“You’re terribly acute.” Mrs. Mead beamed over her clicking needles. “Mrs. Healy is the kindest creature. Of course, she’s always been fond of Oliver Maminot. It’s a shame that Letley should go out of the family, but really what else was there to do? And this will almost put Oliver on his legs again.”
“I see. Yes,” Reggie murmured. “Object of party, to exhibit Letley Hall in splendour to prospective purchaser: also to introduce him to leaders of county society. The purchaser bein’ the man Burchard, what? Mrs. Healy was bein’ kind to Maminot - or to Burchard. However. Where do the Bracys come in?”
Mrs. Mead bent to her needles and gave them a confidential smile. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised” - she spoke in soft, slow jerks - “if Ann Bracy was asked to Letley to see if she would like the place.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. And the prospect of bein’ Mrs. Burchard of Letley Hall,” Reggie mumbled.
Mrs. Fortune’s agreeable nose wrinkled. Mrs. Fortune gave a little sound of displeasure.
“What?” Reggie murmured. “Showin’ her the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, as it were.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t.” Mrs. Mead was shocked. “She’s such a sweet girl. And it’s not like that at all. I believe it was as good as settled before. Only Mrs. Healy wanted to help things. Nice women do like matchmaking, don’t they, dear?” She turned to Mrs. Fortune.
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Fortune said.
“Yes. As you say,” Reggie murmured. “Such a sweet girl. Is Burchard a sweet man?”
“Oh, of course he isn’t quite - - ” said Mrs. Mead. “But I’m sure he’s a good fellow. And devoted to her. It will do very well.” She put down her knitting and leaned forward to Reggie. “Now, my dear, you know you weren’t really interested in these people. What did you think of the Letley mystery?”
Reggie curled up closer in his chair and looked into the fire, where, between the glowing logs, a blue flame flickered. “The blushin’ bride,” he mumbled. “Allurin’ picture. Beautiful woman.”
“She is charming, isn’t she? “Mrs. Mead said eagerly. “And she looks so happy and well.”
“Happy? “Reggie asked. “I don’t know. Looks quite well.”
“Yes indeed. You wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with her heart.”
“Painter didn’t see any symptoms. No.”
“What do you think she died of?”
Reggie stared into the fire. “I should say she died of gas poisoning,” he drawled.
“Gas!” Mrs. Mead cried. “But it was in 1800 - 1805, or something like that. There wasn’t any gas then.”
“Not laid on. No. However. Gas existed. Carbon monoxide was in the world before the gasworks. Blushing is a characteristic symptom of poisoning by carbon monoxide: which can be produced in quantity by a simple charcoal fire.”
“But there’s no fireplace in the room,” Mrs. Mead protested.
“I did notice it,” Reggie moaned. He turned slowly and gazed at her without expression. “As a consequence there is no chimney. And so she might have had a charcoal brazier.”
“Like a movable electric fire or something,” Mrs. Mead cried. “My dear! I shouldn’t wonder. I’m sure that’s it. How clever you are.” She dilated on that theme, and Reggie’s eyes closed.
When his wife and he went up to dress for dinner, “Reggie,” said she, ” did you believe all that?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Provisionally. Only hypothesis accountin’ for the available evidence. She was gassed - by accident or otherwise. Don’t worry.”
“I didn’t mean about the bride,” said Mrs. Fortune. ‘ About Ann Bracy and this man Burchard.”
“Marriage has been arranged? I don’t know. I should say that is our Mr. Burchard’s purpose. No visible repugnance to him by the beautiful Ann. However. I’m not an expert in girls. What did you think, Joan?”
“I think he’s a horrible man,” said Mrs. Fortune “with quiet intensity. “And she’s just a child. She doesn’t know.”
They were to leave Mrs. Mead’s house next day. The morning, therefore, found Reggie in a state of dreamy benignity, enhanced when, as he smoked his after - breakfast pipe, Mrs. Mead was called away from conversation with them to the telephone.
“My dears!” She came back in a flurry. “There has been an awful thing at Letley.” She paused for appropriate exclamations of horror and curiosity.
“Well, well,” Reggie murmured. “Who is the casualty?”
