“You searched the premises, of course?”

“Found no trace of cyanide. Only poison found was arsenic in cockroach powder. Check-up with the chemists gave nothing. Didn’t expect it would. Have to sign for a minim of poison in Broken Hill, and can buy it by the pound in any of the surrounding townships. Tons of it used by the stations, you know.”

“Well, back to the housekeeper.”

“Mrs Robinov! Been housekeeping for Sam Goldspink for fifteen years. He left her all he had. She seems open and shut. Wasn’t short of money.”

“When was the will made?”

“Eight years ago. There are no relatives-no possible schemers.”

“No mention of a codicil or a new will?”

“Not a squeak.”

Bony gently worked to and fro his interlocked fingers, and Crome could not understand the smile of satisfaction.

“Interesting, Crome. The motive will be an unusual one-when we dig it out.”

“Motive!” exploded the sergeant. “There isn’t a motive. There can’t be a motive, considering the killing of Pop Parsons in the same way.”

“There’s a motive all right. There is a motive even for me to light this cigarette. Tell me about Parsons.”

“I made a hell of a boner about Parsons,” Crome said, his voice abruptly savage. “I was caught right off balance when it happened. Parsons was a retired miner living with his in-laws. I’d known him for years. He had a small pension which ceased at his death. Big man who ate hearty and drank a little. He went into a cafe one Friday afternoon last December. The place was busy as usual. Sat opposite a man named Rogers, an accountant.

“Rogers says that Parsons-he didn’t know him-asked for tea and sandwiches, and that he took his time over the meal, reading aDigest. He was still there when Rogers left, and Rogers says he thinks that then Parsons had eaten the sandwiches and had drunk one cup of tea.

“The tale is taken up by the waitress, a fool of a girl. She says there was quite a rush of customers at the time.