of established fact. Rumour had had it that Marge Myles had killed her husband; rumour now would have it about all sorts of terrible implications concerning Endicott, who was dead, and a girl who was confined in an insane asylum. And neither, obviously, could give direct testimony in accusation or defense.
“What was Mr. Endicott’s story?” he said.
“That he had driven her to Macy’s, where she wanted to buy something, and had left her there.”
And why not? Undoubtedly Endicott had been the blackest sort of a sheep, but the case was valueless without a thousand illuminative lights, without a whole medical history of the girl’s family, for example.
“Did you know this girl fairly well, Mrs. Siddons?”
“Yes. It is my habit to know all of the girls in my charge here very well. It is my duty, as I see it, to act not only as a housekeeper, but as their religious mentor and guide.”
“Then in the case of this girl, had she ever previously shown any symptoms of being mentally unbalanced?”
“There were times when I thought so, yes. Her family, you see, was not free from the taint. Her grandmother, on her mother’s side, had been insane. That is what made Mr. Endicott’s actions so peculiarly detestable, sir. She might have continued to live a normal, useful, happy life had he not shocked her so fatally.”
And on the other hand, Lieutenant Valcour decided, Endicott need not necessarily have done anything remotely of the sort. With such a direct strain of insanity inherent in her blood no outside agency whatever might have been needed to awaken it into activity. And then, he reminded himself, the girl had been shopping. He often wondered why more women didn’t go mad while shopping.