He was eyeing her curiously. ‘As to that, it’s fair to tell you that your husband says he simply can’t understand it. He has no other answer.’
‘And then those tablets. Six little tablets that were supposed to be Restuwell—but could have been morphine—’
He continued to watch her, silent.
She was calm again now; but she said on a rising note: ‘—and which my husband never administered to that girl.’
He jerked up his head. ‘Didn’t give them to the girl?’
‘Don’t you remember the evidence, Inspector? He put them on the mantelpiece and—then he left the house. I went into another room, to telephone Matron. When I came back there were still six tablets in their little row on the mantelpiece. It was Mr. Graham who actually handed them to the girl and made her swallow them.’ She sat up very straight. ‘Inspector, my husband is in danger; and he’s my husband. Who is to say that those tablets were the same ones he handed to Mr. Graham?’
Inspector Cockrill sat for a moment very still. When he spoke it was equably. ‘You mean that Mr. Graham might have slipped across to the surgery when you were on the telephone, helped himself to morphia tablets, picked up the pen and altered the book—and exchanged the tablets without the girl realising what was happening?’ It was beautifully neat. ‘You’d already worked out the possibility?’
‘One has to think of all sides,’ said the Inspector, tolerantly.
‘Nothing was said as to whether he left the room while I was ’phoning.’
‘But what could be his motive in doing such a thing?’
‘The girl could have destroyed the practice, you know, with all this vicious scandal.’ She saw his deprecatory glance. ‘But of course, Inspector, that was not the motive.’ And she straightened her shoulders, again, clasping her hands on her knee till the knuckles were gleaming knobs of ivory against the dull white flesh. She said again: ‘This is horrible for me: but I must protect my husband. You see, Inspector—Mr. Graham was in love with me.’
That brought him up, startled. ‘In love with you?’
‘I think it had been going on for years,’ she said. ‘He never said anything. I never knew and God knows, Ricky never knew. But last night—well, it started with his just being kind and comforting and then—he just lost his head, I suppose; he put his arms round me, he called me wonderful and marvellous, he raved about my blue eyes, all that sort of thing, you know. I—was utterly taken aback. What my husband would say if he knew…!’
The Inspector was silent again. He said at last: ‘Hardly account for the murder of the girl though, would it?’
Stella grew excited. ‘Do you understand anything about that girl, Inspector? She was vicious; vicious and hysterical and a mischief-maker. She hated me because she fancied herself in love with my husband—she’d have done anything to blacken my name. And she—saw all this, you see. I suppose he thought she was half dopey, anyway, as I say he simply lost his head, he didn’t care whether she was there or not. But then….She could have destroyed us, Inspector; she could have destroyed us all. Bad enough running round saying that she was having a baby by my husband; but if she could add to it that his wife was having an affair with his partner! And all so easy!—people knew about the other thing, but nobody in the world knew about this, he was the very last person to be suspected. And she was so utterly worthless; and after all she wanted to die, she was telling everybody that she wanted to die….’ It was strange how clear her mind was, taking into consideration every point, every twist and turn; and yet how limited—for somewhere in her consciousness she knew that this was not all. Yet what could one do but meet each blow as it came; and before it came….‘This morning when I—I realised you suspected my husband—well, Inspector, there are only three people involved and I knew that my husband was no more guilty than I was. I—well, engineered him out of the room, I knew you’d ask him to show you the poisons book. You see I—well, I wanted to make a test. I spoke to Dr. Graham, I went up close to him, I let him think that what he’d said last night had been—well, not unwelcome to me. He responded at once. He put his arms round me, he called me his angel; and I played up, I said things against my husband, I pretended to believe that he’d deceived me with that girl. I said—I drew back from him and looked into his face, Inspector, and I said that if my husband were convicted of her murder—then he and I would be free. He knew at once; he knew by the look on my face when I said that, that I’d realised the truth—that that was what he had been thinking, that he’d killed the girl himself, knowing Ricky would get the blame. And once again, he lost his head; he pushed me violently aside, knocking his hand against my face—you can see the mark, here—and rushed out of the house. God knows where! To think up his version, I suppose—no doubt I made up to him, no doubt it was I who wanted my husband accused! But you’ll be ready for that now, Inspector. You’ll be ready for anything that comes.’