Midsummer Murder by Cecil M.Wills

Author:Cecil M.Wills
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Galileo Publishing
Published: 2024-05-06T15:31:07+00:00

CHAPTER XII

Selwyn Sneddicombe’s first, and probably natural, impulse was to call at once on Mrs. Prinnett. But there was another matter weighing on his mind; a matter which, almost subconsciously, he had pushed into the background; temporarily buried under the excuse of following the trail of the poison pen. But now it had to be faced. He must fulfil his promise and see Rodney Ashburn. This he was loath to do because, as it seemed to him, either Rodney or his wife must be guilty of the murder of John Archer. Neither supposition promised to promote an easy conversation.

At the police station he learned that Rodney had been formally charged with murder and that, as Sir Derrick had stated, he had been brought before the magistrates that morning and that they, after hearing the police evidence, had remanded him in custody for eight days. Rodney had reserved his defence.

After certain formalities Selwyn, since he was a priest, found himself face to face with Rodney.

At first the latter refused to say anything except to repeat the story he had told to the police.

Selwyn was worried. “Look,” he said persuasively, “I’ve seen Rosalind and she is very upset because you refuse to see her. She also seems to think that you suspect her in some way. This is no time for vague suspicions. If the story you tell is the literal truth then, obviously, you had nothing to do with John’s death. But why do you suspect that Rosalind is concerned in it—for she tells me that you do have some such suspicion. What evidence have you—beyond one of those vile poison letters which I hear you received yesterday?”

Rodney gave a wry smile. “You’re a decent fellow, Selwyn, and I know you’re trying to help; but you don’t know all the facts. It’s true that the starting point of my suspicions came from one of those filthy letters; but that’s by no means all. It’s no secret now, so I may as well tell you that I found her raincoat in the summer house. How could it have got there but through her? Of course I’m going to swear to her story—if necessary—that she lost it some time ago; but who’s going to believe it? You see, I knew John Archer pretty well. He had a devil of a lot of charm when he chose to use it; and he seems to have had a knack of attracting women. I don’t really blame Rosalind. I know I’m a very ordinary sort of fellow—no glamour about me or anything of that sort. And my work meant that I had to leave her alone all day; whereas Archer had a roving commission and could go, more or less, where and when he liked. Oh, I can see how it happened. Little things at first—nothing to take exception to, and then a gradual leading up to serious business. I’ve often wondered why Rosalind ever married me. She could have had anyone, with her looks and charm; and I’ve always felt I wasn’t half good enough for her.

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