“The murder of Dr. Dodd,” Reggie drawled. “What time did you get to Miss Rook’s house last night?”
Lindsay meditated. “I can’t be precise. I was an orphan of the storm. It was pouring before I arrived. Probably about eleven.”
“You live in Chelsea, don’t you? Same like Florian. How did you go to Bloomsbury?”
“Underground. The only rational way to go about London.”
“Very convenient, yes,” Reggie murmured. “Do you remember telling me Miss Rook had the Electra complex.”
“No I do not,” Lindsay corrected him contemptuously. “I remember explaining to you that poor Florian had been trying to paint the Electra complex.”
“And what on earth is that?” Lomas asked. “Electra killed her mother for love of her father. Father havin’ previously been killed by mother.”
“You are now accurate,” Lindsay told him. “I see. The suggestion is that Miss Rook was the kind of daughter who might kill her mother for jealousy or vengeance,” Lomas frowned.
“That is what an Electra complex means. The suggestion that Miss Rook suffers from it is not mine,” said Lindsay.
“Wasn’t it?” Reggie murmured. “Who did suggest the picture of the Electra complex to Florian? Not his own line in painting.”
“It is true, he is almost without ideas,” said Lindsay. “But the man is sensitive to character.”
“Fond of Miss Rook, aren’t you?” Reggie purred. “A subtle and interesting mind,” Lindsay agreed. “You knew she was engaged to Florian?”
“Really? It will be an experience for him.” Lindsay was laughing when there came a scream and a shout from below.
Bell hurried out, with Reggie at his heels. They ran downstairs, and, as they went, heard more shouts and a scurry and shrill wailing.
That came from the drawing - room. They found Faustine prone, her face flowing blood from gashes on cheek and brow. A detective knelt over her, and beside her lay a shattered vase. “How did you let this happen? “Bell growled.
“Sorry, sir. All in a minute. There was a smash and I came in and the man was gone out o’ window. He must have cracked her on the head with this. They’re after him. They’ll get him.”
Reggie knelt down by the wailing Faustine. “Brine me some linen and iodine. Telephone the Agnes Hospital - ambulance - surgical case - facial wounds.”
“The beast! The beast!” Faustine moaned. “Am I spoilt? Tell me! He meant that, the beast. Am I spoilt?”
“Don’t talk,” Reggie said sharply. “You’ll make it worse.”
She was bound up and carried away.
“Well, well.” Reggie turned from the stretcher. “What do you know about this, Bell?”
“The man’s gone and killed himself, sir. They were hard on his heels to the main road, and there he chucked himself under a bus. Deliberate. All squashed up. My oath! This is a case.”
“Yes. Destructive. Yes. Nasty mess,” Reggie murmured.
“If one should love you with real love - Such things have been - You’d give him poison, shall we say, Or what, Faustine?”
“Ah. She’s a nasty piece,” said Bell. “What do you think my man heard, listening to ‘em at the door? Florian was right off the handle, telling Miss Rook we suspected him and he wished he was dead, and cursing her, and she was making up to him something wicked. He wouldn’t have it; he went on about us wanting to search his place for the dagger, making a regular scene of it, scared mad. That got her roused too, and she was swearing at him for a fool; it wasn’t in his rooms, he knew it wasn’t. And then he turned on her and asked her how she knew so much, what did she know, and she laughed and called him ‘ Silly, silly, silly,’ with kissing and whispering; he’d see it would be all right; she’d managed it, darling, darling. He gave a sort of yell then, and there was the row of the vase breaking, and they found her with her face smashed and the little man bolting out of window. They ought to have got him, of course, but I don’t know as I blame ‘em. You can’t ever tell what people like this lot will do.”
“No. Don’t blame your fellows. May be best as it is.”
“May be,” Bell agreed sombrely. “I’d say she was the one behind everything.”
“Oh, yes. That is so. Yes.”
“We ought to get a case against her now.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. Where is the man Lindsay all this while? Still chatting with our Mr. Lomas?”
