“Seeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as though you have a right to know.”
“Just what I feel myself,” I said.
“Well, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?”
“ Mrs. Lestrange,” I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.
The inspector threw me a reproachful glance.
“Not so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady I’ve got as eye on. You remember what I told you—blackmail.”
“Hardly a reason for murder. Wouldn’t it be a case of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true, which I don’t for a minute admit.”
The inspector winked at me in a common manner.
“Ah! She’s the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look here, sir. Suppose she’s successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here and tries it on again. But , in the meantime, things have changed. The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmail—names are not allowed to be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says he’ll have the law on her. She’s in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence for blackmail. The boot’s on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick.”
I was silent. I had to admit that the case the inspector had built up was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissable—the personality of Mrs. Lestrange.