“Could the quarrel have become violent?” he said gravely.

“I suppose so.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Although I find it difficult to believe. My husband is not-” She stopped.

“Could Miss Bellwood have left the study in a temper and then lost her balance, perhaps stumbled and fallen backwards, by accident?” he suggested.

She remained silent.

“Is that possible, Mrs. Parmenter?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. She bit her lip. “If I say yes, Superintendent, my maid will only contradict me. Please don’t press me to speak any further of my husband. It is terribly… distressing. I don’t know what to think or feel. I seem to be in a whirlpool of confusion… and darkness… an awful darkness.”

“I’m sorry.” He felt compelled to apologize, and it was sincere. His pity for her was immense, as was his admiration for her composure and her dedication to truth, even at such personal cost. “Of course, I shall ask your maid.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

There was nothing more to enquire of her, and he would not stretch out the interview. She must greatly prefer to be alone or with her family. He excused himself and went to find the maid in question.

Miss Braithwaite proved to be a woman in her middle fifties, tidy and sensible in manner, but at present profoundly shaken. Her face was pale and she had trouble catching her breath.

She was perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the housekeeper’s sitting room, sipping a steaming cup of tea. The fire burned briskly in the small, thoroughly polished iron grate and there was a little-worn rug on the floor and most agreeable pictures on the walls, and several photographs on the side table.