Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie

she might have wanted to arouse the interest of Mr. Colin McNabb.”
    “That's a bit far-fetched, isn't it?”
    “But it did arouse his interest.”
    “Yes, of course it did. Old Colin's absolutely dead keen on any kind of psychological abnormality.”
    “Well, then. If Celia Austin knew that...”
    Len shook his head.
    “You're wrong there. She wouldn't have been capable of thinking a thing like that out. Of planning it, I mean. She hadn't got the knowledge.”
    “You've got the knowledge, though, haven't you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean that, out of a purely kindly intention, you might have suggested something of the kind to her.”
    Len gave a short laugh.
    “Think I'd do some damfool thing like that? You're crazy.”
    The Inspector shifted round.
    “Do you think that Celia Austin spilled the ink over Elizabeth Johnston's papers or do you think someone else did it?”
    “Someone else. Celia said she didn't do that and I believe her. Celia never got riled by Bess; not like some other people did.”
    “Who got riled by her - and why?”
    “She ticked people off, you know.” Len thought about it for a moment or two. “Anyone who made a rash statement. She'd look across the table and she'd say, in that precise way of hers, ”I'm afraid that is not borne out by the facts. It has been well established by statistics that - Something of that kind. Well, it was riling, you know, specially to people who like making rash statements, like Nigel Chapman for instance."
    “Ah yes. Nigel Chapman.”
    “And it was green ink, too.”
    “So you think it was Nigel who did it?”
    “Well, it's possible, at least. He's a spiteful sort of cove, you know, and I think he might have a bit of racial feeling. About the only one of us who has.”
    “Can you think of anybody else who Miss Johnston annoyed with her exactitude and her habit of correction?”
    “Well, Colin McNabb wasn't too pleased, now and again, and she got Jean Tomlinson's goat once or twice.”
    Sharpe asked a few more desultory questions but Len Bateson had nothing useful to add. Next Sharpe saw Valèrie Hobhouse.
    Valèrie was cool, elegant and wary. She displayed much less nervousness than either of the men had done. She had been fond of Celia, she said.
    Celia was not particularly bright and it was rather pathetic the way she had set her heart on Colin McNabb.
    “Do you think she was a kleptomaniac, Miss Hobhouse?”
    “Well, I suppose so. I don't really know much about the subject.”
    “Do you think anyone had put her up to doing what she did?”
    Valèrie shrugged her shoulders.
    “You mean in order to attract that pompous ass Colin?”
    “You're very quick on the point, Miss Hobhouse. Yes, that's what I mean. You didn't suggest it to her yourself, I suppose?”
    Valèrie looked amused.
    “Well, hardly, my dear man, considering that a particular favourite scarf of mine was cut to ribbons. I'm not so altruistic as that.”
    “Do you think anybody else suggested it to her?”
    “I should hardly think so. I should say it was just natural on her part.”
    “What do you mean by natural?”
    “Well, I first had a suspicion that it was Celia when all the fuss happened about Sally's shoe. Celia was jealous of Sally. Sally Finch, I'm talking about. She's far and away the most attractive girl here and Colin paid her a fair amount of attention. So on the night of this party Sally's shoe disappears and she has to go in an old black dress and black shoes. There was Celia looking as smug as a cat that's swallowed cream about it. Mind you, I didn't suspect her of all these petty thievings of bracelets and compacts.”
    “Who did you think was responsible for those?”
    Valèrie shrugged her shoulders.
    “Oh, I don't know. One of the cleaning women, I thought.”
    “And the slashed rucksack?”
    “Was there a slashed rucksack? I'd forgotten. That seems very pointless.”
    “You've been here a good long time, haven't you, Miss Hobhouse?”
    “Well,