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Nine
I
case to Frank Cornish.
“Completely,” said Cornish. “No enemies, no quarrels, on good terms
with her husband.”
“No question of another woman or another man?”
The other shook his head. “Nothing of that kind. No hint of scandal any-
where. She wasn’t what you’d call the sexy kind. She was on a lot of com-
nothing beyond that.”
“There wasn’t anyone else the husband wanted to marry? No one in the
office where he worked?”
“He’s in Biddle & Russell, the estate agents and valuers. There’s Florrie
West with adenoids, and Miss Grundle, who is at least fifty and as plain as
a haystack—nothing much there to excite a man. Though for all that I
shouldn’t be surprised if he did marry again soon.”
Craddock looked interested.
“A neighbour,” explained Cornish. “A widow. When I went back with
him from the inquest she’d gone in and was making him tea and looking
after him generally. He seemed surprised and grateful. If you ask me,
she’s made up her mind to marry him, but he doesn’t know it yet, poor
chap.”
“What sort of a woman is she?”
“Good looking,” admitted the other. “Not young but handsome in a
gipsyish sort of way. High colour. Dark eyes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Bain. Mrs. Mary Bain. Mary Bain. She’s a widow.”
“What’d her husband do?”
“No idea. She’s got a son working near here who lives with her. She
seems a quiet, respectable woman. All the same, I’ve a feeling I’ve seen
her before.” He looked at his watch. “Ten to twelve. I’ve made an appoint-
ment for you at Gossington Hall at twelve o’clock. We’d best be going.”
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