I was aware of the intensity of her feeling.
She opened her eyes, looked at me and said:
"So you see, I would never have killed anyone for money.
I don't like money."
I was quite sure that she meant exactly what she said.
Clemency Leonides was one of those rare people to whom money does not appeal.
They dislike luxury, prefer austerity, and are suspicious of possessions.
Still, there are many to whom money has no personal appeal, but who can be tempted by the power it confers.
I said,
"You mightn't want money for yourself - but wisely directed, money may do a lot of interesting things.
It can endow research, for example."
I had suspected that Clemency might be a fanatic about her work, but she merely said:
"I doubt if endowments ever do much good.
They're usually spent in the wrong way.
The things that are worth while are usually accomplished by someone with enthusiasm and drive - and with natural vision.
Expensive equipment and training and experiment never does what you'd imagine it might do.
The spending of it usually gets into the wrong hands."
"Will you mind giving up your work when you go to Barbados?" I asked.
"You're still going, I presume?"
"Oh yes, as soon as the police will let us.
No, I shan't mind giving up my work at all.
Why should I?
I wouldn't like to be idle, but I shan't be idle in Barbados." She added impatiently: "Oh, if only this could all be cleared up quickly and we could get away."
"Clemency," I said, "have you any idea at all who did do this? Granting that you and Roger had no hand in it, (and really I can't see any reason to think you had) surely, with your intelligence, you must have some idea of who did?"
She gave me a rather peculiar look, a darting sideways glance.
When she spoke her voice had lost its spontaneity. It was awkward, rather embarrassed.
"One can't make guesses, it's unscientific," she said.
"One can only say that Brenda and Laurence are the obvious suspects."
"So you think they did it?"
Clemency shrugged her shoulders.
She stood for a moment as though listening, then she went out of the room, passing Edith de Haviland in the doorway.
Edith came straight over to me.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
My father's words leapt into my mind.
Was this - But Edith de Haviland was going on:
"I hope you didn't get the wrong impression," she said. "About Philip, I mean.
Philip is rather difficult to understand.
He may seem to you reserved and cold, but that is not so at all.
It's just a manner.
He can't help it." "I really hadn't thought -" I began. But she swept on.
"Just now - about Roger.
It isn't really that he's grudging.
He's never been mean about money.
And he's really a dear - he's always been a dear - but he needs understanding."
I looked at her with the air, I hope, of one who was willing to understand.
She went on:
"It's partly, I think, from having been the second of the family.
There's often something about a second child - they often come uncalled for.
He adored his father, you see.
Of course, all the children adored Aristide and he adored them.