II At Gossington Hall Dermot Craddock was received by Ella Zielinsky. She was, as usual, brisk and efficient. 癕iss Gregg is waiting for you, Mr. Craddock,” she said. Dermot looked at her with some interest. From the beginning he had found Ella Zielinsky an intriguing¹ personality. He had said to himself, “A poker² face if I ever saw one.” She had answered any questions he had asked with the utmost readiness. She had shown no signs of keeping any- thing back, but what she really thought or felt or even knew about the business, he still had no idea. There seemed to be no chink in the armour³ of her bright efficiency. She might know more than she said she did; she might know a good deal. The only thing he was sure of—and he had to ad- mit to himself that he had no reasons to adduce for that surety—was that she was in love with Jason Rudd. It was, as he had said, an occupational disease of secretaries. It probably meant nothing. But the fact did at least suggest a motive⁴ and he was sure, quite sure, that she was concealing⁵ something. It might be love, it might be hate. It might, quite simply, be guilt⁶. She might have taken her opportunity that afternoon, or she might have deliberately⁷ planned what she was going to do. He could see her in the part quite easily, as far as the execution of it went. Her swift but un- hurried movements, moving here and there, looking after guests, handing glasses to one or another, taking glasses away, her eyes marking the spot where Marina had put her glass down on the table. And then, perhaps at the very moment when Marina had been greeting the arrivals from the States, with surprise and joyous⁸ cries and everybody’s eyes turned to- wards⁹ their meeting, she could have quietly and unobtrusively dropped the fatal dose into that glass. It would require audacity¹⁰, nerve, swiftness. She would have had all those. Whatever she had done, she would not have looked guilty whilst she was doing it. It would have been a simple, brilli- ant crime, a crime that could hardly fail to be successful. But chance had ruled otherwise. In the rather crowded floorspace someone had joggled Heather Badcock’s arm. Her drink had been spilt, and Marina, with her natural impulsive¹¹ grace, had quickly proffered¹² her own glass, standing¹³ there untouched. And so the wrong woman had died. A lot of pure theory, and probably hooey at that, said Dermot Craddock to himself at the same time as he was making polite remarks to Ella Zielin- sky. 癘ne thing I wanted to ask you, Miss Zielinsky. The catering¹⁴ was done by a Market Basing firm, I understand?” 癥es.” 癢hy was that particular firm chosen?” 癐 really don’t know,” said Ella. “That doesn’t lie amongst my duties. I know Mr. Rudd thought it would be more tactful to employ somebody local rather than to employ a firm from London. The whole thing was really quite a small affair from our point of view.” 癚uite.” He watched her as she stood frowning a little and looking down. A good forehead, a determined¹⁵ chin, a figure which could look quite voluptuous¹⁶ if it was allowed to do so, a hard mouth, an acquisitive mouth. The eyes? He looked at them in surprise. The lids were reddened. He wondered. Had she been crying? It looked like it. And yet he could have sworn she was not the type of young woman to cry. She looked up at him, and as though she read his thoughts, she took out her handkerchief and blew her nose heartily¹⁷. 癥ou’ve got a cold,” he said. 癗ot a cold. Hay fever. It’s an allergy¹⁸ of some kind, really. I always get at it this time of year.” There was a low buzz. There were two phones in the room, one on the table and one on another table in the corner. It was the latter one that was beginning to buzz. Ella Zielinsky went over to it and picked up the re- ceiver. 癥es,” she said, “he’s here. I’ll bring him up at once.” She put the re- ceiver down again. “Marina’s ready for you,” she said.

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