“Did you see or hear her leave?”

She looked away. “Yes…”

“And Mr. Parmenter?”

Her voice dropped. “Yes, I think so. Followed her out into the corridor and up to the landing, to judge from the voices.”

“Where were you?”

“In Mrs. Parmenter’s bedroom.”

“Where is that in relation to the study and the landing?”

“Other side of the corridor from the study, one door along, further away from the stairs.”

“Was the door open or closed?”

“Bedroom door was open. I was hanging clothes up in the cupboard and putting away linen. I went in with my hands full, never bothered to close it. Mr. Parmenter’s study door was closed. That was why I only heard part of what they were saying, even when they shouted at each other.” She looked at him unhappily.

“But when Miss Bellwood opened the study door to come out, you might have heard what she said then,” he pressed her.

“Yes…” she acknowledged reluctantly.

“What was it?”

He heard footsteps in the passage, light and rapid, a click of heels, but they did not stop.

The color rose in Braithwaite’s cheeks again, and she was obviously uncomfortable. Modesty and loyalty fought with her sense of duty to the truth-and perhaps fear of the law.

“Miss Braithwaite,” he said gently, “I have to know. This cannot be concealed. A woman is dead. Perhaps she was a foolish woman, mistaken, unpleasant, or even worse, but that does not take from her the right to an honest enquiry into her death and the nearest to the truth of it that we can come. Please tell me what you heard.”

She looked extremely unhappy, but she did not resist any further.

“He said she was an arrogant and stupid woman, for all her supposed brains, that she was too obsessed by her ideas of freedom to see that what she was actually talking about was chaos, disorder and destruction,” she said. “He said she was like a dangerous child, playing with the fire of ideas, and one day she was going to burn down the house, and everyone would perish with her.”