"They're going to talk about it tonight," said Josephine.
"Father and Mother and Uncle Roger and Aunt Edith.
Aunt Edith would give him her money - only she hasn't got it yet - but I don't think father will.
He says if Roger has got in a jam he's only got himself to blame and what's the good of throwing good money after bad, and mother won't hear of giving him any because she wants father to put up the money for Edith Thompson.
Do you know Edith Thompson?
She was married, but she didn't like her husband.
She was in love with a young man called Bywaters who came off a ship and he went down a different street after the theatre and stabbed him in the back."
I marvelled once more at the range and completeness of Josephine's knowledge; and also at the dramatic sense which, only slightly obscured by hazy pronouns, had presented all the salient facts in a nutshell.
"It sounds all right," said Josephine, "but I don't suppose the play will be like that at all.
It will be like Jezebel again."
She sighed. "I wish I knew why the dogs wouldn't eat the palms of her hands."
"Josephine," I said. "You told me that you were almost sure who the murderer was?"
"Well?"
"Who is it?"
She gave me a look of scorn.
"I see," I said. "Not till the last chapter?
Not even if I promise not to tell Inspector Taverner?"
"I want just a few more clues," said Josephine. "Anyway," she added, throwing the core of the apple into the goldfish pool, "I wouldn't tell you.
If you're anyone, you're Watson."
I stomached this insult.
"O.K." I said. "I'm Watson.
But even Watson was given the data."
"The what?"
"The facts.
And then he made the wrong deductions from them.
Wouldn't it be a lot of fun for you to see me making the wrong deductions?"
For a moment Josephine was tempted. Then she shook her head.
"No," she said, and added:
"Anyway, I'm not very keen on Sherlock Holmes.
It's awfully old fashioned.
They drive about in dog carts."
"What about those letters?" I asked.
"What letters?"
The letters you said Laurence Brown and Brenda wrote to each other."
"I made that up," said Josephine.
"I don't believe you."
"Yes, I did.
I often make things up.
It amuses me."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
"Look here, Josephine. I know a man sit the British Museum who knows a lot about the Bible.
If I find out from him why the dogs didn't eat the palms of Jezebel's hands?
Will you tell me about those letters?"
This time Josephine really hesitated.
Somewhere, not very far away, a twig snapped with a sharp cracking noise.
Josephine said flatly: "No, I won't."
I accepted defeat.
Rather late in the day I remembered my father's advice.
"Oh well," I said, "it's only a game. Of course you don't really know anything."