Having given Rackstraw his ultimatum as it were, Inskipp went for a slow walk and on his return he looked around for Norbury. He might as well know that his—Inskipp's—stay was drawing to a close. He came on him sitting in the hot sunlight against an old wall entering the weights of basket of oranges as they were called after him.
Inskipp told him that he must shortly go home. At the moment he could not give the exact date.
"Any complaints?" Norbury asked.
Inskipp said that he had been extremely comfortable. It was necessity, not choice, that was making him leave.
"I may have to go home very shortly myself, though it is January," said Norbury now. "We might go together. When my wife and I were in Marseilles in November, doing the farm's annual purchases, we heard of a man in London who wanted to act as an agent for Riviera produce. Honey and raisiné especially. I've had his position looked into, and been corresponding with him, and now the deal is ready to go through. The sooner the better, but I won't dose without having seen him."
CHAPTER VI.
SOME OLD NEWSPAPERS FURNISH INTERESTING READING
IT was sometime in the late afternoon that Inskipp drew up his plans more definitely. In reply to another letter of his to Maître François, that gentle man had written that he had now found a client who would make Madame de Pra a loan on her aunt's legacy. It was difficult to say what displeased Inskipp about the note. An absence of precision, perhaps. It looked to him as though Maître François were more concerned about running up a big bill of costs than about securing the loan. That seemed odd in a man of his reputation...The whole letter, however, seemed odd to him, though he could not put his finger on the exact reason for the feeling. He decided that he would stop over at Clermont long enough to interview the mâitre. And he decided also that he would not give him any preliminary warning.
The man's letters hitherto had impressed him very favourably. He wrote very fluent English. If he spoke the language as well as he wrote it, they should soon be able to understand each other. Inskipp only hoped profoundly that the tone he detected in the last letter did not mean that the lawyer was not as certain now about securing a divorce for Mireille as he had seemed before.
Had something unforeseen happened? Had some new law been passed? Or was one about to be passed? The mere possibility weighed on Inskipp profoundly. But he hoped soon to have his mind set at rest. He found that Rackstraw was perfectly willing to leave for England in a week's time, provided they went by train and boat. That arranged, Inskipp went again in search of Norbury.
He found him in one of his barns, with a big stand of pears and a pile of old newspapers. Each pear was to be wrapped afresh before being laid back again on its tray. At the moment Norbury was not working. He was lying on his stomach on a spread-out paper apparently engrossed in reading its contents.
At the sound of Inskipp's steps, Norbury promptly rolled over so as to completely cover the paper. Then he looked up.
"Hard at work, I see," said Inskipp, grinning. "I heard you say that there's nothing like a glass of Castellar to make you feel energetic."
"I said that it made one work like a nigger," corrected Norbury, getting up, "and it does!"
Norbury was putting together some sheets of the many papers scattered around him. Evidently he had been spending some time in reading. He now held one out to Inskipp with the odd words. "You're a discreet chap; do you recognise that woman's face?"
Inskipp did not. He was never a keen observer.
"How about this one—same woman—but I've altered it a little." Norbury passed him another paper, folded so that another portrait of the same face showed. The face had had slanting eyebrows pencilled in by Norbury, and instead of the neat roll of long hair on the back of the neck that showed in the picture, he had drawn straight, shingled hair hanging on each side of the face.
"Why, it's Miss Blythe to the life." Inskipp said with a laugh.
But Norbury did not laugh. He glanced at the little window above them. It was shut.
"Look here, Inskipp, I can rely on that discretion of yours—absolutely?"
"You can. But why?"
"Have a look at the name below the picture." Puzzled, Inskipp opened up the paper. He read aloud:
"'Mrs. Whin-Browning getting into her car.' Mrs. Whin-Browning!" he repeated in a tone of stupefaction.
Then he studied the altered face again.
"It's certainly awfully like Miss Blythe, but I suppose altering a face like that, one might make all sorts of likenesses—"
"I haven't altered it except as Miss Blythe has done," said Norbury meaningly. "I didn't change the eyebrows and darken the hair."
"Good God." came from Inskipp, who was now staring as though hypnotised at the portrait. "You think—it's not possible!—"
"Look at this," said Norbury, pulling out another sheet. It showed a young man in flannels.
"That's Blythe." said Inskipp instantly, "and a jolly good picture of him too." He stopped as he read the words below the snapshot.
"Just so," said Norbury meaningly. "Hector Whin-Browning playing cricket.' He was the younger brother of the one who died. He didn't appear in the case at all, as he was in Paris at the time. Well, I don't think there's much doubt who the two Blythes really are."
Inskipp nodded in silence.
About a year ago, a London barrister named Ambrose Whin-Browning had died from influenza, it was thought. A couple of weeks later his sister, who lived with him and his wife, died also. This time there was an autopsy, which was promptly followed by the exhumation of the brother's body. Both deaths were proved to have been the results of arsenical poisoning.
The case had been an amazing one. It had shaken all England, though it had only progressed as far as the inquest stage, for the coroner, who was also a solicitor, had made the most of his out-of-date powers, and had conducted it as far as possible as a trial of Mrs. Whin-Browning for the murder of her husband and of her sister-in-law.
The third day of the inquest had been a Saturday. In the afternoon, Edna Whin-Browning left her home in Brighton where the two deaths had occurred, and had gone for a swim. She never returned. Her clothes were found close to a very dangerous cave, one with a tremendous out-current, but the police believed that she had made her way abroad.
The inquest had continued on the Monday without her, and had finished on the Wednesday in a verdict of murder against Mrs. Whin-Browning on both counts.
For a month the papers had been filled with portraits of her, accounts of her past life—which proved to be disappointingly blameless—and speculations as to whether she had really been drowned or not; and if so, whether it had been accident or suicide.
There was a silence—on Inskipp's part, of sheer stupefaction as he studied the picture again.
"It certainly is her. Her face is much thinner—she's altered the shape of her eyebrows, and she's cut her hair short. I rather thought she was innocent, only lost her nerve, and fled."
"So did I." came from Norbury. "And I'm still convinced that she is innocent. My belief was, and is, that her companion, the young woman's name was Marsh, I think—was in love with Whin-Browning, that he got tired of her, and that Miss Marsh did for him in revenge. And, because she suspected, or saw, something, the sister had to go too. Evidently the brother thinks his sister-in-law—our Miss