Crooked House by Agatha Christie

think so. But I really wouldn't know anything about it.”
    Her voice sounded completely uninterested.
    Roger Leonides came back with a rush, and the same bumble bee effect.
    “I got held up,” he said. “Telephone. Well, Inspector? Well? Have you got any news? What caused my father's death?”
    “Death was due to eserine poisoning.”
    “It was? My God! Then it was that woman! She couldn't wait! He took her more or less out of the gutter and this is his reward. She murdered him in cold blood! God, it makes my blood boil to think of it.”
    “Have you any particular reason for thinking that?” Taverner asked.
    Roger was pacing up and down, tugging at his hair with both hands.
    “Reason? Why, who else could it be? I've never trusted her - never liked her! We've none of us liked her. Philip and I were both appalled when Dad came home one day and told us what he had done! At his age! It was madness - madness. My father was an amazing man. Inspector. In intellect he was as young and fresh as a man of forty. Everything I have in the world I owe to him. He did everything for me - never failed me. It was I who failed him - when I think of it -”
    He dropped heavily onto a chair. His wife came quietly to his side.
    “Now, Roger, that's enough. Don't work yourself up.”
    “I know, dearest - I know,” he took her hand. “But how can I keep calm - how can I help feeling -”
    “But we must all keep calm, Roger. Chief Inspector Taverner wants our help.”
    “That is right, Mrs Leonides.”
    Roger cried:
    “Do you know what I'd like to do? I'd like to strangle that woman with my own hands. Grudging that dear old man a few extra years of life. If I had her here -” He sprang up. He was shaking with rage. He held out convulsive hands. “Yes, I'd wring her neck, wring her neck...”
    “Roger!” said Clemency sharply.
    He looked at her, abashed.
    “Sorry, dearest.” He turned to us. “I do apologise. My feelings get the better of me. I - excuse me -”
    He went out of the room again. Clemency Leonides said with a very faint smile:
    “Really, you know, he wouldn't hurt a fly.”
    Taverner accepted her remark politely.
    Then he started on his so-called routine questions.
    Clemency Leonides replied concisely and accurately.
    Roger Leonides had been in London on the day of his father's death at Box House, the headquarters of the Associated Catering. He had returned early in the afternoon and had spent some time with his father as was his custom. She herself had been, as usual at the Lambert Institute on Gower Street where she worked. She had returned to the house just before six o'clock.
    “Did you see your father-in-law?”
    “No. The last time I saw him was on the day before. We had coffee with him after dinner.”
    “But you did not see him on the day of his death?”
    “No. I actually went over to his part of the house because Roger thought he had left his pipe there - a very precious pipe, but as it happened he had left it on the hall table there, so I did not need to disturb the old man. He often dozed off about six.”
    “When did you hear of his illness?”
    “Brenda came rushing over. That was just a minute or two after half past six.”
    These questions, as I knew, were unimportant, but I was aware how keen was Inspector Taverner's scrutiny of the woman who answered them. He asked her a few questions about the nature of her work in London. She said that it had to do with the radiation effects of atomic disintegration.
    “You work on the atom bomb, in fact?”
    “The work has nothing destructive about it. The Institute is carrying out experiments on the therapeutic effects.”
    When Taverner got up, he expressed a wish to look around their part of the house. She seemed a little surprised, but showed him its extent readily enough. The bedroom with its twin beds and white coverlets and its simplified toilet appliances reminded me again of a hospital or some monastic cell. The bathroom, too, was severely