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and smoked his cigarette in that cheerful, ugly room, under the anxious eyes of little Mrs. Wheatley, Cadogan felt a slight dislike for his presence. But no purpose would be served by brutally telling his hostess of the facts of the case, even if he had really known what they were.
    “She travelled—travels—a lot, then?” he asked in the tautologous fashion of modern conversation.
    “Oh, yes, sir. Small places mostly, in France and Belgium and Germany. Sometimes she only stops a day or so, sometimes months on end, according to how she likes it. Why, it must be three years if it’s a day since she was last in England.”
    “A rather unsettled sort of existence, I should have thought. Has she no relatives? She did strike me as being rather a lonely sort of person, I must say.”
    “I think there was only an aunt, sir… Let me give you another drop of tea in your cup. There… And she died some time ago. A Miss Snaith she was, very rich and eccentric, and lived on Boar’s Hill, and had a liking for comic poems. But as to Emilia, she enjoys travelling, you know; it suits her. She’s got a little bit of money of her own, and what she doesnt spend on the children, she spends on seeing new places and people.”
    “The children?”
    “Devoted to children, she is. Gives money to hospitals and homes for them. And a very nice thing to do, I say. But if I may ask, sir, how was she looking when you saw her?”
    “Not too well, I thought. I didn’t really see much of her. We were thrown together for a couple of days in a hotel—the only English people there, you know, so naturally we chatted a bit.” (Cadogan was appalled at his fluency. But didn’t Mencken say somewhere that poetry is only accomplished lying?)
    “Ah,” said Mrs. Wheatley. “I expect you found her deafness a trouble.”
    “Eh? Oh yes, it was rather. I’d almost forgotten.” Cadogan wondered about the mentality of the person who would go up behind an old, deaf woman, strike her on the head, and choke her with a thin cord. “But I’m sorry to hear you’ve had no word from her.”
    “Well, sir, it may mean she’s on her way home from somewhere. She’s a great one for surprising you—just turning up on your doorstep without a word of warning. And she always stays with me when she’s in England, though goodness knows she’d be quite lost in Oxford, as I only moved here two years ago, and I know for a fact she’s never been here—” Mrs. Wheatley paused for breath. “But I got that worried I went and asked Mr. Rosseter—”
    “Mr. Rosseter?”
    “That’s Miss Snaith’s solicitor. I thought Emilia being a near relative he might have heard something from her when the old lady died. But he didn’t know anything.” Mrs. Wheatley sighed. “Still, we mustn’t cross bridges before we come to them, must we, sir? I’ve no doubt everything’s all right really. Another drop of tea?”
    “No, really, thank you, Mrs. Wheatley.” Cadogan rose, to an accompaniment of loud creaking, from his wicker chair. “I should be going now. You’ve been most hospitable and kind.”
    “Not at all, sir. If Emilia should arrive, who should I say called?”
    Fen was in an atrabilious mood.
    “You’ve been the devil of a time,” he grumbled as Lily Christine III got under way again.
    “But it was worth it,” Cadogan answered. He gave a résumé of what he had learned, which lasted almost until they were back at St. Christopher’s.
    “Um,” said Fen thoughtfully. “That is something, I agree. At the same time, I don’t quite see what we’re going to do about it. It’s very difficult trying to deal with a murder at second hand, and no corpus delicti. There must have been quite a substantial van knocking about when you were unconscious. I wonder if anyone in the neighbourhood saw or heard anything of it?”
    “Yes, I see what you mean: to cart toys and furniture and groceries about. But you’re quite right, you know: the problem is—why change