‘And straight away Miss Clark set to and did in actual fact finish the bowl. So, you see, that knocked our case against the husband to pieces. Asked for an explanation of the words on the blotting book Jones gave one readily enough. The letter, he explained, was in answer to one written from his brother in Australia who had applied to him for money. He had written, pointing out that he was entirely dependent on his wife. When his wife was dead he would have control of money and would assist his brother if possible. He regretted his inability to help but pointed out that there were hundreds and thousands of people in the world in the same unfortunate plight.’

‘And so the case fell to pieces?’ said Dr Pender.

‘And so the case fell to pieces,’ said Sir Henry gravely. ‘We could not take the risk of arresting Jones with nothing to go upon.’

There was a silence and then Joyce said, ‘And that is all, is it?’

‘That is the case as it has stood for the last year. The true solution is now in the hands of Scotland Yard, and in two or three days’ time you will probably read of it in the newspapers.’

‘The true solution,’ said Joyce thoughtfully. ‘I wonder. Let’s all think for five minutes and then speak.’

Raymond West nodded and noted the time on his watch. When the five minutes were up he looked over at Dr Pender.

‘Will you speak first?’ he said.

The old man shook his head. ‘I confess,’ he said, ‘that I am utterly baffled. I can but think that the husband in some way must be the guilty party, but how he did it I cannot imagine. I can only suggest that he must have given her the poison in some way that has not yet been discovered, although how in that case it should have come to light after all this time I cannot imagine.’

‘Joyce?’

‘The companion!’ said Joyce decidedly. ‘The companion every time! How do we know what motive she may have had? Just because she was old and stout and ugly it doesn’t follow that she wasn’t in love with Jones herself. She may have hated the wife for some other reason. Think of being a companion—always having to be pleasant and agree and stifle yourself and bottle yourself up. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer and then she killed her. She probably put the arsenic in the bowl of cornflour and all that story about eating it herself is a lie.’

‘Mr Petherick?’

The lawyer joined the tips of his fingers together professionally. ‘I should hardly like to say. On the facts I should hardly like to say.’

‘But you have got to, Mr Petherick,’ said Joyce. ‘You can’t reserve judgement and say “without prejudice”, and be legal. You have got to play the game.’

‘On the facts,’ said Mr Petherick, ‘there seems nothing to be said. It is my private opinion, having seen, alas, too many cases of this kind, that the husband was guilty. The only explanation that will cover the facts seems to be that Miss Clark for some reason or other deliberately sheltered him. There may have been some financial arrangement made between them. He might realize that he would be suspected, and she, seeing only a future of poverty before her, may have agreed to tell the story of drinking the cornflour in return for a substantial sum to be paid to her privately. If that was the case it was of course most irregular. Most irregular indeed.’