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did,” said Kitty ruefully, “not then. She only told me she was going, and I assumed she meant to drive.”
    â€œBut you saw her leave by the side door?”
    â€œYes, but she would have done if she was going to the garage in any case. It wasn’t until Mr. Paul said her car was still in the garage that I realized she must have gone on foot.”
    â€œDid that surprise you?”
    Kitty spread her hands. “I suppose it did, but at that point everything was so topsy-turvy, I don’t expect I would have had much reaction if Mr. Paul had said she’d gone by magic carpet. But it was certainly unusual. Mrs. Berowne likes to walk in the garden, but otherwise she’s not much for exercise. There are whole parts of the grounds that she’s never even seen.”
    â€œYou haven’t said,” said Bethancourt, “if you think she killed him.”
    She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not my place, is it?” she said. “Besides, I really don’t know. I wouldn’t have said any of them could have committed murder. But I’d have been wrong. One of them did.”
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    Mrs. Berowne had shown Carmichael upstairs to a separate sitting room, part of a suite originally meant for honored houseguests. It was a very lived-in room, arranged to be comfortable rather than elegant. The mantelpiece was crowded with framed photographs, and a television stood openly and unashamedly in one corner. Beside it was a radio which was presently playing a selection of classical music.
    Maddie Wellman sat in a chair by the fire, knitting a sweater in deep blue wool. She had a long face, rather horsey, with sharp gray eyes and a long, thin nose. She had curly, iron-gray hair cut short, and a spare, square-shouldered frame.

    She raised an eyebrow when Carmichael introduced himself and said, “Scotland Yard, eh? What’s the matter? That ass Gorringe not have enough courage to arrest her himself?”
    Carmichael was startled. “The investigation isn’t complete yet,” he said neutrally and she snorted, her eyes dropping once again to her knitting. “May I sit down?” he asked.
    She nodded and indicated the other chair drawn up to the fireplace, facing her own. Carmichael settled himself, regarding her with shrewd blue eyes. A no-nonsense sort of person, he decided, with, clearly, a sharp tongue. He fancied he had met her sort before: bluff and honest, and probably a terrible liar. Most noticeable, however, was the fact that she seemed in no way grief-stricken.
    â€œWere you fond of your brother-in-law, Miss Wellman?” Carmichael asked.
    â€œI grew to be,” she answered. “I can’t say I cared much for him in the beginning.”
    â€œWhy was that?”
    â€œNo very good reason,” she replied. “Mostly because he was like the vast majority of men—hugely aware of his own rights and pretty vague about anyone else’s.”
    â€œYou felt he was inconsiderate of your rights?”
    She looked surprised. “Not at all. I don’t suppose I had any, really. None to speak of, anyhow. No, I was thinking of my sister—not that she ever minded. As I said, I didn’t think much of her choice at the start, although I did realize she was the sort of person who needed marriage to be happy.”
    â€œYou never married yourself?” asked Carmichael.
    She shot him a penetrating glance. “I was not more attractive in my youth, Chief Inspector, than I am now. Just less wrinkles, is all. Here.” She rose, setting aside her knitting, and picked out a silverframed photograph from those on the mantel. She handed it to him and resumed her seat.
    It was a black-and-white print showing two girls in their early
twenties. From the style of their summer frocks, Carmichael dated it to just after the war. The taller of the two girls was clearly Maddie Wellman; she was right in saying she had changed very little. Her curly