Читать книгу: «The Yellow Holly», страница 21

CHAPTER XXIII
THE TURNING OF THE LANE

The proverb says that "Good luck comes to those who know how to wait." It had certainly come to George Brendon, or, as he was now called, George Vane. Lord Derrington could not make enough of him. After the interview with Bawdsey the young man called at St. Giles Square and related to his grandfather all he had learned. The old man was much astonished.

"I don't think Ireland was to blame," he said, "not even in holding his tongue. After all, the thing was an accident, although undoubtedly that woman was the cause. Have you seen Ireland?"

"Not yet, but I will soon."

"Then tell him from me that I don't consider he was responsible, and that I quite believe from what I know of Mrs. Jersey that he has told the entire truth."

"I will, sir," answered George. "I suppose you mean that if he really committed the crime with malice aforethought Mrs. Jersey would have blackmailed him."

Lord Derrington nodded approvingly. "You are what the Scotch call 'quick in the uptake,' George. That is what I mean. Mrs. Jersey must have been afraid for herself or she would never have kept her claws off Ireland's money. She had plenty of mine," added the old gentleman, grimly. "Bad lot, George!"

"I quite agree with you, sir. Poor Bawdsey was honest, however."

"Well-" Lord Derrington did not assent immediately to this-"if Bawdsey had been really honest he would have asked me to be silent on the matter, and need not have used threats, however unwilling he was to carry them out. No, George, Bawdsey is like the serpent in the bamboo, straight so long as it is kept in check. I suppose he will marry the girl?"

"I think so. He is madly in love with her. I promised that you would give him a thousand pounds if he went to America."

"The deuce you did!" said Derrington, wrathfully.

"Why not, sir?" rejoined Brendon, calmly. "We want him out of our lives. He knows too much. Better send him abroad, so that he may not make any remark about this unpleasant family history."

Lord Derrington winced. George certainly had rather an unpleasant way of putting things. However, the old man silently acknowledged the justice of the speech. "You are right," he said. "But Bawdsey ought to do something for his money."

"You mean that he ought to discover the assassin?"

"Yes, I do. Whosoever killed that woman should be brought to justice, George."

Brendon looked down. "I think it will be best to let sleeping dogs lie, sir," he said significantly.

"Because of some scandal," said Derrington, looking hard at him. "Are you alluding to the possibility of Mrs. Ward having killed her?"

At this supposition George laughed right out. "No, sir. I don't think Mrs. Ward would go so far as that."

"She would, were there no law to restrain her."

"I dare say. She has the instincts of a female despot. But as there is a law she would not jeopardize her neck. No, I mean Ireland."

Derrington sat up. "Nonsense! Do you mean to say he is guilty?"

"I don't think so, but Bawdsey has an idea," and George related the theory of the detective. Derrington grunted in a disgusted manner.

"The man's a born idiot," he said. "Why should Ireland run the risk of getting his neck into a noose for a second crime? If he thought that she would leave a confession behind inculpating him, he would have waited to make certain. I don't believe there is a word of truth in the matter. However, when you see him, you can question him about his doings on that night."

"I shall certainly do that," replied Brendon, quietly, "but failing Ireland (and his guilt is presumed by Bawdsey) there remains Margery."

"That idiot of a girl! Yes?"

George detailed his reasons for believing in Margery's guilt. Again Derrington sniffed. "It's all supposition. If the girl came into the room, if the stiletto were on the table, if Mrs. Jersey scolded her into a fury. Pah! I don't believe it."

"And you really wish to find the assassin?"

"I should like to know, out of mere curiosity. But if it is your opinion that things should be left as they are, why, Bawdsey can take his thousand pounds and sail for America whenever he chooses. But I grudge setting the rascal up in business," added Derrington who was still sore about the way in which he had been threatened.

After this conversation George took his leave. Dorothy was out of town, so he could not visit her. After the interview with Ireland in Derrington's library, Mrs. Ward had found it convenient to go down the country. She felt that she was in an unpleasant position. Not that there was any danger of her being accused of murdering Vane. But if the police got hold of the story they might make inquiries-in fact, they certainly would make inquiries-and then the disagreeable fact would come out that Miss Bull was her sister. Mrs. Ward knew that she had not behaved well to Jenny, and that if the truth were known her friends would blame her.

As Mrs. Ward did not like blame, and disliked to have her actions criticised, she went down the country, saying to Dorothy she desired a change of air. Lord Derrington wrote a note to Mrs. Ward after George had departed.

"I'll ask her to come up," said Derrington, grimly, as he sealed the letter. "George will return in three days with the copy of the marriage certificate and with news of how that case has been disposed of. Mrs. Ward shall apologize to him and formally consent to the marriage. Dorothy shall come also. And Walter" – Derrington rubbed his hands, chuckling. He was rather anxious to see Walter's face when he heard that he was no longer the heir.

Meantime George went with Kowlaski and Bawdsey to Chelmsford to see after Lola. Kowlaski was in despair, as if Lola received a term of imprisonment his ballet would be brought to an untimely end. Now that Lola was out of the bill, the hall was not so full as usual, and Kowlaski foresaw that if Lola did not come back he would lose money. He therefore went down prepared to spend a large sum to set her free.

But there was no need for fear. Lola was brought up before the magistrates, and evidence was given as to her excitable nature. The old sexton produced the torn register and detailed how he had been assaulted. He thought the lady was queer, himself. Kowlaski went into the box, also Bawdsey and George. The result of their evidence as to Lola's foreign ways was that the magistrate admonished her and inflicted a small fine. This was triumphantly paid by Kowlaski, who returned to town with his principal dancer under his jealous eye.

More than that, Kowlaski made quite a story out of the events. It was known in London that Lola Velez had been arrested, as all the London papers copied the account of the trial which had appeared in the country press. Kowlaski put it about that Lola had gone off her head owing to grief for her dying mother. Few people believed this, but the public was so pleased to see the favorite again that she was saluted with cheers. In a few days every one forgot about the matter, which, after all, did not amount to much.

Luckily it was not stated why Lola had wished to destroy the register. There were several marriage entries on the page, and no one could say which of these she wished obliterated. Besides, Brendon got the magistrate to suppress the book, and not let the press report the matter. He accomplished this by telling the magistrate exactly how the matter stood. So the judicial authority used his power, and the fourth estate quailed. Everything was settled in a most satisfactory manner.

Later on Brendon had copies made of the marriage entry of Percy Vane, Bachelor, and Rosina Lockwood, Spinster, and brought them to his grandfather. The old man read them carefully, then laid down the paper with a sigh of relief.

"I never thought I would be pleased to see that in black and white," he said.

"And are you pleased now?"

"Of course I am. You are to revive the glories of the Derrington Vane family. They have faded of late, but you, sir-" He clapped his grandson on the back, and George laughed at the old man's enthusiasm.

"There is one strange thing," he said after a pause. "Seeing that my parents were married so near London I cannot understand how the marriage was not discovered before."

Derrington looked thoughtful also. "It is strange," he admitted, "but you remember the tale of Poe's Purloined Letter. People always look in the most unlikely places first, and because the church was so near to town and nobody had replied to the advertisement, they-the searchers, I mean-must have thought that the marriage took place in some moorland parish where people never looked at the journals. It was the very closeness of Wargrove church to London, George, that prevented the certificate being discovered sooner."

"I suppose you are right," said Brendon, "but it does seem strange."

"Everything in life is strange," said Derrington, "and not the least strange thing is that I kick out Walter to make room for you. By the way, George, he will be here soon."

"Have you told him?"

"Yes, and he wants to see you about the matter. I said that he could in my presence. What he has to say I don't know. There is another reason for your remaining, George. Mrs. Ward and her daughter are coming here."

"She won't be pleased to see me," said Brendon.

"Oh, I think she will. After Ireland put her in a corner she grew afraid, and now she would like to see the matter settled at any price. When she is your mother-in-law, George, keep her out of your house or there will be trouble."

"You must stand sentinel, sir. She won't come near me then."

"Egad, that's true. She is afraid of me. I hold that stiletto, you see, and I know about her doings at San Remo. The minx!" said Derrington with great vigor. "I wonder that her daughter is so charming."

"So good, you mean," said George, fondly, whereat Derrington gave a sigh.

"Oh, love-love, and again-love," said he. "It seems I am going to have a most sentimental time with you two."

"Be at rest, sir. Neither Dorothy nor I am sentimental. We are too serious for that."

"That's worse. I hate serious lovers."

"Then we will be gay," said George, with a laugh.

"Don't overdo it," replied Derrington, with a kindly smile; "be as you are, both of you, and I shall not complain. Ah, here is Walter! Well, my boy, have you come to see your new cousin?"

Walter Vane entered the library with an injured air. He looked neater and more fragile than ever, and wonderfully old, considering his years. Derrington looked from him to the fine figure of George, with a queer look in his eyes. "No one would ever take you for relatives," he said.

"Why, they say we are like one another," said Walter. "Mrs. Ward remarked on the likeness when we dined with her. I wondered why we should resemble one another, but it is explained now," and Walter cast a not unkindly look in his cousin's direction.

Derrington snarled. "George is like me, and you take after your father, Walter, who was a shrimp if ever there was one."

George hastened to the rescue of his cousin. "It seems to me that the conversation is getting somewhat personal," he remarked. "Walter, I hope you bear me no grudge for stepping into your shoes."

Walter took the hand in his own limp grasp. "Well, of course it is hard on a fellow," he answered in a rather whining manner, "but you and I got on well together, so I would rather it was you than another fellow. That Train friend of yours, for instance. He's such a cad!"

"But a very good fellow for all that," said Brendon, dryly.

"Oh, people always say that of a fellow who has nothing to recommend him," retorted Walter; "but as you are to be the head of the family I am glad you are not a bounder."

"That's very kind of you," said George, dryly.

"And very silly of Walter," growled the grandfather. "What do you mean, sir, by talking rubbish? Is it likely that any one of my blood would be what you call a bounder?"

"No," said Walter, pacifying the old man. "I only mean-"

"Never mind what you mean. It's sure to be something foolish. This," said Derrington, pointing with his cane to George, "is the future head of our family. Pay him all respect."

"We'll get on capitally," said George, clapping Walter on the back.

"And what about my income?" asked Walter.

"You will have what you have now," said Derrington; "don't bother me about the matter. You and George can settle it between you."

Considering how he had been ousted, Walter really took things very calmly. But he had not enough vigor to protest. He sighed. His grandfather had cowed him, and Walter profoundly admired his newly found cousin, who did not hesitate to stand up to the despot. He began to think it was a good thing that George had come into the family. He would at least save him-Walter-from constant bullying. This interesting family council was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Ward, as pert and pretty as ever. She had quite recovered her spirits, and knowing that Derrington would say nothing about the card-cheating or about the San Remo matter, she was prepared to be as insolent as she dared. But she was quite determined not to cross swords again with the old man. Like a burnt child she dreaded the fire. Derrington was altogether too much, even for her.

As it was, she came sailing in with the prettiest air in the world, and held out both hands, her head on one side like a sick canary. "My dear Lord Derrington, how well you are looking! How" – here her astonished eyes fell on George. "You!" said Mrs. Ward, aghast. "Mr. Brendon! and here!"

"Not Mr. Brendon," said Derrington enjoying her confusion, "but my grandson, George Vane."

Dorothy, who had remained below to give some instructions to the footman, entered the room just in time to hear this announcement. She flew to her lover. "My dearest George, I am glad, glad, so glad," and before them all she kissed him. Mrs. Ward screamed:

"Dorothy! What manners!"

"Very good manners," said Derrington, coolly, "seeing that they are natural. Well, Mrs. Ward, George-my grandson, and heir," added the old man with emphasis, "has something to say to you."

"Really. I shall be most happy to hear it."

George took his cue. "I have to ask you for the hand of your daughter Dorothy," he said, looking very proud and manly as he stood with the girl's hand within his own.

"Really," said Mrs. Ward again, "I don't know. I fancied that Walter, you see-" And she cast her eyes on the neat little man.

"Oh, I scratch," said Walter, in his elegant way. "There's no fighting against George. He has all the luck."

"You call him George?"

"Why shouldn't I? He's my cousin; the head of the house-"

"When I go to my long home," finished Derrington. "Well, Mrs. Ward, do you consent to the match?"

"Do, mother," said Dorothy, imploringly.

Mrs. Ward sank into a chair and pretended to be overcome by emotion. In fact, she did this merely to gain time, as she did not wish to answer too quickly. It was plain that Walter, whom she had wished Dorothy to marry, took, in her own phraseology, "a back seat." George was promoted vice Walter resigned. George would be Lord Derrington and would have the money. He was an obstinate man, certainly, and would be difficult to manage.

Still, she might be able to get the better of him. She could always work him through Dorothy, if Dorothy would only get over her absurd notions of religion and all that sort of thing. On the whole Mrs. Ward thought it was best to agree. Knowing what Derrington knew, and how obstinate both lovers were, she did not see very well what else she could do. However, she made the most of her compulsory surrender. After a few sighs, and having squeezed a few tears, she cried to her daughter, in a muffled voice, expressive of deep emotion, "Dorothy, my dear child."

Dorothy, with a look at George, went and knelt down by her mother's chair. She was not the dupe of this play-acting, but, knowing that her mother would insist on making an effective scene, wished to get it over as speedily as possible.

Mrs. Ward put her hand on Dorothy's shoulder in a maternal manner. "Do you love George?" she asked.

"Yes," said Dorothy, simply, "you know I love him."

"George, do you love my child?"

"I do," replied George, curtly, while Derrington surveyed this touching scene with a grim smile. He always loved to watch the antics of Mrs. Ward. She believed in them so thoroughly herself, and they deceived no one gifted with ordinary intelligence.

"It is hard," said Mrs. Ward with a deep sigh, "to see a child leave its parent. But you love her, you have won her;" here she rose, and raising Dorothy from her knees gave her to George. "Take her, George, and with her take a mother's blessing."

The idea of Mrs. Ward's blessing was too much for Walter, and he went off into a shriek of laughter, which ended in his leaving the room. George was quite unmoved. He thanked Mrs. Ward and kissed Dorothy. Then he took her to a distant seat near the window, where they could talk sensibly. Lord Derrington was left to console the afflicted mother. This he proceeded to do immediately.

"Egad, you did it well!" he said, looking at the pretty woman. "I don't believe Miss Terry or Mrs. Siddons could have done it better."

Mrs. Ward flushed a little, but still kept up the pose. "Nature spoke, my dear Lord Derrington. I am aware that you consider Nature vulgar."

"I was not aware that I did. I see so little of it, that your scene touched me-positively touched me."

Mrs. Ward saw that it was useless to hide the truth from this keen-eyed old man any longer. "Oh, don't be nasty," she said plaintively, and rustled up to him. "Of course, I wanted Dorothy to marry Walter, but George does just as well."

"I don't think she has made a bad exchange, Mrs. Ward."

"He's good-looking enough," said the little woman, "but so serious and dull. Of course, I suppose you'll allow him an income."

"He shall have all that is necessary to keep up his position as my heir," said Derrington dryly. "I hope he and Dorothy will live here. The house is big enough."

"And they won't have to pay any rent, which is always a consideration, isn't it? Oh, I hope dear Dorothy will be happy. I shall see much of her-much of my darling child."

"No," said Derrington, thinking it just as well to nip these plans in the bud, "you care very little about Dorothy, and you don't like George. When they are married you must stop away as much as is consistent with your feelings."

"I'll do what I like," said Mrs. Ward, beginning to tap her foot.

"No, I don't think you will. You threatened me in this room."

"I was only playing a game," protested Mrs. Ward.

"Well, I can play a game also. Mrs. Jersey has left behind her a confession in which she details how you managed to cheat your sister, Miss Bull. If you don't leave that couple severely alone I shall show the confession to Dorothy."

"You would never be so cruel."

"Oh, yes, I would," replied Derrington, who had not the slightest intention of fulfilling his threat.

"I never did anything to my sister. Mrs. Jersey tells lies-"

Derrington made a gesture of disgust. "There-there," he said, "what is the use of talking further? Things are settled. When Dorothy and George are married I'll see what I can do for you."

Mrs. Ward's face became wreathed with smiles. She was such a frivolous, heartless little woman that she could change from one mood to another with wonderful rapidity. "Oh, thank you, dear Lord Derrington," she said artlessly, and pressing his arm. "I know you are the most generous of men. But I really can't stop talking here all day." She rustled over to Dorothy. "My darling, I must go and do some shopping. No, you can stay here. I will call again in an hour. George," she presented her cheek, "you can kiss your mother-in-law."

George did so, delicately, so as not to spoil the tint of the cheek.

Mrs. Ward departed. "He's like a block of wood," she said to herself; "never did a man kiss me so coldly before. Ugh! The bear!"

CHAPTER XXIV
A STARTLING SURPRISE

Having thus settled matters in a satisfactory manner with Mrs. Ward and Dorothy, George sought out Ireland the next day. He passed a delicious hour with Dorothy, and they renewed the vows they had made when there was little chance of a bright future. Now the future was altogether bright, and the two built castles in the air. George was to marry Dorothy, they were to take up their residence with Lord Derrington, and George was to enter Parliament on the first opportunity.

"But you must not neglect your literary work," said Dorothy; "the novel must be finished."

"I hope that many novels will be finished," said George, laughing. "I will be like Beaconsfield, and write novels between whiles of politics-it will be an amusement."

"Which will be the amusement?" asked Dorothy.

"Both. Politics is an amusing game, and when one has time to write what one pleases, and at the pace one pleases, that is amusing also. You will be my inspiration-my Egeria."

"That is very like Beaconsfield," replied Miss Ward; "he always called some unknown woman his Egeria."

"I am more lucky. I know who my Egeria is."

More talk of this light and fanciful kind passed. It would have sounded foolish to sensible people, but George and his beloved were so happy that they talked nonsense out of sheer lightness of heart. At the end of the hour Mrs. Ward carried off Dorothy, and George took leave of his grandfather.

It was the next day that he went to see Ireland. At the door he was informed that Ireland had been very ill with his heart, and that the doctor had been called in. Nevertheless, Ireland would not obey the advice of his physician and stop in bed. He was up and dressed as usual and in his study.

George entered the large bare room, papered with the gaudy advertisements, and saw his former guardian seated at his desk as usual. The man looked very ill. His large, placid face was extremely pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he even seemed to have grown lean. His clothes hung loosely on him, and he did not rise when George entered. The young man knew that Ireland must be ill to fail in this courtesy, as he was extremely punctilious.

"Excuse me, George," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "but I am not so well as I might be."

"You are looking ill-very ill," said George, taking his seat.

Ireland nodded. "I can't live long," he remarked in his heavy voice. "So the doctor informs me. My heart is extremely weak. I may die at any moment."

George was shocked. "It's not so bad as that, I hope," he said.

"It's as bad as it well can be. For the last few days I have deviated sadly from my usual habits. I have not taken a walk, and my system of life is quite upset. It's the beginning of the end." He paused and sighed. "You are looking well, George."

"I have every reason to. Mrs. Ward has consented to my marriage."

"With her daughter? How is that?"

"Well, the church where my parents were married has been discovered."

Ireland looked interested. "That is good news. Where were they married?"

"In Wargrove Church. It is a parish in Essex, an hour's journey from town. Quite a small place."

Ireland made the same remark that George himself had made. "Strange," he said, "that being so near town the place was not discovered before. I have no doubt that your advertisement set many people hunting. Well, I'm glad that the marriage has been proved at last, both for your sake and in justice to the woman I loved-to her dear memory. She was Rosina Vane after all."

"That has been proved beyond a doubt. My grandfather has seen the copy of the certificate and now holds it."

"Is he pleased?"

"Very pleased. He is now as friendly toward me as he has been hitherto hostile."

Ireland nodded, breathing heavily. "I thought he would be. He and I had a long talk about you on the day I called. That was when I saw Mrs. Ward and-"

"You can go on," said George, seeing his hesitation. "I know the whole story."

"What story?" asked Ireland, suspiciously.

"The story of what happened at San Remo. Mrs. Ward I know was Violet Howard, and her sister Jenny is Miss Bull."

"Yes. Poor Jenny, she was the better of the two, and now she drags out a miserable life in a London lodging-house. While Violet, who is a bad woman-"

"And the mother of Dorothy," interrupted George, imperiously. "Say no more, sir."

"You are quite right. As I can't say good of the woman let me say no bad. Well, you know how she loved your father."

"I think she flirted with him, but it was Jenny who really loved."

"And look at her reward!" said Ireland, with a deep sigh. "Those who try to do their best always come off worst. I loved your mother, George, and I have been a lonely man all my life."

It was a sad case. George wished to get at the truth, but he was so sorry for Ireland, who had passed so many miserable years, that he did not like to inflict more pain. Nevertheless, it was necessary to learn if Ireland had really visited Mrs. Jersey on that night, so as to set Bawdsey's mind at rest. If George did not learn the truth, Bawdsey might attempt the discovery, and he would handle the old man in a much worse manner than George was likely to do. While pondering how he could set about his unpleasant task, George was saved from making the first step, always the most difficult, by an observation from Ireland, which paved the way to an explanation.

"How did you discover the church?" he asked idly.

"In rather a queer way. Lola Velez-"

Ireland opened his eyes, which had been closed, and looked up. "Who is Lola Velez?" he asked anxiously.

"She is a dancer whom I helped-oh, quite in a proper way, Mr. Ireland. You know the name?"

Ireland, contrary to George's expectation, nodded. "There was a woman in San Remo about the time of your father's death. She was called Velez, and was in love with him."

"He seems to have been a fascinating man," said George, smiling, to set Ireland at his ease. "But this Lola is the daughter of the woman you mention. It was she who found the church."

By this time Ireland was quite awake, and keenly anxious for details. "How did she learn its name?" he demanded quickly.

"She found it in the confession of Mrs. Jersey."

Ireland snapped the paper-cutter he was holding, and, leaning back in his chair, looked anxiously at George. "What do you mean?"

"Well," replied the young man, keeping his eyes fixed on Ireland's face, "it seems that Mrs. Jersey left a confession behind her as to what took place at San Remo."

"Who has that confession?"

"I have! I got it from Lola!"

"And how did she manage to obtain it?"

For answer George related how Lola had called to see Mrs. Jersey, and how she had managed to steal the confession. "It was from reading it," finished George, "that she learned of the church in which my parents were married. Desiring that I should marry her, and thinking I would not do as were my birth proved, she went to the church to destroy the registers. She was caught with the torn leaves, and arrested."

"Arrested?"

"Yes. I wonder you did not see the case reported in the papers."

"I have been too ill to read the papers lately," said Ireland, looking round the room in rather a helpless way, "and none of my servants told me. What happened?"

"Oh, Lola was let off with a small fine. She is now back dancing at her music-hall. She gave the confession to me."

"Did any one else see it-the authorities?"

"No. You can set your mind at rest, Mr. Ireland. I got it from Lola before she was taken to prison. No one had seen it but myself and Lord Derrington."

Ireland drew a long breath of relief. "You made a strange remark just now, George," he said, not looking at the young man. "You told me to set my mind at rest. Why did you say that?"

"I have read the confession," said George, quietly.

Mr. Ireland rose from his chair and began to pace the room. He seemed so weak that George wished him to return, but the old man waved his hand impatiently. "It's all right-it's all right," he said, then stopped opposite to George. "Then you know?"

"I know that my father's death was due to an accident."

"What! Did that wretched woman tell the truth?"

"She told the truth."

"And she did not accuse me of having murdered your father?"

"No. She did not. I suppose she thought it was as well to go to her long home with as few sins as possible on her conscience. But she certainly exonerated you."

"Thank God for that," said Ireland, and returned to his seat. Then he looked at his visitor in a piteous manner. "George," he said in faltering tones, "I have suffered greatly on account of that most unhappy accident-"

"I am sure you must have, sir. But don't let it worry you any more. It was an accident, and both Lord Derrington and I heartily forgive you for having been the unconscious cause of my father's death."

Ireland nodded. "Thank God again," he said solemnly. "Your father and I were not very good friends, as I found it difficult to forgive him for having taken from me the woman I loved. But at San Remo we got on better together. I stifled my resentment so that I might see as much of you as possible, George. Knowing that I was not on good terms with Vane, I thought that Mrs. Jersey might have accused me of the crime. She did try to get money out of me."

"So Bawdsey told me."

"Bawdsey. Who is he?"

"I forget you don't know. He is a private-inquiry agent who has been looking after the case on behalf of Lord Derrington. I learn from the confession of Mrs. Jersey that he is her husband."

"George Rates. I remember. She told me she married him and went to America. It was after her return from America that she tried to get money out of me. I refused; not that I did not realize the danger to which she could expose me, but I knew that if I once yielded I would be in her power. Besides, I had a defense, as she got the stiletto from the woman Velez."

"And it was with that same stiletto that Mrs. Jersey was killed."

"By whom?" asked Ireland. "Did her husband-"

"No. We do not know who killed her. Perhaps you may know?"

"I!" Ireland looked genuinely surprised. "No; how should I know?"

"Well," said George, rather awkwardly, "it seems that Bawdsey has got it into his head that you knew about this confession."