“Stop there and wait for her to die? I don’t think she’d do that. I don’t think any nice-natured woman would like that suggestion.”

“If it’s a matter of saving her life—”

“Come now, Craddock, it isn’t quite so easy to bump someone off as you seem to think.”

“Isn’t it, sir?”

“Well—in one way—it’s easy enough I agree. Plenty of methods. Weed-killer. A bash on the head when she’s out shutting up the poultry, a pot shot from behind a hedge. All quite simple. But to bump someone off and not be suspected of bumping them off—that’s not quite so easy. And they must realize by now that they’re all under observation. The original carefully planned scheme failed. Our unknown murderer has got to think up something else.”

“I know that, sir. But there’s the time element to consider. Mrs. Goedler’s a dying woman—she might pop off any minute. That means that our murderer can’t afford to wait.”

“True.”

“And another thing, sir. He—or she—must know that we’re checking up on everybody.”

“And that takes time,” said Rydesdale with a sigh. “It means checking with the East, with India. Yes, it’s a long tedious business.”

“So that’s another reason for—hurry. I’m sure, sir, that the danger is very real. It’s a very large sum that’s at stake. If Belle Goedler dies—”

He broke off as a constable entered.

“Constable Legg on the line from Chipping Cleghorn, sir.”

“Put him through here.”

Inspector Craddock, watching the Chief Constable, saw his features harden and stiffen.

“Very good,” barked Rydesdale. “Detective-Inspector Craddock will be coming out immediately.”

He put the receiver down.

“Is it—?” Craddock broke off.

Rydesdale shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It’s Dora Bunner. She wanted some aspirin. Apparently she took some from a bottle beside Letitia Blacklock’s bed. There were only a few tablets left in the bottle. She took two and left one. The doctor’s got that one and is sending it to be analysed. He says it’s definitely not aspirin.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes, found dead in her bed this morning. Died in her sleep, doctor says. He doesn’t think it was natural though her health was in a bad state. Narcotic poisoning, that’s his guess. Autopsy’s fixed for tonight.”

“Aspirin tablets by Letitia Blacklock’s bed. The clever clever devil. Patrick told me Miss Blacklock threw away a half bottle of sherry—opened a new one. I don’t suppose she’d have thought of doing that with an open bottle of aspirin. Who had been in the house this time—within the last day or two? The tablets can’t have been there long.”

Rydesdale looked at him.