"I couldn’t imagine how you came to let him have the run of the place for so long," he confessed. "But, of course, as things were, it was evidently cheaper to keep him, even if he did no useful work. One can’t afford to alienate one’s benefactors."
After a pause, he continued, reverting apparently to an earlier line of thought:
"Let’s see. You made out that something like twelve times the normal dose of hyoscine had been administered?"
Markfield nodded his assent, but qualified it in words:
"That’s a rough figure, remember."
"Of course," Sir Clinton agreed. "As a matter of fact, the multiple I had in my mind was 15. I suppose it’s quite possible that some of the stuff escaped you and that your figure is an under-estimate?"
"Quite likely," Markfield admitted frankly. "I gave you the lowest figure, naturally—a figure I could swear to if it came to the point. As it’s a legal case, it’s safer to be under than over the mark. But quite probably, as you say, I didn’t manage to isolate all the stuff that was really present; and I wouldn’t deny that the quantity in the body may have run up to ten milligrammes or even slightly over it."
"Well, it’s perhaps hardly worth bothering about," the Chief Constable concluded. "The main thing is that even at the lowest estimate she must have swallowed enough of the poison to kill her in a reasonably short time."
With this he seemed satisfied, and after a few questions about the preparation and submission of Markfield’s official report, he took his leave. As he turned away, however, a fresh thought seemed to strike him.
"By the way, Dr. Markfield, do you know if Miss Hailsham’s here this morning?"
"I believe so," Markfield answered. "I saw her as I came in."
"I’d like to have a few words with her," Sir Clinton suggested.
"Officially?" Markfield demanded. "You’re not going to worry the girl, are you? If it’s anything I can tell you about, I’d be only too glad, you know. It’s not very nice for a girl to have the tale going round that she’s been hauled in by the police in a murder case."
The Chief Constable conceded the point without ado.
"Then perhaps you could send for her and we could speak to her in here. It would be more private, and there need be no talk about it outside."
"Very well," Markfield acquiesced at once. "I think that would be better. I’ll send for her now."
He rang a bell and despatched a boy with a message. In a few minutes a tap on the door sounded, and Markfield ushered Norma Hailsham into the room. Inspector Flamborough glanced at her with interest, to see how far his conception of her personality agreed with the reality. She was a girl apparently between twenty and twenty-five, dressed with scrupulous neatness. Quite obviously, she spent money freely on her clothes and knew how to get value for what she spent. But as his eyes travelled up to her face, the Inspector received a more vivid impression. Her features were striking rather than handsome, and Flamborough noted especially the squarish chin and the long thin-lipped flexible mouth.
"H’m!" he commented to himself. "She might flash up in a moment, but with that jaw and those lips she wouldn’t cool down again in a hurry. I was right when I put her down as a vindictive type. Shouldn’t much care to have trouble with her myself."
He glanced at Sir Clinton for tacit instructions, but apparently the Chief Constable proposed to take charge of the interview.
"Would you sit down, Miss Hailsham," Sir Clinton suggested, drawing forward a chair for the girl.
Flamborough noticed with professional interest that by his apparently casual courtesy, the Chief Constable had unobtrusively manœuvred the girl into a position in which her face was clearly illuminated by the light from the window.
"This is Inspector Flamborough," Sir Clinton went on, with a gesture of introduction. "We should like to ask you one or two questions about an awkward case we have in our hands—the Hassendean business. I’m afraid it will be painful for you; but I’m sure you’ll give us what help you can."
Norma Hailsham’s thin lips set in a hard line at his first words, but the movement was apparently involuntary, for she relaxed them again as Sir Clinton finished his remarks.
"I shall be quite glad to give any help I can," she said in a level voice.
Flamborough, studying her expression, noticed a swift shift of her glance from one to the other of the three men before her.
"She’s a bit over-selfconscious," he judged privately. "But she’s the regular look-monger type, anyhow; and quite likely she makes play with her eyes when she’s talking to any man."
Sir Clinton seemed to be making a merit of frankness:
