Death of a Beauty Queen by E.R. Punshon Page B

the first time in his life he had a feeling of being old and rather tired, of not wanting to go on. With almost every word the girl spoke she seemed to be drawing the net closer about her. He glanced at his young assistant, Bobby Owen, taking all this down in his notebook. It relieved him a little to see that the young man was not affected in quite the same way. His air was still eager and intent – he was taking down what was said with interest, even with excitement, but hardly seemed to grasp the direction in which it was all tending.
    Mitchell braced himself to continue. Truth was his mistress, to be followed at all costs, whithersoever she led, no matter what was revealed when her veil at last was drawn aside. Truth, that is the first, the fundamental, the foundation of all value, without which there can nothing be that is worth man’s while – or God’s. There was a new note of hardness and sternness in his voice – Bobby noticed it, and wondered; Lily recognized it, and was again afraid – as he went on:
    â€˜I take it you mean you realized at once you had lost your chance of winning the competition through this trick Miss Mears played you?’
    Lily did not answer. She was feeling oddly frightened now, and the anger that had flamed for a moment in her eyes had changed into a puzzled and bewildered terror. Mitchell was looking not at her, but at the polished surface of the table before him. On it his fingers were now not beating a tattoo, but pressed heavily, as if to hold it down. He thought to himself:
    â€˜Well, they would find my finger-prints there all right.’ He looked up, and asked:
    â€˜Did you say anything when you understood?’
    She shook her head, and Mitchell turned over some notes that were lying before him.
    â€˜There is no need to answer if you would prefer not to,’ he said, ‘but I think you ought to know my information is that you were heard to say: “I could kill her”.’
    â€˜Oh, she didn’t. You never did, did you, Lily?’ Mrs Francis cried.
    But the girl still made no answer, and then at last, when she had moistened lips that had become suddenly dry, she almost whispered:
    â€˜Yes... I remember now... I had forgotten.’
    â€˜She didn’t mean it,’ Mrs Francis almost shouted at Mitchell. ‘Why, everyone says things like that. I often say I could kill the baker, he will come so late; and I’m sure when people come banging at the door the way they do–’
    â€˜If you please,’ Mitchell interposed, holding up one hand. He went on: ‘My information is, Miss Ellis, that, after you said that, you went hurriedly, running indeed – “at a run,” is the expression used – towards Miss Mears’s room.’
    Mrs Francis tried to speak again, but this time it was Lily who checked her.
    â€˜Please, aunt,’ she said, and then continued to Mitchell: ‘I suppose that’s true, I was so – so furious. I didn’t seem able to think anything or feel anything except how angry I was. Everything seemed to go all funny and red, and I remember running down a long, long passage, and thinking I would just tell Carrie how beastly it was of her to do a thing like that.’
    â€˜Do you care to say anything more?’ Mitchell asked. ‘It is entirely for you to decide.’
    â€˜Yes. Everything,’ Lily answered. ‘Carrie had a room all to herself. I knew where it was, because a girl showed it me, and said it showed who was the favourite. The door was shut, and I rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t open, and then I seemed to come to myself, and I remember thinking: “What’s the good of saying anything? It’s all over now.”’
    â€˜A good thing you didn’t go in,’ interposed Mrs. Francis, loudly and defiantly. ‘It’s just as well as it’s turned out you went away again without going in.’
    The hint was