“Oh, you’re not that,” said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.
“Here we are,” continued Mrs. Oliver, “three private individuals—all women. Let us see what we can do by putting our heads together.”
Anne Meredith nodded thoughtfully. Then she said:
“Why do you think Dr. Roberts did it?”
“He’s that sort of man,” replied Mrs. Oliver promptly.
“Don’t you think, though—” Anne hesitated. “Wouldn’t a doctor—? I mean something like poison would be so much easier for him.”
“Not at all. Poison—drugs of any kind would point straight to a doctor. Look how they are always leaving cases of dangerous drugs in cars all over London and getting them stolen. No, just because he was a doctor he’d take special care not to use anything of a medical kind.”
“I see,” said Anne doubtfully.
Then she said:
“But why do you think he wanted to kill Mr. Shaitana? Have you any idea?”
“Idea? I’ve got any amount of ideas. In fact, that’s just the difficulty. It always is my difficulty. I can never think of even one plot at a time. I always think of at least five, and it’s agony to decide between them. I can think of six beautiful reasons for the murder. The trouble is I’ve no earthly means of knowing which is right. To begin with, perhaps Shaitana was a moneylender. He had a very oily look. Roberts was in his clutches, and killed him because he couldn’t get the money to repay the loan. Or perhaps Shaitana ruined his daughter or his sister. Or perhaps Roberts is a bigamist, and Shaitana knew it. Or possibly Roberts married Shaitana’s second cousin, and will inherit all Shaitana’s money through her. Or—How many have I got to?”
“Four,” said Rhoda.
“Or—and this is a really good one—suppose Shaitana knew some secret in Roberts’ past. Perhaps you didn’t notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something rather peculiar at dinner—just before a rather queer pause.”
Anne stooped to tickle a caterpillar. She said, “I don’t think I remember.”
“What did he say?” asked Rhoda.
“Something about—what was it?—an accident and poison. Don’t you remember?”
Anne’s left hand tightened on the basketwork of her chair.
“I do remember something of the kind,” she said composedly.
Rhoda said suddenly, “Darling, you ought to have a coat. It’s not summer, remember. Go and get one.”
Anne shook her head.
“I’m quite warm.”
But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke.
“You see my theory,” went on Mrs. Oliver. “I daresay one of the doctor’s patients poisoned himself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctor’s own doing. I daresay he’s murdered lots of people that way.”
A sudden colour came into Anne’s cheeks. She said, “Do doctors usually want to murder their patients wholesale? Wouldn’t it have rather a regrettable effect on their practice?”
“There would be a reason, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver vaguely.
“I think the idea is absurd,” said Anne crisply. “Absolutely absurdly melodramatic.”
“Oh, Anne!” cried Rhoda in an agony of apology. She looked at Mrs. Oliver. Her eyes, rather like those of an intelligent spaniel, seemed to be trying to say something. “Try and understand. Try and understand,” those eyes said.
“I think it’s a splendid idea, Mrs. Oliver,” Rhoda said earnestly. “And a doctor could get hold of something quite untraceable, couldn’t he?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Anne.
The other two turned to look at her.