Confronted by this violence and with the memory of Cedric fresh in his mind, Alleyn was hard put to it to answer her. Before he could frame a sentence she had recovered something of her composure. ‘That settles it,’ she said woodenly. ‘I’ve kept out of all this, as far as one can keep out of their perpetual scenes and idiotic chattering. I’ve thought all along that they were probably right but I left it to them. I’ve even felt sorry for her. Now I hope she suffers. If I can tell you anything that will help you, I’ll do so. Gladly.’

‘Oh, damn!’ thought Alleyn. ‘Oh, Freud! Oh, hell!’ And he said: ‘There may still be no case, you know. Have you any theory as to the writer of the anonymous letters?’

‘Certainly,’ she said with unexpected alacrity.

‘You have?’

‘They’re written on the paper those children use for their work. She asked me some time ago to re-order it for them when I was in the village. I recognized it at once. Caroline Able wrote the letters.’

And while Alleyn was still digesting this, she added: ‘Or Thomas. They’re very thick. He spent half his time in the school wing.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Psychiatry and a Churchyard

THERE WAS SOMETHING firmly coarse about Milly Ancred. After performances by Pauline, Desdemona and Cedric, this quality was inescapable. It was incorporate in her solid body, her short hands, the dullness of her voice and her choice of phrase. Alleyn wondered if the late Henry Irving Ancred, surfeited with ancestry, fine feeling and sensibility, had chosen his wife for her lack of these qualities—for her normality. Yet was Milly, with her adoration of an impossible son, normal?

‘But there is no norm,’ he thought, ‘in human behaviour; who should know this better than Fox and I?’

He began to ask her routine questions, the set of questions that crop up in every case and of which the investigating officer grows tired. The history of the hot drink was traced again with no amendments, but with clear evidence that Milly had resented her dethronement in favour of Miss Orrincourt. He went on to the medicine. It was a fresh bottle. Dr Withers had suggested an alteration and had left the prescription at the chemist. Miss Orrincourt had picked it up at Mr Juniper’s on the day she collected the children’s medicine, and Milly herself had sent Isabel with it to Sir Henry’s room. He was only to use it in the event of a severe attack, and until that night had not done so.

‘She wouldn’t put it in that,’ said Milly. ‘She wouldn’t be sure of his taking a dose. He hated taking medicine and only used it when he was really very bad. It doesn’t seem to have been much good, anyway. I’ve no faith in Dr Withers.’

‘No?’