The Case of Naomi Clynes by Basil Thomson Page A

you.”
    â€œThe late Miss Clynes, sir? Do you mean that she’s dead? How dreadful! It must have been very sudden.”
    â€œIt was. There is to be an inquest, because she was found dead yesterday morning with her head in the gas-oven.”
    â€œNever! She wasn’t one to commit suicide. She lodged with me for years, and if she’d had any troubles I’m sure she’d have told me. Not that she was one to talk about herself, but she was always one to look on the bright side, and only a week or two ago she wrote me such a nice bright letter to say that all was going well with her writing and she was very happy in London. Dear, dear! One never knows. ‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ as Shakespeare used to say.”
    â€œHad she any friends—people who came to tea with her, for instance—while she was lodging with you?”
    â€œI can’t say that she had any special friend. There was, of course, Mrs. Crispin from the Vicarage, and some of the other ladies who do Church work, and sometimes one or other of them would stay to tea, but when I say no special friend, there was none of them that she called by their Christian name.”
    â€œHave you kept the letter she wrote to you from London?”
    â€œNo, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t. The few letters I get have to be used for lighting the fire.”
    â€œApparently she wasn’t a lady who made friends very easily. Did she make enemies?”
    â€œGood gracious! No! She was the quietest, gentlest woman that you’d meet anywhere, and yet she could hold her own when it came to the point. Why, one morning, from my kitchen window, I saw her out in the road without a hat, trouncing a boy who’d set his dog at a poor little kitten. He didn’t get away from her without hearing some home truths, I can tell you.”
    â€œWhen she decided to go up to London did she seem pleased to be leaving Liverpool?”
    â€œI think she was looking forward to it on the whole, sir. You see, it was a new adventure, but sometimes she’d get thoughtful like, as if she was wondering how she’d get on up there.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Clark. I think that that’s all I need ask you.”
    â€œGood-bye, sir. I shall watch the papers for that inquest.”
    The church clock was striking eight as Richardson left Rosewear Road: it was not too late for his visit to John Maze at his private address, which was in the residential part of Liverpool. The butler who opened the door to him exhibited surprise at receiving a visitor at such an hour, and even greater surprise when he read the name on the card which was tendered to him. “Is Mr. Maze expecting you, sir?”
    â€œProbably not. I should not have dreamed of disturbing him at such an hour if the matter were not urgent. Will you tell him that I shall not detain him for more than a few minutes?”
    He was shown into the library—a room furnished luxuriously with dark leather armchairs and a carpet into which the feet sank deep. He was not kept waiting. A tall man in a dinner-jacket opened the door. He was past middle age, but he was still erect and active in his movements. He held Richardson’s card in his hand.
    â€œGood evening, Inspector. I’m very glad to see you. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.” He took the armchair opposite to Richardson. “Perhaps before we discuss business we had better wait until we know that we shan’t be disturbed. They are bringing us a glass of port.”
    The door opened and the butler brought in a tray carrying a decanter, glasses and biscuits, which he set down between them. As soon as they were alone Richardson spoke.
    â€œThe Assistant Commissioner sent me to see you, sir, on the subject of a reference you signed for a Miss Naomi Clynes when she engaged her flat in Chelsea.”
    â€œI remember perfectly. Why, has anything gone wrong?”
    â€œShe’s