The Witness for the Prosecution: And Other Stories. Агата Кристи

solicitor looked at him steadily. Then, very deliberately, he repeated his unconscious trick with his pince-nez. It was not until they were firmly replaced on his nose that he spoke.

      ‘Are you not aware, Mr Vole, Miss French left a will under which you are the principal beneficiary?’

      ‘What?’ The prisoner sprang to his feet. His dismay was obvious and unforced. ‘My God! What are you saying? She left her money to me?’

      Mr Mayherne nodded slowly. Vole sank down again, his head in his hands.

      ‘You pretend you know nothing of this will?’

      ‘Pretend? There’s no pretence about it. I knew nothing about it.’

      ‘What would you say if I told you that the maid, Janet Mackenzie, swears that you did know? That her mistress told her distinctly that she had consulted you in the matter, and told you of her intentions?’

      ‘Say? That she’s lying! No, I go too fast. Janet is an elderly woman. She was a faithful watchdog to her mistress, and she didn’t like me. She was jealous and suspicious. I should say that Miss French confided her intentions to Janet, and that Janet either mistook something she said, or else was convinced in her own mind that I had persuaded the old lady into doing it. I dare say that she believes herself now that Miss French actually told her so.’

      ‘You don’t think she dislikes you enough to lie deliberately about the matter?’

      Leonard Vole looked shocked and startled.

      ‘No, indeed! Why should she?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Mayherne thoughtfully. ‘But she’s very bitter against you.’

      The wretched young man groaned again.

      ‘I’m beginning to see,’ he muttered. ‘It’s frightful. I made up to her, that’s what they’ll say, I got her to make a will leaving her money to me, and then I go there that night, and there’s nobody in the house—they find her the next day—oh! my God, it’s awful!’

      ‘You are wrong about there being nobody in the house,’ said Mr Mayherne. ‘Janet, as you remember, was to go out for the evening. She went, but about half past nine she returned to fetch the pattern of a blouse sleeve which she had promised to a friend. She let herself in by the back door, went upstairs and fetched it, and went out again. She heard voices in the sitting-room, though she could not distinguish what they said, but she will swear that one of them was Miss French’s and one was a man’s.’

      ‘At half past nine,’ said Leonard Vole. ‘At half past nine …’ He sprang to his feet. ‘But then I’m saved—saved—’

      ‘What do you mean, saved?’ cried Mr Mayherne, astonished.

      ‘By half past nine I was at home again! My wife can prove that. I left Miss French about five minutes to nine. I arrived home about twenty past nine. My wife was there waiting for me. Oh! thank God—thank God! And bless Janet Mackenzie’s sleeve pattern.’

      In his exuberance, he hardly noticed that the grave expression of the solicitor’s face had not altered. But the latter’s words brought him down to earth with a bump.

      ‘Who, then, in your opinion, murdered Miss French?’

      ‘Why, a burglar, of course, as was thought at first. The window was forced, you remember. She was killed with a heavy blow from a crowbar, and the crowbar was found lying on the floor beside the body. And several articles were missing. But for Janet’s absurd suspicions and dislike of me, the police would never have swerved from the right track.’

      ‘That will hardly do, Mr Vole,’ said the solicitor. ‘The things that were missing were mere trifles of no value, taken as a blind. And the marks on the window were not all conclusive. Besides, think for yourself. You say you were no longer in the house by half past nine. Who, then, was the man Janet heard talking to Miss French in the sitting-room? She would hardly be having an amicable conversation with a burglar?’

      ‘No,’ said Vole. ‘No—’ He looked puzzled and dis couraged. ‘But anyway,’ he added with reviving spirit, ‘it lets me out. I’ve got an alibi. You must see Romaine—my wife—at once.’

      ‘Certainly,’ acquiesced the lawyer. ‘I should already have seen Mrs Vole but for her being absent when you were arrested. I wired to Scotland at once, and I understand that she arrives back tonight. I am going to call upon her immediately I leave here.’

      Vole nodded, a great expression of satisfaction settling down over his face.

      ‘Yes, Romaine will tell you. My God! it’s a lucky chance that.’

      ‘Excuse me, Mr Vole, but you are very fond of your wife?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘And she of you?’

      ‘Romaine is devoted to me. She’d do anything in the world for me.’

      He spoke enthusiastically, but the solicitor’s heart sank a little lower. The testimony of a devoted wife—would it gain credence?

      ‘Was there anyone else who saw you return at nine-twenty? A maid, for instance?’

      ‘We have no maid.’

      ‘Did you meet anyone in the street on the way back?’

      ‘Nobody I knew. I rode part of the way in a bus. The conductor might remember.’

      Mr Mayherne shook his head doubtfully.

      ‘There is no one, then, who can confirm your wife’s testimony?’

      ‘No. But it isn’t necessary, surely?’

      ‘I dare say not. I dare say not,’ said Mr Mayherne hastily. ‘Now there’s just one thing more. Did Miss French know that you were a married man?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      ‘Yet you never took your wife to see her. Why was that?’

      For the first time, Leonard Vole’s answer came halting and uncertain.

      ‘Well—I don’t know.’

      ‘Are you aware that Janet Mackenzie says her mistress believed you to be single, and contemplated marrying you in the future?’

      Vole laughed.

      ‘Absurd! There was forty years difference in age between us.’

      ‘It has been done,’ said the solicitor drily. ‘The fact remains. Your wife never met Miss French?’

      ‘No—’ Again the constraint.

      ‘You will permit me to say,’ said the lawyer, ‘that I hardly understand your attitude in the matter.’

      Vole flushed, hesitated, and then spoke.

      ‘I’ll make a clean breast of it. I was hard up, as you know. I hoped that Miss French might lend me some money. She was fond of me, but she wasn’t at all interested in the struggles of a young couple. Early on, I found that she had taken it for granted that my wife and I didn’t get on—were living apart. Mr Mayherne—I wanted the money—for Romaine’s sake. I said nothing, and allowed the old lady to think what she chose. She spoke of my being an adopted son for her. There was never any question of marriage—that must be just Janet’s imagination.’

      ‘And that is all?’

      ‘Yes—that is all.’

      Was there just a shade of hesitation in the words? The lawyer fancied so. He rose and held out his hand.

      ‘Goodbye, Mr Vole.’ He looked into the haggard young face and spoke with an unusual impulse. ‘I believe in your innocence in spite of the multitude of facts arrayed against you. I hope to prove it and vindicate you completely.’

      Vole smiled back at him.

      ‘You’ll