Читать книгу Murder of a Lady - Robert McNair Wilson - Страница 10

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The room grew silent. Oonagh pushed aside her heavy fringe, and revealed a high brow.

“Why did you go to Miss Gregor’s room?” Dr. Hailey asked her.

The girl glanced at her husband before she replied.

“Aunt Mary and I had quarrelled before dinner. I wanted to talk to her.”

“To make up your quarrel?”

“Yes.”

The monosyllable came firmly.

Dr. Hailey nodded.

“Duchlan told me,” he said, “that you had gone to bed before dinner because you weren’t feeling well.”

“I wasn’t feeling well. But that was the result of my quarrel with Aunt Mary.”

The doctor rose and took out his snuff-box.

“My position,” he said, “is a little difficult. I told Inspector Dundas that I wouldn’t try to double his work on the case. If I ask any more questions I’m afraid I shall be breaking that promise. My object in bringing you here, as you know, wasn’t to get information but to give it. I wanted you both to realize that this case presents very great difficulties which will certainly tax the resources of the police to the utmost.”

He took a pinch of snuff. Eoghan asked.

“Why did you want us to realize that?”

“So that your wife might feel able to return with you to Duchlan.”

“I confess I don’t follow.”

Dr. Hailey glanced at Oonagh. She shook her head. He took more snuff to avoid making an immediate reply, and then said:

“I fancy it is better to tell the truth. Your wife was trying to drown herself when I rescued her.”

Eoghan jumped up.

“What!” The blood ebbed out of his cheeks. “Is this true?” he demanded of Oonagh.

“Yes.”

“That you tried to—to drown yourself?”

“Yes.”

He turned fearful eyes to Dr. Hailey.

“I insist on knowing the whole truth. Why is my wife with you at this hour? How does my father know that she’s with you?”

“I can’t answer the last question. The answer to the first is that I saw her jump from the jetty, and ran to her help. It’s possible your father may have observed us.”

The young man strode to his wife and seized her hand.

“Why did you do it?” he cried.

There was anguish in his voice.

Oonagh remained bending over the fire, unresponsive and limp. When he repeated his question, she bowed her head, but she did not answer. The doctor sat down.

“I think I can supply the answer,” he said. “Your wife feared that you had played a part in the murder of your aunt.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Her suicide was sure to be interpreted as a confession of her own guilt. She was shielding you.”

Eoghan started.

“Oonagh, is that true?”

There was no reply. The doctor waited a moment and then said to Eoghan:

“It wasn’t an unreasonable fear, perhaps. No more unreasonable, certainly, than the fear under which you are labouring at this moment, namely, that your wife’s attempt to drown herself was a confession of guilt.” His voice became gentle: “What’s the use of pretence at a time such as this? The more deeply we love, the quicker must be our fear, seeing that each of us is liable, under provocation, to lose self-control. Why I told you about my examination of your aunt’s wound was that you might realize that it cannot have been inflicted by a woman. Your wife did not kill your aunt. Your fear that she may have done so proves, surely, that you, too, are guiltless.”

He paused. A look of inexpressible relief had appeared on Oonagh’s face. She stretched out her hand to her husband, who grasped it.

“You have reasons, presumably, both of you, for your fears,” Dr. Hailey added. “I can only speculate about these; I note, in passing, that you are no longer sharing a bedroom. Whatever your reasons may be, they do not invalidate my argument.”

He turned to Eoghan:

“Take John MacCallien’s car and drive your wife home. The door of the garage isn’t locked.”