The Long Farewell by Michael Innes

tray and a litter of broken china on the floor.
     
    This disaster didn’t take very long to sort out, so that it had to be concluded that Mrs Husbands was a competent woman. And it wasn’t until she had set a fresh and undisturbed tray before Appleby that she spoke. ‘Was it necessary,’ she asked coldly, ‘to stage that crude theatrical effect?’
    ‘You are quite mistaken, madam. I am afraid I had entirely forgotten that you would be coming into the library. Nothing was farther from my thoughts than to distress you in any way. Please accept my apologies.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Husbands received these protestations with the scepticism they conceivably deserved. ‘I am glad it was not one of the servants. I hear nothing from them now but that this or that has given them, as they say, quite a turn. And I admit that you gave that to me. The scene was a little too close to what I came upon last week. No doubt it is what you call a reconstruction of the crime.’
    ‘The crime?’
    ‘Suicide is a crime, I have been told.’
    ‘No doubt. But all that I was in fact attempting to reconstruct was the appearance which that postcard probably bore when you first saw it. And you can guess what I am after, Mrs Husbands. I want to see whether, in one light or another, some gleam or glitter from its surface might suggest wet ink.’
    ‘How very ingenious. But the ink was in simple fact wet.’
    Appleby bowed. ‘I am far from being disposed to question the veracity of your evidence in the matter. It satisfied, as you will remember, a thoroughly capable officer of my own. But in a crisis, you know, one can sometimes form – perfectly sincerely – impressions that are not wholly accurate.’
    ‘No doubt. But the ink was wet.’
    ‘It is not a matter we need pursue farther.’ Appleby was studying the housekeeper with a good deal of attention. She was a surprise. She was a surprise not merely because she was herself so decidedly not ‘one of the servants’ – although it hadn’t in fact been mentioned to him that she was a domestic employee of the genteel variety. She was a surprise because she was rather tremendous – a handsome woman in full maturity.
    Appleby wondered how long she had been at Urchins. He also wondered what the two recently arrived ladies thought of her. To describe her adequately seemed to call for a rather vulgar Edwardian vocabulary; one would think of phrases like ‘charms’ and ‘ample but alluring proportions.’ Yet she wasn’t vulgar herself, and she had a presence which quite knocked comedy – let alone farce – out of the picture. Passion smouldered in the black eyes of this intimidating person. If she put on a turn, it would be as a tragedy queen. She could probably scare a man stiff. In fact, one might find oneself allured by her one week, and bolting precipitately from her across Europe the next. Across Europe… Appleby was aware that it wasn’t utterly at random that this notion had come into his head. It was just conceivable that here in Mrs Husbands was another factor in the supposedly belated emotional education of Lewis Packford.
    ‘Do I understand,’ Mrs Husbands asked, ‘that there are other aspects of Mr Packford’s death on which you wish to question me?’ She spoke very coldly. It was evident that she wouldn’t lightly forgive Appleby for occasioning her loss of nerve a few minutes before.
    ‘A short conversation would certainly be very valuable to me.’ Appleby glanced at the tray. ‘That’s a most delicious cold lunch. But perhaps it can wait a little. Shall we sit down?’
    Mrs Husbands sat down. ‘I see no reason,’ she said without cordiality, ‘why you shouldn’t eat as we talk – if talk we must. It was my impression that the police had satisfied themselves and concluded their inquiries.’
    ‘That would meet with your approval? You feel that nothing more should be done?’
    ‘I feel nothing of the sort. But let the police turn their attention to