Epilogue
A month later, when Christmas was over, and the people who had done with their guns, and did not mean hunting, were making a little season in London on their way to Egypt or the Riviera, Lady Susan Amphlett as Chorus was in her best form at cosy dinners.
“Now will you believe that Claude Rutherford was a devoted husband, and that he broke his heart when his wife died?” she asked triumphantly.
“I believe that he was nearly as much of a crank as his pretty wife. She was a disciple of Francis Symeon, and he was under Father Hammond’s thumb. The dark room in the Albany, or a cell in La Trappe! There’s not much difference.”
“From a racing stable to a cloister is a bit of a leap in the dark.”
“Claude was always a bold rider. I’ve seen him skylarking over a hedge, on his way home, without knowing where he was to land.”
“I think he is rather lucky to land in a cloister,” said the lady who had refused to tell people her theory of the Provana murder. “But I wonder what they think of it all in Scotland Yard!”
The End