Miss Howard. “Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily—as I always told you he would.”
“My dear Evie, don’t shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn’t until Friday.”
“Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. “You’re all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he’s any sense, he won’t stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.”
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
He seemed to see something over here”—I indicated the mantelpiece—“that absolutely paralysed him.”
“That is interesting,” said Poirot quickly. “Yes, it is suggestive”—his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall—“but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white