“Don’t you? Sorry I spoke. Used for cleaning, you know.”
Bell glowered at Reggie, for the humorous cockney voice was the voice of his chauffeur. But the cold severity of Reggie’s round face gave no sign.
“We don’t use it, nor we don’t keep it, nor any chemist’s stuff,” Mrs. Brightman was answering.
“Oh, good day!” The bell rang again as the shop door closed.
Mrs. Brightman came back. “Running in and out of the shop all day with silly people,” she panted. She looked from one to the other, questioning, afraid.
“I was wonderin’,” Reggie murmured. “Did Mrs. Wiven have her meals with you yesterday - or in her room?”
“Down here.” The swollen eyes looked at him and looked away. “She did usual, I told you. She liked to.”
“And which was the last meal she ever had?”
Mrs. Brightman suppressed a cry. “You do say things! Breakfast was the last she had here. She took out a bit o’ lunch and tea.”
“Yes. When was that put ready?”
“I had it done first thing, knowing she meant to get out - and she always liked to start early. It was there on the sideboard waiting at breakfast.”
“Then it was ready before the children went out? Before she had her quarrel with Bessie?”
Mrs. Brightman swallowed. “So it was.”
“Oh. Thank you. Rather strong, the tea in her flask,” Reggie mumbled.
“She always had it fairly strong. Couldn’t be too strong for her. I’m just the same myself.”
“Convenient,” Reggie said. “Now you’ll take me down into the cellar, Mrs. Brightman.”
“What? “She drew back so hastily that she was brought up by the wall. “The cellar?” Her eyes seemed to stand out more than ever, so they stared at him, the whites of them more widely bloodshot. With an unsteady hand she thrust back the hair from her sweating brow. “The cellar? Why ever do you want to go there? There’s nothing in the cellar.”
“You think not? “Reggie smiled. “Come down and see.”
She gave a moaning cry; she stumbled away to the door at the back, and opened it, and stood holding by the door - post, looking out to the paved yard.
From the shed in it appeared Brightman’s bearded face. “Were you looking for me, dearie?” he asked, and brought his lank shape into sight, brushing it as it came.
She made a gesture to him; she went to meet him and muttered: “Matthew! They’re asking me to take ‘em down to the cellar.”
“Well, to be sure!” Brightman gave Reggie and Bell a glance of melancholy, pitying surprise. “I don’t see any reason in that.” He held her up, he stroked her and gently remonstrated. “But there’s no reason they shouldn’t go to the cellar if they want to, Florrie. We ain’t to stand in the way of anything as the police think right. We ain’t got anything to hide, have we? Come along, dearie.”
An inarticulate quavering sound came from her. “That’s all right, my dearie, that’s all right,” Brightman soothed her.
“Is it? “Bell growled. “So you’ve been here all the time, Mr. Brightman. While she sent us to look for you down at your own place. Why didn’t you show up before?”
“I’ve only just come in, sir,” Brightman said quietly. “I came in by the back. I was just putting things to rights in the wash - house. The wife’s been so pushed. I didn’t know you gentlemen were here. You’re searching all the premises, are you? I’m agreeable. I’m sure it’s in order, if you say so. But I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“Mrs. Brightman will show us,” said Reggie, and grasped her arm.
“Don’t, don’t,” she wailed.
“You mustn’t be foolish, dearie,” said Brightman. “You know there’s nothing in the cellar. Show the gentlemen if they want. It’s all right. I’ll go with you.”
“Got a torch, Bell?” said Reggie.
“I have.” Bell went back into the room. “And here’s a lamp, too.” He lit it.
