She was a spiteful-looking creature, Mrs Bradley thought. Men had been egged on and nagged on to commit murder by such women. Referring to the question of the ‘rights’ she asked:

‘Are they likely to be contested?’

‘They’d better not be! That fine brother-in-law of mine would like to see me slip up, but he won’t have the pleasure, thank you! However, I wouldn’t put much past him! I’ve had the place broken into twice already since I’ve been here. I’ve got proofs, you know, of who I am, besides my marriage lines, and you might as well be a witness just in case of accidents. If I show you, will you stand by me if anything gets stolen? You seem respectable, even if you can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business.’

‘I am here on my own business,’ said Mrs Bradley mildly. ‘Today a man was deliberately shot at, not so far from here. I want to know whether you saw anybody carrying a gun.’

‘Shot at? What goes on in this place, for goodness’ sake? My poor old hubby found dead in the snow, a poor old girl poisoned, and now a shooting match! Thank God I’ve never had to live in the country! I like a bit of peace and quiet, not these sort of wild goings-on!’

She laughed nervously. Then she pulled open the table drawer, jerking angrily at it when it stuck half-way. Her hands were trembling.

‘See here,’ she said. ‘Here’s my lines and here’s my proofs. What have you got to say to that?’

‘Nothing,’ Mrs Bradley replied, picking up the marriage certificate, ‘except how interested I am.’

The husband had been Mr Clarence Fullalove, she noticed. The date was 1922. She handed back the documents.

‘Strange you married so young,’ she said.

‘As for anybody with a gun,’ said the woman, ‘I met a tall, black-haired fellow who passed the time of day, and was potting at every bird and rabbit he saw.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘That scarcely sounds an accurate description to me.’ She raised her voice. ‘Worry! Worry!’ she called. A yelp, not very far distant, answered her.

The woman ran over and shut the window, and then turned to face Mrs Bradley. But Mrs Bradley put her aside and wrenched open the kitchen door. She called the dog’s name again. There was no doubt about the answer.

‘Where is the key? I am going to let him out,’ said Mrs Bradley composedly. The woman swore at her.

CHAPTER 16

The History of Worry

‘Follow on pitie, flee trouble and debate.’

William Dunbar

‘But whatever made you think of her?’ asked Jonathan, when the ecstatic Worry had been restored to Will North.