Free She Died a Lady by John Dickson Carr Page A

the road.’
    ‘Phooey!’ said H.M., puffing out his cheeks in a richly sinister way, and sitting back to contemplate us fishily. He folded his hands across his corporation and twiddled his thumbs. ‘I don’t say there’s anything rummy in it, you understand. All I want, burn me, is information! Next, that alleged suicide-note. Have you got it?’
    From between the leaves of his notebook Craft took out the paper. It was only, as I have said, a little slip torn from the kitchen memorandum-pad and scrawled on with the pencil that went with it. It said:
    Juliet died a lady. No recriminations. No putting it off. I love everybody. Good-bye .
    H.M. read the words aloud, and I had to put up a hand to shade my eyes. He regarded me sombrely.
    ‘Dr Croxley, have you seen this?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Is it in Mrs Wainwright’s handwriting?’
    ‘It is and it isn’t. I should say yes: that it’s her handwriting under very strong emotion.’
    ‘Looky here, Doctor.’ H.M. was powerfully embarrassed. ‘I can see you were fond of this gal. I’m not askin’ these things out of idle curiosity. Do you think Mrs Wainright meant to kill herself?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ burst out Superintendent Craft, whacking his fist down on his knee, ‘that’s just it. That’s the real puzzler. That’s what gets me. If those two were going to kill themselves anyway, why murder ’em?’
    This was a point I had been trying to put clearly myself. But H.M. shook his head.
    ‘Nothing much to that, son. Not necessarily, I mean. They could have meant to kill themselves, and lost their nerve. The same thing has happened lots of times. Then a certain person, who’s determined to see ’em both dead, steps in and shoots. Only …’
    He continued to scowl, ticking his thumb and second finger against the note, as some obscure thought bothered him like dyspepsia.
    ‘Let’s face it,’ he said. ‘This is what is humorously known to the press as a crime of passion. There’s no need to go star-gazin’ after motives. Somebody either (a) hated Mrs Wainright so much because she was carrying on with Sullivan, or (b) hated Sullivan so much because he was carrying on with Mrs Wainright, that both of ’em had to be knocked off.’
    ‘Looks like it, sir,’ agreed Craft.
    ‘Therefore we got to rake up scandal whether we like it or not. Speakin’ personally,’ observed H.M., with great candour, ‘I got a low mind and a great taste for scandal myself. According to what the doctor tells us, this Alec Wainright believed his wife had been carrying on with somebody long before she met the late lamented Sullivan.’
    ‘She swore to me –’ I began.
    H.M. was apologetic.
    ‘Sure. I know. All the same, I’d like a bit of testimony that’s not quite so dewy-eyed and prejudiced as hers. When can we have a word with the husband?’
    ‘You’ll have to ask Tom about that. Not immediately, I should say, and possibly not for some time.’
    ‘In the meantime, did you ever hear anything about swoonin’ love-affairs?’
    ‘Never.’
    H.M. blinked at Craft. ‘What about you, son?’
    ‘That’s not much in my line.’ The superintendent hesitated. ‘But I’m bound to admit I never heard anything against the lady. And things do get about, you know, in little places like this.’
    ‘What we want,’ said H.M., handing the suicide-note back to Craft, ‘is a woman’s touch in this, and a woman’s fine serene unconsciousness of the laws of slander. It’d interest me strangely to have a word with that gal there.’ He nodded his head in the direction of Molly Grange’s house. ‘She strikes me as bein’ a sensible bit of goods, with her eyes open. What’s more, a little causerie with her father –’
    ‘We could go over there now,’ Craft suggested. He consulted his watch. ‘It’s pretty late in the afternoon, and Mr Grange ought to be home before long.’
    H.M. fumbled at the side of the wheel-chair. The whirl of the motor