Speedy Death by Gladys Mitchell

loose-leaf note-book. A tug at a silver chain which she wore around her neck brought into view a little silver pencil. ‘Impossible,’ she repeated, turning away from Carstairs and writing very rapidly on one of the dainty pages. ‘He did not hear poor Mountjoy’s voice, for the simple reason that she must have been dead by that time.’
    ‘But your own perfectly plausible explanation of the matter!’ cried Carstairs, surprised and bewildered.
    ‘Merely given to put young Philipson off the scent,’ smiled Mrs Bradley, as she removed the page from her note-book, carefully folded it, and handed it to Carstairs. ‘When you began asking that question, I thought the fat was in the fire. You see, whatever happens, the guilty person must never know that anybody suspects anything. It would be fatal. And when I say fatal, I mean it. If my deductions are correct—and, as they are based on pure psychology, I do not suppose they will turn out to be at fault—we have to deal with a person who values life so little that she will stick at nothing——’
    ‘She?’ cried Carstairs in amazement. ‘But surely this was not a woman’s crime?’
    ‘I think so. No, I will not deceive you, my friend. I am sure of it.’
    ‘But the climb from balcony to window——’
    ‘Not at all difficult. Young Philipson has done it; I could do it if I were an inch longer in the leg. You could do it; so could the two girls, who areboth a couple to three inches taller than I am; the maids, with the exception of cook, who suffers with rheumatism, and Mary Peters, who is a trifle shorter than I am, could all have managed it.’
    ‘Yes, but the amount of nerve required,’ Carstairs began.
    ‘We are thinking about a murderer, remember,’ Mrs Bradley reminded him. ‘I imagine that a person with nerve enough to commit a murder has nerve enough to climb from a balcony in order to do it.’
    ‘Not always, I fancy,’ Carstairs demurred. ‘But allowing that your assumption is correct, how do you think the actual murder was committed? I have my own theory, of course,’ he added, ‘but I can’t quite see the murderer as a woman, now that I am convinced you yourself are not——’ He laughed and left the sentence unfinished. ‘I’m certain now that it was a man’s crime,’ he concluded lamely.
    ‘Well, I may be mistaken,’ Mrs Bradley admitted. ‘But I don’t think I am. Look here. Who knew that Mountjoy was a woman?’
    ‘Before her death?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why—no one.’
    ‘Are you sure no one knew?’
    Carstairs shrugged his shoulders.
    ‘I don’t want to think it out,’ he confessed, smiling wryly at Mrs Bradley’s triumphantly grinning face. ‘But now, supposing it
was
a woman, how exactly did she commit the murder?’
    ‘Quite simply. To begin with, I’ll say this: I don’tbelieve she intended to murder Mountjoy when she climbed in at the bathroom window, although I do believe she regarded him—her with deadly hatred.’
    ‘Hated Mountjoy? But Mountjoy was the most inoffensive person I have ever met,’ cried Carstairs. ‘I am sure you are following a false trail.’
    ‘Am I?’ Mrs Bradley smiled her saurian smile. ‘I don’t think I am. Surely you can put your finger on the person in the house who hated Mountjoy with the intense, bitter and never-ending hatred of one whose finest feelings, whose noblest emotions had been played with, mocked at, scorned, derided, lacerated?’
    Mrs Bradley’s voice rose high with excitement until it reached the last word. Then she drew a deep breath, and gazed expectantly at Carstairs. She chuckled ghoulishly as a great light suddenly dawned in his expression.
    ‘Good God!’ he almost whispered, in his intense interest and excitement. ‘Of course! I see the point, now, of all that you hinted before. Do you know, that had never occurred to me for one single instant until you hinted at it before. And I don’t believe it ever would,’ he added honestly, ‘if it had not been