Rehearsals for Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

whether Miss Capell stuck to those instructions?”
    A definite nod was his answer.
    â€œYou’re sure?” he said.
    â€œShe was almost comic about it,” said Eve. “She’d stand waiting in front of a clock for the last five minutes of the three hours to go.”
    â€œIn that case,” said Vanner, “it becomes a matter of some importance when she was last seen to use it. Perhaps you can tell me.”
    Eve asked abruptly: “It was the Breathynne then that killed her?”
    â€œNot the Breathynne, but whatever was in the bottle that usually contained Breathynne.”
    â€œI see. Well, I know I saw her use it. I’ve a sort of picture in my mind of her sitting there and squirting the stuff up her nose. It was in the afternoon sometime, out in the garden. I should guess it was about four o’clock. But you’d better ask someone else, Inspector.”
    â€œYou’re sure you can’t remember just when——?”
    â€œNo,” she said sharply, “if you want accurate information ask someone else.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs Clare. Now I want you to take a look at this letter which Miss Capell appears to have been in the middle of writing to you when she met her death. I want you to tell me——”
    But at that moment there occurred an interruption.
    It was an interruption that upset the whole of Vanner’s relations with the case, helped to increase the dominant strain of brooding in his temperament, and unsettled him nervously for a considerable period.
    The actual interruption was the opening of the door. What the opening of the door revealed was a man. He was a tall man with dark hair and a narrow, dark face, a high-bridged nose and darkly dramatic, deep-set eyes. Had it been New Year’s Eve instead of sometime in the region of midsummer he would doubtless, as a dark stranger, have been regarded as a bringer of luck. Inspector Vanner did not regard him as a bringer of luck. He regarded him as one of the worst things that could have happened to him.
    Behind the tall, dark man there were three others. One was a flustered constable. One was a short man with a pink, plump face. The third was a man of about forty-three, well built, well dressed and with that look of having had his personality smoothly rounded off in a lathe that often comes to successful men of business. It was the third man whom Eve Clare, with startled eyes but a voice that was lightly artificial, greeted: “Good heavens, Roger!”
    The man came forward. He spoke to Vanner. “I am Roger Clare.”
    But Vanner scarcely paid attention to him.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he said to the dark-haired man in the doorway. He said it with a wooden slowness that revealed what might have been a lifelong storing up of antagonism.
    Toby Dyke said: “Where’s the parcel, George?”
    George held out a roughly constructed brown paper parcel tied with string. Toby Dyke stepped forward and put it down on the table in front of Vanner.
    â€œActually,” he said, “George and I—this is George, Vanner, old man—George and I came down to return this to Miss Capell. She left it behind last night. And now we’ve just heard this terrible news.”
    Vanner was wrenching at the string. “What’s this?”
    The parcel came asunder. Inside was a knitted cardigan. A frowsy purple in colour, it had an odour as if it had generally been worn in an atmosphere of frying onions.
    â€œIs this Miss Capell’s?”
    â€œI believe so,” said Toby.
    â€œI’m sure it isn’t,” said Eve Clare.
    â€œWell, she left it behind last night,” said Toby.
    â€œWhere?” said Vanner. “Where did you see her last night?”
    â€œBut it’s much too big,” said Eve. “It can’t be hers. Call Druna. She’d know. I’m certain it isn’t hers, Inspector. Who is this man?”
    The inspector