Grice’s expression told him that he had not.
“And there is another thing,” said Rollison, vehemently. “The police are no fools, but sometimes they have been fooled. You are being properly and completely diddled. On the evidence of a well-known East End crook who hires-out strong men for any beastly job that offers, of Pomeroy, a renegade solicitor-cum-accountant, and Marcus Shayle, himself detained on a charge of attempted murder, you’re assuming that Barrington-Ley is guilty of all manner of heinous crimes. Why? Only because it fits your own theory.”
“He hasn’t said a word in his own defence.”
“I should think not! David’s a good fellow, he would give you a chance of apologizing nicely and withdrawing the charge before he started to point out how completely you’ve been fooled. Where’s my coat?” He finished tying his tie, put on his coat and went on talking rapidly. “I’m serious. Unless you’re keeping something back, or are taking steps to extradite the Countess, you’ll arrest or detain her at your own risk and against all the opposition I can rake up—be it fair or foul!”
Grice said: “If I’d wanted further evidence against Barrington-Ley, I would have it in your story of the love-letter written to him by the Countess.” He was deliberately brutal.
“Bah.”
“Did you or did you not tell me about that letter?”
“I did. Here, I’ll show it to you.” Rollison tossed the letter to Grice, and waited while he read it through, and there was a curious expression in his eyes as he watched. He seemed almost elated.
Grice handed it back, but said:
“I shall probably need that as evidence.”
“That’s fine,” said Rollison, refusing to take it. “Use it as evidence! Try to get any conviction of any kind on the strength of it. Why, you addlepate, David Barrington-Ley’s name isn’t even mentioned! It was in his possession, or rather found behind his dressing-table, but there isn’t any evidence at all he received it or read it. Why shouldn’t my lady write to her beloved? I tell you that if you arrest or detain her, I’ll move heaven and earth to prove you a complete fool.”
“I shall leave the maid with her,” Grice said, after a long pause, “and I shall have her closely followed if she leaves this flat.”
Rollison raised his hands and beamed. He was almost gay, something had put new life into him.
“Threat withdrawn?”
“You know perfectly well that I can’t take her with me if you’re going to act like that,” said Grice. “I don’t think much of it, Rolly. You’re taking advantage of the fact that I told you what I was going to do.”
Rollison said: “Now be reasonable! I gave you good warning. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself and the police force, and when this affair really breaks you’ll agree that it was a good thing. Er—seriously, now.”
“Well?” said Grice.
“What happened at the nursing home?”
Grice said, grudgingly. “Phyllis Armitage went to see the matron, at the matron’s request, and she found the matron dead.”
“By poisoning?”
“Yes.”
“Is Phyllis under suspicion?”
“No. The poison must have been taken an hour before she arrived. Barrington-Ley is under suspicion. He was there.”
“Poor David!” said Rollison. “Well, old chap, I don’t want you to feel that you’re not welcome, but I’ve a call to make. Stay here if you like, of course, I’ll trust you not to worry the Countess.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Grice.
“To see Phyllis Armitage?”
“Why?”
“Because I think they may have wanted to kill her for more reasons than one,” said Rollison, “and because she may know why, without realizing it.”
“I hope you don’t make a mistake,” Grice said. He followed Rollison out of the room, and they went to the front door. Before Rollison opened it, Grice turned and said with unusual seriousness: “Rolly, did you know the Countess before this started?”
“Great Scott, no!”
“Are you sure?” demanded Grice.
“I am quite sure,” said Rollison. “What makes you doubt it? I had her photograph, but I’ve told you about that.”
“I don’t mean her photograph,” said Grice. “I can’t believe that a woman whom you’ve known for such a short time would affect you like this.”
Rollison said: “Odd, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it myself! And that reminds me, I must tell her that I’m going out.”
He felt not only less on edge but possessed by an almost feverish excitement. Nothing seemed quite normal—except the smile with which the Lady of Lost Memory greeted him when he opened the door. She was sitting by the window, reading; the “maid” was opposite her, sewing.
“Are you better, so soon?” she asked.
“I was never really ill.” said Rollison. “Don’t get up.” He stepped across the room as she stood up, and shifted her chair. “But don’t sit so that you can be seen from the street,” he said. “And remember this—if anyone, any one asks you questions, even your maid, don’t answer. Don’t answer any kind of question put to you by anyone except me.”
“If you insist upon it, I will not,” she said, but she was puzzled and no longer smiling. “What troubles you, Mr. Rollison?”
“Unpleasant people,” said Rollison.
Downstairs, actually in the hall of the building, one of Grice’s men saluted him. In the street were two other men, and to one of them Grice, leaning out of his car, was talking earnestly. Rollison went the other way, soon found a taxi, and within twenty minutes he was walking up the stairs leading to Phyllis Armitage’s flatlet. The painters had finished, and the new paint was already scratched in places.
Phyllis herself answered his knock. She did not look particularly surprised, but asked him in.
“I suppose you’ve seen the police,” she said.
“Yes, and we’re not friends,” said Rollison. “Miss Armitage, I haven’t much time and I must have the answer to a single question before I go.”
“If I know the answer, I’ll tell you,” she promised.
“Think back to the afternoon when you left the nursing home.”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“The matron had tea with the patient, and the poison was administered before tea—that’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, so I was told.”
“You left the room about half-past three.”
“It was a little earlier.”
“Who came into the room before you left? I don’t mean Marcus Shayle, I mean who else on the staff or connected with the nursing home.”
“No one,” said Phyllis, eyeing him steadily.
“Are you quite sure?” demanded Rollison. “I mean, someone who had every right to be there, whose presence you would not perhaps notice specially, who always came about that time, who” He broke off, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Ah, you’ve remembered! Who was it?”
She said slowly: “Dr. Renfrew came in.”
“Did he send you out at all?”
“I had to take a message to the matron, yes.”
“So Renfrew was with her alone,” said Rollison, and there was a great relief in his mind. “That’s splendid! You’re prepared to swear to it?”
“Of course. He came every afternoon about that time, I didn’t really notice it. I am quite sure there was no one else.”
“That’s fine,” declared Rollison. “I think I’ll call that a day. Will you write that statement down and sign it?”
“Of course,” she said, now really puzzled, “but what has Dr. Renfrew to do with it?”
“More than we realize yet,” said Rollison.
He watched her as she wrote swiftly, signed what she had written, blotted it and handed it to him. He tucked the statement into his wallet, and turned to go. She followed him, and said in a low-pitched voice:
“Mr. Rollison, is my sister in serious trouble?”