“What do you want?” she said shortly.
“I’m lookin’ fer Miss Constance Brown.”
“Well, you’ve found her. Now, what are youselling?”
“I’m with the police. I’m not sellin’anythin’.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I need to ask you a few questions about thedeath of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”
The blue eyes blazed. “That tramp. Goodriddance to her.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Cobbsaid, shocked.
“I had nothing to do with her, dead oralive.”
“May I come in?”
“It’ll have to be to my rooms. I only renthere. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb thelandlady.”
Cobb followed her quietly down a dingy hallwith a threadbare carpet, at the end of which she opened and doorand ushered Cobb into a cramped sitting-room.
“Have a seat,” she said, sitting herself downin a plush chair. “I can’t offer you tea as I’m only allowed to usethe kitchen at mealtimes.”
“That’s all right. I’ll just be a minute ortwo.”
Constance waited patiently for Cobb to begin,her hands folded in her lap, her blue eyes staring him down. Sheseemed to Cobb to be a very self-possessed and determinedwoman.
“I understand you were once engaged to Mr.Horace Macy.”
Constance flushed at the name. “I was.Once.”
“And the engagement was broken off?”
“Summarily – by Mr. Macy,” she said with atrace of bitterness still in her voice.
“You expected to marry soon?”
“The banns had been read twice.”
“You must’ve been upset?”
“Of course I was. I had no inkling he’d goneand fallen for that tramp.”
“He fell in love with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, thewidow?”
“Fell in love with her money. He was in lovewith me. But as you can see, I’m not rich by any means, nor is myfamily in London. I teach school and earn my bread.”
“And Mr. Macy needed money fer hisbusiness?”
“He was an inept chemist, but at one time alovable man. But what has all this to do with the death of thewoman? I heard that acid was thrown in her face and that you havethe culprit in jail.”
“We’re just tyin’ up some loose ends,” Cobbsaid blandly.
“Well, I wasn’t anywhere near Rosewood thatnight.”
“Oh. Where were you?”
Constance eyed him closely and said in a firmvoice, “I was here in my sitting-room all evening, doingschoolwork.”
“All by yerself?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Yer landlady didn’t come in and seeyou?”
“No. I was here alone. But I was here.”
“As you say.”
“You don’t think it was me who threw acid atthat Jezebel?”
“No . . . no.”
“I hated her with a passion, but not enoughto harm her. I’m not a violent person. And I blame him more thanher.”
“And I believe you, ma’am. Thanks fer yerhelp.”
Cobb made his way out to the street. He wasnot convinced that Constance Brown was not capable of murder.
***
This time Cobb went around to the back door ofRosewood. He didn’t want to confront Diggs, the butler, if he couldhelp it. It was lunch time, and Cobb expected to find the servantsin the kitchen. So when a maid, not Vera, answered his knock, heintroduced himself and asked to see the cook. The maid led himstraight into the kitchen. There in the spacious, rectangular,low-ceilinged room he found Vera, the cook, a scullery maid and afootman – seated around a large table and sipping at their soup.There was no sign of the young pregnant maid he had seen on hisfirst visit.
“Good afternoon,” he said, savouring thearoma of the chicken soup. “I’m Cobb, a detective, and I’ve come toask you people about anythin’ you might’ve seen on the night of thetragic incident.”
“Will you join us in a bowl of soup,Detective,” said the cook, a jovial woman who obviously enjoyed herown handiwork.
“I shouldn’t, but I will,” said Cobb, andseated himself in the empty chair proffered by the footman. Thescullery maid placed a bowl of soup before him. It was piping hot.He took a spoon and ladled a mouthful.
“Delicious,” he said.
“We would like to help you out, sir,” thecook said, “because we’d all like to make sure the culprit hangs.But I don’t think we’ve anythin’ to tell you that’s useful.”
“I was wonderin’ if any of you were lookin’out a window when the incident happened?”
The cook looked around. “It was just afterthe evenin’ meal, when most of us are quite busy. Lizzie, myscullery, was here helpin’ me with the clean-up, and Agnes wasrunnin’ up and down the stairs with dishes, and Amos was stokin’the fire with fresh wood from the woodshed.”
“And you know where I was,” Vera said.“In the hall helpin’ my lady with her coat and things.”
“I see. That accounts fer everybody,” Cobbsaid.
The cook paused, glanced at Agnes, and said,“Except Mr. Diggs. But he was in his office. He always does thebills after supper.”
“So no-one was peekin’ out a window – at thefront or the east side of the house?”
Heads shook around the table.
Cobb tried one more tack. “Does anyone knowof any reason why anyone would want to hurt yer mistress?”
The question took the servants aback. No-onesaid anything, but there was a great deal of head shaking.
“Unless you think that . . .that – ” Lizziesaid in a small voice.
“That what?” Cobb said, putting down his soupspoon.
“Come on, Lizzie,” the cook said. “Finish yersentence.”
“I’m thinkin’ of Mr. Perkins.”
“Who’s Mr. Perkins?” Cobb asked.
“He was Mr. Diggs’ assistant, John Perkins -until last week when the missus dismissed him.”
“I see,” Cobb said. “And was he upset withthe mistress?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said. “I heard him say – inthis very room – that he would get even with her if it was the lastthing he ever did.”
“I hope you’re sure about that,” the cooksaid sternly.
“I heard it clear as day,” Lizzie said. “Hiswife’s expectin’ a child and the missus refused to give him anyreferences, so he’ll have trouble findin’ another job. He was very,very angry.”
“Thank you, Lizzie. You’ve been a great help.Now where can I find the angry Mr. Perkins?”
The cook gave him the address.
Cobb – his soup finished and his questionsexhausted – got up, thanked everybody, and let himself out the backdoor. He had just reached Front Street when he remembered that thepregnant maid he had seen on his first visit had not been presentin the kitchen.
“The world to end on September 30! Read allabout it!”
Cobb looked to his left, the source of thestentorian voice.
“Marvellous new pamphlet by the ReverendBolton Dawes! Yours fer only a penny!”
The shout was coming from a scrawny old manwith fearsome eyebrows and a long, beardless chin. He was dressedin rags.
“Buy a pamphlet, sir?” the old fellow said toCobb in a lowered voice.
“You the Reverend Dawes?”
The old man chortled, then licked the spitoff his lips. “Good God, no. I only peddle this trash fer a fewpennies. I’m Sammy Slade.”
“I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?” Cobbsaid.
“Off and on. I come here regular, but I getaround most of the town.”
“Were you here by any chance three nightsago? About seven or seven-thirty?”
Sammy Slade put his chin on top of thepamphlets he was holding. “As a matter of fact, I was. I rememberbecause I was standin’ at the corner down there and I heard thechurch bells chime seven times.”
Cobb held his breath as he asked, “Did yousee anyone standin’ here in front of Rosewood – this house?”
“I saw two people.”
“And where were they?”
“I saw a man and a lady standin’ on thatporch there.”
“What did the man look like?”
Sammy thought for a second, and said, “Oh, hewas a gentleman all right. Well dressed. Top hat. Tallish. And Ithink he had a moustache.”
This was a clear description of LionelTrueman. Cobb’s pulse raced.