment,’ said Paul Temple thoughtfully. ‘Did she ask to see you, or—’
‘No, I sent for her,’ put in the Commissioner. ‘She was at the inn the night Harvey was murdered.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Temple with a smile. ‘I questioned her.’
‘She’s a retired schoolmistress, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. A retired schoolmistress, with a passion for old English inns.’
At that moment the door opened again, and Sergeant Leopold appeared. Immediately behind him the two men saw the somewhat stately form of Miss Parchment. Her bright eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter as Sergeant Leopold announced her presence.
Sir Graham Forbes rose to greet her. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Parchment,’ he said, ‘but I’m rather afraid that—’
But Miss Parchment was not listening quite as intently as she might have been.
She had caught sight of Paul Temple standing a few yards behind the Commissioner, and her face broke into a happy smile of recognition as she started towards him.
‘Ah, Mr. Temple!’ she exclaimed. ‘How nice to see you again. We meet under pleasanter circumstances this time, I hope.’ Suddenly she turned her head as if in alarm. ‘Or do we?’ she added, almost as an afterthought.
‘Yes, of course.’ Paul Temple reassured her with a smile. ‘And how are you, Miss Parchment? Quite well, I hope?’
‘Oh, quite well, thank you,’ said Miss Parchment happily. Even the Commissioner himself was warming to this strange little woman who reminded him of a fragile piece of old porcelain suddenly placed in a room, the furniture and decorations of which were of the most modern varieties. She appeared perfectly at her ease. With her air of old-world calm and quiet, she was not put off by the go-ahead methods of the younger generation. Perhaps her life as a schoolmistress had kept her young. It had certainly not made her the biased and pompous old woman that so many teachers are apt to become. She was bright, even flippant at times, and seemed to have an air of pouring gentle ridicule on all the most earnest efforts of the younger set. She herself was almost timeless, yet intensely human.
‘Very well indeed,’ Miss Parchment went on. ‘A little sciatica now and again, you know. But nothing to complain of.’
Sir Graham Forbes turned to her. ‘Miss Parchment,’ he said, ‘won’t you be seated?’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Miss Parchment rewarded him with one of her most dazzling smiles, as she took the chair Sir Graham indicated.
Suddenly she seemed to recollect her immediate surroundings. ‘Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in Scotland Yard!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s quite thrilling, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, er, quite thrilling,’ said the Commissioner drily. He took down a box of his favourite cigarettes from the mantelpiece, preparatory to helping himself, and presented them to Miss Parchment.
‘Will you have a cigarette?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you, I—’ Miss Parchment broke off on seeing the peculiar colour of the cigarettes. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Russian cigarettes!’
‘Yes, I—er—I prefer them.’ The Commissioner cleared his throat somewhat heavily. ‘Now, Miss Parchment, I—’
Once again Miss Parchment did not seem to heed his words very intently.
‘So frightfully clever, the Russians,’ she said provokingly, ‘don’t you think so, Mr. Temple?’ she asked, turning towards where the novelist was sitting.
‘Yes, I—er—suppose they are,’ agreed the latter.
‘Tchehov! Ibsen!’ went on Miss Parchment. She seemed to have suddenly embarked on a pet theme of hers. Then just as suddenly she stopped. ‘Was Ibsen a Russian?’ she asked, with rather a strange note of surprise in her voice.
‘Miss Parchment!’ Sir Graham Forbes was endeavouring to preserve that calm of manner on which he so prided himself. ‘Miss Parchment, I should like to ask you a few questions.’
‘And why not, Sir Graham?’ Miss Parchment spoke with a strange, sudden gaiety. ‘And why not?’
A few minutes after six o’clock Paul Temple collected a happy and excited young reporter from the offices of The Evening Post.
Intense excitement reigned outside the office as they drove away. The vans were beginning to load up. Drivers were cursing. Men and boys were running backwards and forwards. As the fast vans tore away at breakneck speed, other vans took their places. Soon the news would have spread to all parts of London and the Home Counties, as the skilful drivers threaded their way at an amazing speed through the rush-hour traffic.
The editors of the rival papers were already beginning to foam gently at the mouth and mutter harsh words at the failure of their own intelligence service. The morning papers were beginning to get busy on the ‘story’, wondering at the same time, in some cases, how they could make the most of the sensation without publicizing too much the news-gathering capabilities of a paper belonging to a rival group.
As Paul Temple started up the car, Steve Trent again opened the copy of the paper she had taken with her. There was her ‘story’, with a streamer headline stretching right across the top of the front page. While the car jolted along, she struggled to read once again the story she had written. ‘It’s the biggest thrill I’ve ever had!’ she confessed to her companion.
Finally they drew up in a quiet Chelsea cul-de-sac, and Paul Temple was gaily escorted up to Steve’s rooms. They were bright, very feminine rooms, yet in the comfort they provided, they were almost masculine. Her sitting-room (‘cum dining-room cum lounge cum office cum women’s gossip club’, as she described it) boasted two very large and very luxurious armchairs, which Paul Temple eyed appreciatively.
A bright plain rust-coloured carpet covered the floor and did most of all to provide an atmosphere which the Germans aptly describe as ‘gemuetlich’. Brown tweed curtains, coloured with a dash of blue, hung over the windows. The furniture in the room was of a sturdy limed pine, ‘not too difficult to look at, and jolly cheap,’ said Steve in praise.
In contrast with the rich warm colours of her large sitting- room, her bedroom
