"He's her only living relative, I understand?"
Tangye nodded once more. "Supposing him to be alive. He hasn't given a sign of life for ten years or more."
Pointer was looking out of the window.
"There's no way down to the river from the house, is there?"
"Oh, Lord, no! None needed. River at the bottom of the garden, always means garden at the bottom of the river," Tangye spoke with feeling.
"But you fish?"
"Dace or roach, which?" scoffed their host.
"Oh, come now, sir," Pointer eyed the expensive double outfit on a side wall. Split cane, and spliced salmon rods hung to one side of trout rods, and a couple of serviceable hickories such as he himself used. Tangye's gaze followed his.
"Oh, those! I do a bit now and then, when away. But my wife could land a salmon with the best of them on the Tay."
Pointer continued to stroll around the room in a negligent way. Then he glanced at Haviland, who rose thankfully. "Can we look over your bedroom, sir?"
Tangye said by all means, and chatted on to Wilmot.
Pointer found that, unlike Tangye with the river, Haviland had not overstated the case in his notes. Mrs. Tangye had cleared out practically everything in the way of clothes but those in which she had been found dead.
"She hadn't packed anything for herself," Haviland pointed out, "didn't even have her dressing-case taken down off the wardrobe. The fact was, she'd finished with clothes. That's what I think."
He watched Pointer draw aside a strip of tapestry which hung between the beds. Behind it was a safe. Haviland talked on.
"Tangye's a cool chap! His wife's not buried yet, but here he is chatting away about Mayflies as lightly as though he were one himself. In fact, to listen to him, you'd think, now the inquest is over, that he hadn't a care in the world!"
"No." Pointer said reflectively, looking along the door of the safe. "No. I wouldn't make that mistake. Tangye has at least one care left. And that is to direct as much as possible of his conversation to Wilmot, less to you, and as little as possible to me. But he's not a cold-blooded man. I take it he's been very highly keyed-up, and the let-down is coming along a bit fast for his nerves. Just send a puff of finger-print powder over this door, will you. You have your bag with you."
The yellow powder discovered no marks, not even on the handle-knob. Pointer and Haviland tried the other metal objects in the room. All showed the usual signs of handling. "That's funny, for a fact." Haviland peered through a glass at the immaculate surface of the safe door. Pointer sniffed at the hinges.
"Been recently cleaned with ether. Unlike the handles of the little knife and fork in the morning-room, which were clean, but not cleaned."
Pointer led the way downstairs, and asked for a room in which the claims investigator could put a few questions to the household—or have them asked—ostensibly for his benefit.
Regina Saunders, who had just returned, was the first called. She came in so quietly that Wilmot did not hear her. He looked at her attentively as she seated herself. Yesterday he had barely known that she existed.
Walking up to the house just now, he had wondered whether the explanation of the discrepancies in her statements which had puzzled Pointer was going to turn out one of those sordid, triangular affairs called usual, because they are the exception. She did not look like a charmer. But you never could tell. Never. At a first glance she seemed to consist chiefly of negatives. She was not old. Neither did she suggest youth. Without being pretty, she was not bad-looking. Apparently she had no marked characteristics of any kind, unless it were those of the perfect background. She seemed a type of "Ye Discrete Companioun." Silent. Dark. Attentive.
Gazing at her intently, Wilmot put her age, correctly, as close on forty. For the first time focussing his mind on her as she sat composedly facing Haviland,—Pointer was casually glancing through the morning paper,—noting her down-dropped lids, her pale, tight lips, Wilmot felt as though he were standing in front of a house with drawn blinds and closed doors, behind which were wild doings.
It was one of his intuitive, telepathic impressions which, so far, had never let him down.
"I should like to run through the facts of yesterday again, with you," Haviland explained, "for the benefit of Mr. Wilmot who is looking into Mrs. Tangye's death. He has asked the Chief Inspector and me to put a few more questions." She said nothing.
"How long have you been with Mrs. Tangye?"
"Three years." The little dark eyes looked up for a second. Something in the glance told Wilmot that the time had seemed long to this woman; very long.
"And before that?"
"I was mother's help to a Mrs. Wren. She will be quite willing to answer any questions. I was with her five years, and left of my own choice."
"May I ask why Mrs. Tangye wanted a companion originally?" Pointer asked.
"Chiefly for music. She had a good voice also, she was extremely fond of duets."
"Were you ever a nurse?" the Chief Inspector continued. She looked surprised. "Never."
"Was Mrs. Wren's husband a doctor? Was your father anything connected with medicine?"
She was obviously puzzled. "Mr. Wren was a vicar. My father was an organist. I've never had anything whatever to do with nursing, or medicine, or illness, or anything of that sort. Why do you ask?"
"Only part of our regular routine," Pointer said reassuringly. He rose and, followed by Haviland, stepped out through the French windows to look over the garden. They had agreed that Wilmot should be left alone with her to do some of the questioning.
"Now, between ourselves, Miss Saunders, what sort of a woman was Mrs. Tangye?" Wilmot spoke confidentially. It was a tone that had helped him more than once. It was wasted on Miss Saunders.
"Do you think there's much difference in women?" she asked indifferently. "Much real difference?"
"The Colonel's lady, and Judy O'Grady," he quoted with a smile.
"Quite so. Though there's no case of Judy here," she spoke sharply. "Mrs. Tangye is dead, poor soul. Dead." She repeated the word, lingering on it. To Wilmot's acute ear there was something approaching unction in her voice. "I, for one, would rather say nothing against her."
And with that she gave a most illuminating character sketch of her late employer. Envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness were in every sentence. According to her, Mrs. Tangye had been a selfish virago.
"Yet you stuck it here for three years," Wilmot said thought fully.
"The pay was good."
Pointer and the Superintendent returned from their inspection of the garden.
"All seems in order. Now, Miss Saunders, about Mrs. Tangye's last days—"
But when it came to Monday, Regina Saunders was of no help. Once a month she had that day off in addition to her free Sundays. As she had explained at the inquest, this last Moriday had been her own, and been spent away from Riverview.
"And when did you decide to leave here?" Pointer asked. "You could hardly expect me to stop on after Mrs. Tangye's death," she said coldly.
"It's a censorious world," Pointer agreed, "still—you left—when?"
"About seven, I think."
"I see. Now, as we explained to you, this gentleman," Pointer turned to Wilmot, "is investigating the death on behalf of the Insurance Society, and we want to give him all the aid we can. Would you object to occupying your old room again for a few days? It would be a help to be able to turn to you at any time."
"I am here all day. I am staying on to superintend the household for a little while—at Mr. Tangye's request. But I prefer to go home to my sister's at night."
"But