Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes
in a huge copper tray on a tripod and placed it beside Iris. It contained a dainty tea equippage, a plate of cakes, a large dish of sandwiches, another of fruit, and a jug of golden cream.
When she had departed, Iris brought up a small table. Wilton noticed with satisfaction that it was not one of the gimcrack ones, usually associated with women's rooms, but stood firmly on straight wooden legs.
"No, no! sit still! I know how tired you used to get in the old days at Dr. Bastow's," she said, giving him a little push back when he moved to help her.
"Two lumps of sugar and plenty of cream, isn't it? I have brought tea often enough to you in the surgery, you know."
"You have, haven't you?" Wilton assented. "Not that we got much cream, did we?"
"No." Miss Houlton drew her lips in.
She did not speak again until she had given Wilton his tea, and put the sandwiches beside him; then she said slowly:
"No, Hilary Bastow wasn't much of a house-keeper, was she? But that will not matter. Sir Felix Skrine has plenty of money for housekeepers."
There was dead silence for a minute. Wilton was stirring his tea. He went on stirring it, though every drop of blood in his body seemed to have flown to his face, in reality, his brown skin was not a degree deeper in colour, and when he spoke his voice was perfectly steady.
"You mean—?"
"That Lady Skrine will not need to be a good housekeeper. Isn't it obvious?" Iris finished with a laugh.
Wilton drew his dark brows together. Iris Houlton was saying this purposely; she was quick-witted enough. She must have known how matters stood between Hilary and himself.
"Why do you say that?" he asked quietly. "I am sure you must know that I am engaged to Miss Bastow."
Iris glanced at him in a curious, sidelong fashion. Then she gave a little laugh that somehow did not sound natural.
"No, indeed! I did suspect a little tendresse at one time. But when I went to say good-bye to Hilary, I found Sir Felix Skrine there, and I quite gathered—"
"You gathered what?"
Iris laughed again. She got up and moved the tea-things in an aimless way.
"Oh, well, of course, now that you tell me that things are definitely settled, I realize that I must have been mistaken in thinking I saw—"
"What did you think you saw?" Wilton's tone denoted that his patience was becoming exhausted.
"Oh, nothing, nothing!" Iris said hurriedly. "Didn't I tell you that I must be mistaken? Sir Felix is Hilary's godfather, isn't he? I expect many girls are very fond of their godfathers, don't you?"
"I don't know. I have had no experience of the relationship," Wilton said curtly.
In his heart, he was inclined to resent the use of his fiancée's Christian name. He finished his tea and set the cup on the table. Then he went over and stood beside Miss Houlton.
"Of course you did not see anything, that is understood. But what did you think you saw?"
"Oh, really, I don't know." The tea-cups rattled as she moved them. "Really I can't tell you anything while you stand over me like that, Mr. Wilton. You might be Sir Felix Skrine himself. Do sit down and have some more tea or I shall not talk to you at all."
"I have only a few minutes to spare," Wilton said, glancing at his watch. "I've just remembered that I have an appointment."
Iris's little teeth bit sharply into her underlip.
"Well, sit down for just those two or three minutes. And now that we are comfortable again I will tell you that I didn't really see anything. I just thought I heard rather a suspicious sound—a sort of rustling you know, and—and something else," with a faint smile. "And when I did get in, they were standing a long way apart, and I always think myself—well, that that looks rather suspicious, don't you?" with a demure glance at him from beneath her lowered eyes. "But, really, I don't suppose it meant anything. It couldn't, of course, if she's engaged to you. I expect Sir Felix was just being—er—godfatherly."
"Probably!"
Wilton's tone was final and non-committal. Already he was regretting having entered into any sort of discussion of Hilary with Iris Houlton.
"Have you heard of this latest development in the Bastow Murder Case?" he asked abruptly. Miss Houlton had just taken up the tea-pot. Her fingers grew suddenly rigid as she clasped the handle.
"No, I haven't heard anything. I hate thinking about murders."
"One can hardly help thinking about a murder when the victim is some one you have known," Wilton rejoined.
Iris Houlton tossed her head. On her cheeks the rouge showed rose-red, but her voice was firm.
"I wasn't so very fond of Dr. Bastow. He was a cross old thing. I didn't think you liked him either. I heard you both talking pretty loudly in the consulting-room the day he was murdered. It sounded to me as if you were quarrelling."
"Well, we were not," Wilton said repressively.
"Well, folks can only talk about what they know," returned Iris, some of her London polish dropping off and a tiny trace of what sounded like a Midland accent peeping out. "But what was this development you were talking about?"
"It is in all the midday papers."
"Never read them," Iris interrupted, "unless I mean to put a bit on a horse, and want to spot the winner."
Wilton ignored the remark. "A pistol has been found among some bushes in Rufford Square. It is supposed to be the one with which Dr. Bastow was shot."
"Rufford Square!" Iris repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, he might go back through Rufford Square, though it's a bit out of the way."
"What do you mean?" questioned Wilton, staring at her.
Iris looked back at him. He could not help noticing that the pupils of her eyes were curiously dilated until they looked almost black, and the darkened eyebrows and eyelashes were obviously artificially tinted as they contrasted with the skin, rapidly whitening, despite the liberal covering of paint and powder.
"Why, Sanford Morris, of course!" she returned, and her voice had a hard and defiant sound. "Who else could it be?"
"Heaps of people," Wilton returned. "Personally I don't think for one moment that Sanford Morris shot Dr. Bastow. What motive could he have had?"
"What motive could anyone have had?" Iris countered.
Wilton shrugged his shoulders. "I can't imagine. A more objectless crime I cannot conceive."
"I don't think so, in the case of Sanford Morris," Iris dissented. "There is no doubt that he and Dr. Bastow had been doing research work together, and Dr. Bastow had made the discovery that they had both been so anxious about, and made it alone. I expect Dr. Morris was awfully angry and disappointed. Probably they quarrelled and he shot Dr. Bastow in a fit of temper and made off with the box which contained the papers relating to the discovery."
"Yes, very ingenious!" Wilton returned thoughtfully. "But if there is one thing more certain than another it is that Dr. Bastow was not shot in a quarrel. His assassin stole up behind him, and shot him while the doctor didn't know he was there probably. That rather knocks the bottom out of your theory, doesn't it?"
"I don't believe a man could have got in without the doctor hearing him," Miss Houlton said obstinately. "And, if Dr. Morris was not the murderer, why did he shave off his beard?"
"You heard what he said at the inquest?"
"Oh, yes—that nobody wore beards nowadays," Iris said scornfully. "Seems funny he should have discovered it just then."
"You must remember that the finding of that paper with the words on it was not known until the inquest," Wilton reminded her.
"If the chap did it himself, he knew