I’ve got the sheath of the knife at home,” she said in sudden triumph. “There’s your proof for you.”
“I’m afraid that’s no good either,” Barker said, with a very good imitation of regret. “Any one could have the sheath of the knife. You’ll have to give us a reason for killing Sorrell before we’ll even begin to believe you.”
“Well,” she said sullenly after a long silence, “if you must ’ave it, I killed ’im because ’e was going to shoot my Rosie.”
“Who is Rosie?”
“My daughter.”
“Why should he shoot your daughter?”
“Because she wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of ’im.”
“Does your daughter live with you?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you’ll let me have her address.”
“No; you can’t have ’er address. She’s gone abroad.”
“But if she has gone abroad, how could Sorrell be able to harm her?”
“She hadn’t gone abroad when I killed Bert Sorrell.”
“Then—” began Barker. But Grant interrupted him.
“Mrs. Wallis,” he said slowly, “is Ray Marcable your daughter?”
The woman was on her feet with a swiftness amazing in a person of her bulk. Her tight mouth was suddenly slack, and inarticulate sounds came from her throat.
“Sit down,” said Grant gently, and pushed her back into her chair—“sit down and tell us all about it. Take your time.”
“ ’Ow did you know?” she asked, when she had recovered herself. “ ’Ow could you know?”
Grant ignored the question. “What made you think that Sorrell intended harm to your daughter?”
“Because I met ’im one day in the street. I ’adn’t seen ’im for years, and I said something about Rosie going to America. And ’e said, ‘So am I.’ And I didn’t like that, because I knew ’e was a nuisance to Rosie. And then ’e smiled kind of queer at me and said, ‘At least, it isn’t certain. Either we’re both going or neither of us is going.’ An’ I said, ‘What do you mean? Rosie’s going for sure. She’s got a contract and she can’t break it.’ And he said, ‘She has a previous contract with me. Do you think she’ll keep to that too?’ And I said not to be foolish. Boy-and-girl affairs were best forgotten, I said. And ’e just smiled again, that horrid queer way, and said, ‘Well, wherever she’s goin’, we’re goin’ together.’ And ’e went away.”
“When was that?” Grant asked.
“It was three weeks today—the Friday before I killed ’im.”
The day after Sorrell had received the little parcel at Mrs. Everett’s. “All right. Go on.”
“Well, I went ’ome and thought about it. I kept seeing ’is face. It had a bad grey kind of look in spite of its bein’ so pleasant and all that. And I began to be sure that he meant to do Rosie in.”
“Had your daughter been engaged to him?”
“Well, ’e said so. It was a boy-and-girl affair. They’d known each other ever since they were kids. Of course, Rosie wouldn’t dream of marrying ’im now.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Well, I thought the only place ’e would be able to see ’er would be the theatre. You see, I went round specially to tell Rosie about it—I didn’t see ’er very often—but she didn’t seem to worry. She just said, ‘Oh, Bert always talked through his hat anyway, and anyhow I don’t see him any more.’ She ’ad such a lot of other things to think of, she wasn’t worried. But I was, I tell you. I went that night and stood on the opposite side of the street, watching the people coming to the queues. But ’e didn’t come. And I went to the matinée on Saturday and again in the evening, but ’e didn’t come. And again on Monday night, and on Tuesday afternoon. And then on Tuesday night I saw ’im come alone, and I went and stood behind ’im in the queue at the pit door. After a while I saw a bulge in ’is right-’and coat pocket, and I felt it and it was hard. I was sure then that it was a revolver and that he was going to do Rosie in. So I just waited till the queue moved tight, like I said, and stuck the knife in ’im. He didn’t make a sound. You’d think he didn’t know anything had happened. And then I shoved in front, like I told you.”
“Was Sorrell alone?”
“Yes.”
“Who was standing alongside him?”
“For a while there was a dark young gentleman, very good-looking. And then another man came to talk to Bert, and pushed the young gentleman back next me.”
“And who was behind you?”
“The lady and gentleman who gave evidence at the inquest.”
“How is Rosie Markham your daughter?”
“Well, you see, my ’usband was a sailor—that’s ’ow I got the knife from Spain—brought me lots of things, ’e did. But when Rosie was little, ’e got drowned; and ’is sister, who was very well married to Markham, offered to take ’er and bring ’er up as their own, ’cause they had no kids. So I let ’er go. And they brought ’er up proper, I’ll say that for them. A real lady, my Rosie is. I went out charring for years, but since Rosie got money she bought what they call an annuity for me, and I live on that mostly now.”
“How did your daughter know Sorrell?”
“The aunt that brought Bert up used to live next door to the Markhams, and Bert and Rosie went to the same school. They were very friendly then, of course. Then the aunt died when Bert was at the War.”
“But it was after the War that they got engaged, surely?”
“They weren’t what you would call engaged. They just had a notion for each other. Rosie was on tour in The Green Sunshade then, and they used to see each other when she was in town or near it.”
“But Sorrell considered himself engaged?”
“Perhaps. Lots of men would like to be engaged to Rosie. As if Rosie would think of the likes of him!”
“But they kept up some kind of acquaintance?”
“Oh, yes, she let ’im come to see ’er at ’er flat sometimes, but she wouldn’t go out with him, or anything like that. And she didn’t ’ave ’im very often. I don’t think she ’ad the heart to send him away for good, you see. She was letting ’im down gently, I think. But I’m not sure about all that, you know. I didn’t go to see Rosie often myself. Not that she wasn’t nice to me, but it wasn’t fair on ’er. She didn’t want a common old woman like me round, and ’er hobnobbin’ with lords and things.”
“Why
