Colonel Weston said sharply:
“Well?”
Gladys Narracott said slowly:
“I did think sometimes that Mrs. Marshall was frightened of her husband knowing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It wasn’t anything definite, sir. It was only I felt—that sometimes she was—afraid of him. He was a very quiet gentleman but he wasn’t—he wasn’t easy.”
Weston said:
“But you’ve nothing definite to go on? Nothing either of them ever said to each other.”
Slowly Gladys Narracott shook her head.
Weston sighed. He went on.
“Now, as to letters received by Mrs. Marshall this morning. Can you tell us anything about those?”
“There were about six or seven, sir. I couldn’t say exactly.”
“Did you take them up to her?”
“Yes, sir. I got them from the office as usual and put them on her breakfast tray.”
“Do you remember anything about the look of them?”
The girl shook her head.
“They were just ordinary-looking letters. Some of them were bills and circulars, I think, because they were torn up on the tray.”
“What happened to them?”
“They went into the dustbin, sir. One of the police gentlemen is going through that now.”
Weston nodded.
“And the contents of the wastepaper baskets, where are they?”
“They’ll be in the dustbin too.”
Weston said: “H’m—well, I think that is all at present.” He looked inquiringly at Poirot.
Poirot leaned forward.
“When you did Miss Linda Marshall’s room this morning, did you do the fireplace?”
“There wasn’t anything to do, sir. There had been no fire lit.”
“And there was nothing in the fireplace itself?”
“No sir, it was perfectly all right.”
“What time did you do her room?”
“About a quarter past nine, sir, when she’d gone down to breakfast.”