over now, you know. Forget about the blood. Go on to the next thing. What happened next?’
‘I don’t know… Oh, yes, she came home.’
‘Miss Pebmarsh, you mean?’
‘Yes. Only I didn’t think about her being Miss Pebmarsh then. She just came in with a shopping basket.’ Her tone underlined the shopping basket as something incongruous and irrelevant.
‘And what did you say?’
‘I don’t think I said anything… I tried to, but I couldn’t. I felt all choked up here.’ She indicated her throat.
The inspector nodded.
‘And then—and then—she said: “Who’s there?” and she came round the back of the sofa and I thought—I thought she was going to—to tread on It. And I screamed… And once I began I couldn’t stop screaming, and somehow I got out of the room and through the front door—’
‘Like a bat out of hell,’ the inspector remembered Colin’s description.
Sheila Webb looked at him out of miserable frightened eyes and said rather unexpectedly:
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about. You’ve told your story very well. There’s no need to think about it any more now. Oh, just one point, why were you in that room at all?’
‘Why?’ She looked puzzled.
‘Yes. You’d arrived here, possibly a few minutes early, and you’d pushed the bell, I suppose. But if nobody answered, why did you come in?’
‘Oh that. Because she told me to.’
‘Who told you to?’
‘Miss Pebmarsh did.’
‘But I thought you hadn’t spoken to her at all.’
‘No, I hadn’t. It was Miss Martindale she said it to—that I was to come in and wait in the sitting-room on the right of the hall.’
Hardcastle said: ‘Indeed’ thoughtfully.
Sheila Webb asked timidly:
‘Is—is that all?’
‘I think so. I’d like you to wait here about ten minutes longer, perhaps, in case something arises I might want to ask you about. After that, I’ll send you home in a police car. What about your family—you have a family?’
‘My father and mother are dead. I live with an aunt.’
‘And her name is?’
‘Mrs Lawton.’
The inspector rose and held out his hand.
‘Thank you very much, Miss Webb,’ he said. ‘Try and get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll need it after what you’ve been through.’
She smiled at him timidly as she went through the door into the dining-room.
‘Look after Miss Webb, Colin,’ the inspector said. ‘Now, Miss Pebmarsh, can I trouble you to come in here?’
Hardcastle had half held out a hand to guide Miss Pebmarsh, but she walked resolutely past him, verified a chair against the wall with a touch of her fingertips, drew it out a foot and sat down.
Hardcastle closed the door. Before he could speak, Millicent Pebmarsh said abruptly:
‘Who’s that young man?’
‘His name is Colin Lamb.’
‘So he informed me. But who is he? Why did he come here?’
Hardcastle looked at her in faint surprise.
‘He happened to be walking down the street when Miss Webb rushed out of this house screaming murder. After coming in and satisfying himself as to what had occurred he rang us up, and was asked to come back here and wait.’
‘You spoke to him as Colin.’
‘You are very observant, Miss Pebmarsh—(observant? hardly the word. And yet none other fitted)—Colin Lamb is a friend of mine, though it is some time since I have seen him.’ He added: ‘He’s a marine biologist.’
‘Oh! I see.’
‘Now, Miss Pebmarsh, I shall be glad if you can tell me anything about this rather surprising affair.’
‘Willingly. But there is very little to tell.’
‘You have resided here for some time, I believe?’
‘Since 1950. I am—was—a schoolmistress by profession. When I was told nothing could be done about my failing eyesight and that I should shortly go blind, I applied myself to become a specialist in Braille and various techniques for helping the blind. I have a job here at the Aaronberg Institute for Blind and Handicapped children.’
‘Thank you. Now as to the events of this afternoon. Were you expecting a visitor?’
‘No.’
‘I will read you a description of the dead man to see if it suggests to you anyone in particular. Height five feet nine to ten, age approximately sixty, dark hair going grey, brown eyes, clean shaven, thin face, firm jaw. Well nourished but not fat. Dark grey suit, well-kept hands. Might be a bank clerk, an accountant, a lawyer, or a professional man of some kind. Does that suggest to you anyone that you know?’
Millicent Pebmarsh considered carefully before replying.
‘I can’t say that it does. Of course it’s a very generalized description. It would fit quite a number of people. It might be someone I have seen or met on some occasion, but certainly not anyone I know well.’
‘You have not received any letter lately from anyone proposing to call upon you?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Very good. Now, you rang up the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and asked for the services of a stenographer and—’
She interrupted him.
‘Excuse me. I did nothing of the kind.’
‘You did not ring up the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and ask—’ Hardcastle stared.
‘I don’t have a telephone in the house.’
‘There is a call-box at the end of the street,’ Inspector Hardcastle pointed out.
‘Yes, of course. But I can only assure you, Inspector Hardcastle, that I had no need for a stenographer and did not—repeat not—ring up this Cavendish place with any such request.’
‘You did not ask for Miss Sheila Webb particularly?’
‘I
