Thirteen
I went down to the Crooked¹ House (as I called it in my own mind) with aslightly guilty feeling. Though I had repeated to Taverner Josephine’s con-fidences about Roger, I had said nothing about her statement that Brendaand Laurence Brown wrote love letters to each other.
I excused myself by pretending that it was mere² romancing, and thatthere was no reason to believe that it was true. But actually I had felt astrange reluctance³ to pile up additional evidence against Brenda Leonides.
I had been affected⁴ by the pathos⁵ of her position in the house—surroun-ded by a hostile family united solidly against her. If such letters existeddoubtless Taverner and his myrmidons would find them. I disliked to bethe means of bringing fresh suspicion on a woman in a difficult position.
Moreover, she had assured me solemnly that there was nothing of thatkind between her and Laurence and I felt more inclined to believe herthan to believe that malicious⁶ gnome⁷ Josephine. Had not Brenda said her-self that Josephine was “not all there?”
I stifled⁸ an uneasy certainty that Josephine was very much all there. I re-membered the intelligence of her beady black eyes.
I had rung up Sophia and asked if I might come down again.
“Please do, Charles.”
“How are things going?”
“I don’t know. All right. They keep on searching the house. What arethey looking for?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“We’re all getting very nervy. Come as soon as you can. I shall go crazyif I can’t talk to someone.”
I said I would come down straight away.
There was no one in sight as I drove up to the front door. I paid the taxiand it drove away. I felt uncertain whether to ring the bell or to walk in.
The front door was open.

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