“Oh dear, me, no… The person who writes anonymous letters practically always sends them to herself as well. That’s part of the—well, the excitement, I suppose. No, no, the fact interested me for quite another reason. It was really, you see, Mr. Symmington’s one weakness. He couldn’t bring himself to write a foul letter to the girl he loved. It’s a very interesting sidelight on human nature—and a credit to him, in a way—but it’s where he gave himself away.”

Joanna said:

“And he killed Agnes? But surely that was quite unnecessary?”

“Perhaps it was, but what you don’t realize, my dear (not having killed anyone), is that your judgment is distorted afterwards and everything seems exaggerated. No doubt he heard the girl telephoning to Partridge, saying she’d been worried ever since Mrs. Symmington’s death, that there was something she didn’t understand. He can’t take any chances—this stupid, foolish girl has seen something, knows something.”

“Yet apparently he was at his office all that afternoon?”

“I should imagine he killed her before he went. Miss Holland was in the dining room and kitchen. He just went out into the hall, opened and shut the front door as though he had gone out, then slipped into the little cloakroom. When only Agnes was left in the house, he probably rang the front door bell, slipped back into the cloakroom, came out behind her and hit her on the head as she was opening the front door, and then after thrusting the body into the cupboard, he hurried along to his office, arriving just a little late if anyone had happened to notice it, but they probably didn’t. You see, no one was suspecting a man.”

“Abominable brute,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

“You’re not sorry for him, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?” I inquired.

“Not in the least. Why?”

“I’m glad to hear it, that’s all.”

Joanna said:

“But why Aimée Griffith? I know that the police have found the pestle taken from Owen’s dispensary—and the skewer too. I suppose it’s not so easy for a man to return things to kitchen drawers. And guess where they were? Superintendent Nash only told me just now when I met him on my way here. In one of those musty old deed-boxes in his office. Estate of Sir Jasper Harrington-West, deceased.”

“Poor Jasper,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “He was a cousin of mine. Such a correct old boy. He would have had a fit!”

“Wasn’t it madness to keep them?” I asked.

“Probably madder to throw them away,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “No one had any suspicions about Symmington.”