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Essentials of
Oral Biology
Second Edition
Essentials of
Oral Biology
Second Edition
Science and technology are constantly changing fields. New research and
experience broaden the scope of information and knowledge. The authors
have tried their best in giving information available to them while preparing
the material for this book. Although, all efforts have been made to ensure
optimum accuracy of the material, yet it is quite possible some errors might
have been left uncorrected. The publisher, the printer and the authors will not
be held responsible for any inadvertent errors, omissions or inaccuracies.
eISBN: 978-93-877-4261-1
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Foreword
▪ Dr Heera R
Professor, Department of Oral Pathology
Government Dental College
Thiruvananthapuram
▪ Dr Girish KL
Professor, Department of Oral Pathology
Sri Mookambika Institute of Dental Sciences
Kulasekaram, Kanyakumari
Tamil Nadu
▪ Dr Rajeesh Mohammed PK
Professor, Department of Oral Pathology
KMCT Dental College
Mukkam, Kozhikode
Kerala
▪ Dr Usha Balan
Assistant Professor
College of Dentistry
King Khalid University
Abah, KSA
▪ Dr Ajeesha Feroz
Department of Oral Pathology
Mahe Institute of Dental Sciences
Mahe, UT of Puducherry
Preface to Second Edition
I thank God Almighty for all the blessings He has showered on me in this
venture. The preparation of this textbook was possible only with the help
and cooperation of a number of people.
I would like to express my gratitude to Dr Sripathi Rao, Principal,
Yenepoya Dental College, for his kind words of encouragement and moral
support, received at every stage of the preparation of this book. I also thank
him for writing the Foreword to the book.
I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to Dr Heera R, faculty of Oral
Pathology, Government Dental College, Thiruvananthapuram, my teacher
and friend, for giving me all guidance, moral support, and for sharing her
knowledge at different stages of my work, and also for contribution in the
book.
I gratefully acknowledge the constant support of Dr Rajeesh Mohammed
PK, Dr Girish KL, Dr Usha Balan and Dr Ajeesha Firoz who have also
contributed chapters to this book. I am indebted to Head of the Department
and all my colleagues of Department of Oral Pathology, Yenepoya Dental
College, Mangalore, especially Dr Joshy, Dr Meera and Dr Haziel Diana
Jenifer, for their constructive suggestions and timely support.
The talented staff of CBS Publishers & Distributors deserve praise for their
role in shaping this book.
I owe a great deal of regard and gratitude to my parents, teachers and
beloved students who have played a major role in making me what I am
today. I thank my husband Mr Ajoy S. Joseph, and my children, Joe and Jiya,
who stood by me at all the stages and exhibited patience and affection which
enabled me to carry on with the work smoothly.
We would like to thank Mr S.K. Jain (CMD), Mr. Varun Jain (Director),
Mr. YN Arjuna (Senior Vice President – Publishing and Editorial), and Mr.
Ashish Dixit (Business Head – Digital Publishing, Marketing & Sales) and
his team at CBS Publishers & Distributors Pvt. Ltd. for their skill,
enthusiasm, support, patience and excellent professional approach in
producing and publishing this eBook.
Finally, I thank each and everyone whose contribution, direct or indirect,
has made the preparation of this book a pleasant task.
Maji Jose
Syllabus
I. TOOTH MORPHOLOGY
Oral Embryology
1. General Embryology
2. Development of Orofacial Structures
1
General Embryology
Formation of blastocyst
Germ layers
Neural crest cells
Pharyngeal arches and pouches
Lady Molly always had the idea that if the finger of Fate had
pointed to Mathis’ in Regent Street, rather than to Lyons’, as the
most advisable place for us to have a cup of tea that afternoon, Mr.
Culledon would be alive at the present moment.
My dear lady is quite sure—and needless to say that I share her
belief in herself—that she would have anticipated the murderer’s
intentions, and thus prevented one of the most cruel and callous of
crimes which were ever perpetrated in the heart of London.
She and I had been to a matinée of “Trilby,” and were having tea
at Lyons’, which is exactly opposite Mathis’ Vienna café in Regent
Street. From where we sat we commanded a view of the street and
of the café, which had been very crowded during the last hour.
We had lingered over our toasted muffin until past six, when our
attention was drawn to the unusual commotion which had arisen
both outside and in the brilliantly lighted place over the road.
We saw two men run out of the doorway, and return a minute or
two later in company with a policeman. You know what is the
inevitable result of such a proceeding in London. Within three
minutes a crowd had collected outside Mathis’. Two or three more
constables had already assembled, and had some difficulty in
keeping the entrance clear of intruders.
But already my dear lady, keen as a pointer on the scent, had
hastily paid her bill, and, without waiting to see if I followed her or
not, had quickly crossed the road, and the next moment her graceful
form was lost in the crowd.
I went after her, impelled by curiosity, and presently caught sight of
her in close conversation with one of our own men. I have always
thought that Lady Molly must have eyes at the back of her head,
otherwise how could she have known that I stood behind her now?
Anyway, she beckoned to me, and together we entered Mathis’,
much to the astonishment and anger of the less fortunate crowd.
The usually gay little place was indeed sadly transformed. In one
corner the waitresses, in dainty caps and aprons, had put their
heads together, and were eagerly whispering to one another whilst
casting furtive looks at the small group assembled in front of one of
those pretty alcoves, which, as you know, line the walls all round the
big tea-room at Mathis’.
Here two of our men were busy with pencil and note-book, whilst
one fair-haired waitress, dissolved in tears, was apparently giving
them a great deal of irrelevant and confused information.
Chief Inspector Saunders had, I understood, been already sent
for; the constables, confronted with this extraordinary tragedy, were
casting anxious glances towards the main entrance, whilst putting
the conventional questions to the young waitress.
And in the alcove itself, raised from the floor of the room by a
couple of carpeted steps, the cause of all this commotion, all this
anxiety, and all these tears, sat huddled up on a chair, with arms
lying straight across the marble-topped table, on which the usual
paraphernalia of afternoon tea still lay scattered about. The upper
part of the body, limp, backboneless, and awry, half propped up
against the wall, half falling back upon the outstretched arms, told
quite plainly its weird tale of death.
Before my dear lady and I had time to ask any questions,
Saunders arrived in a taxicab. He was accompanied by the medical
officer, Dr. Townson, who at once busied himself with the dead man,
whilst Saunders went up quickly to Lady Molly.
“The chief suggested sending for you,” he said quickly; “he was
’phoning you when I left. There’s a woman in this case, and we shall
rely on you a good deal.”
“What has happened?” asked my dear lady, whose fine eyes were
glowing with excitement at the mere suggestion of work.
“I have only a few stray particulars,” replied Saunders, “but the
chief witness is that yellow-haired girl over there. We’ll find out what
we can from her directly Dr. Townson has given us his opinion.”
The medical officer, who had been kneeling beside the dead man,
now rose and turned to Saunders. His face was very grave.
“The whole matter is simple enough, so far as I am concerned,” he
said. “The man has been killed by a terrific dose of morphia—
administered, no doubt, in this cup of chocolate,” he added, pointing
to a cup in which there still lingered the cold dregs of the thick
beverage.
“But when did this occur?” asked Saunders, turning to the
waitress.
“I can’t say,” she replied, speaking with obvious nervousness. “The
gentleman came in very early with a lady, somewhere about four.
They made straight for this alcove. The place was just beginning to
fill, and the music had begun.”
“And where is the lady now?”
“She went off almost directly. She had ordered tea for herself and
a cup of chocolate for the gentleman, also muffins and cakes. About
five minutes afterwards, as I went past their table, I heard her say to
him, ‘I am afraid I must go now, or Jay’s will be closed, but I’ll be
back in less than half an hour. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?’ ”
“Did the gentleman seem all right then?”
“Oh, yes,” said the waitress. “He had just begun to sip his
chocolate, and merely said ‘S’long’ as she gathered up her gloves
and muff and then went out of the shop.”
“And she has not returned since?”
“No.”
“When did you first notice there was anything wrong with this
gentleman?” asked Lady Molly.
“Well,” said the girl with some hesitation, “I looked at him once or
twice as I went up and down, for he certainly seemed to have fallen
all of a heap. Of course, I thought that he had gone to sleep, and I
spoke to the manageress about him, but she thought that I ought to
leave him alone for a bit. Then we got very busy, and I paid no more
attention to him, until about six o’clock, when most afternoon tea
customers had gone, and we were beginning to get the tables ready
for dinners. Then I certainly did think there was something wrong
with the man. I called to the manageress, and we sent for the police.”
“And the lady who was with him at first, what was she like? Would
you know her again?” queried Saunders.
“I don’t know,” replied the girl; “you see, I have to attend to such
crowds of people of an afternoon, I can’t notice each one. And she
had on one of those enormous mushroom hats; no one could have
seen her face—not more than her chin—unless they looked right
under the hat.”
“Would you know the hat again?” asked Lady Molly.
“Yes—I think I should,” said the waitress. “It was black velvet and
had a lot of plumes. It was enormous,” she added, with a sigh of
admiration and of longing for the monumental headgear.
During the girl’s narrative one of the constables had searched the
dead man’s pockets. Among other items, he had found several
letters addressed to Mark Culledon, Esq., some with an address in
Lombard Street, others with one in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead.
The initials M. C., which appeared both in the hat and on the silver
mount of a letter-case belonging to the unfortunate gentleman,
proved his identity beyond a doubt.
A house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue does not, somehow, suggest a
bachelor establishment. Even whilst Saunders and the other men
were looking through the belongings of the deceased, Lady Molly
had already thought of his family—children, perhaps a wife, a mother
—who could tell?
What awful news to bring to an unsuspecting, happy family, who
might even now be expecting the return of father, husband, or son, at
the very moment when he lay murdered in a public place, the victim
of some hideous plot or feminine revenge!
As our amiable friends in Paris would say, it jumped to the eyes
that there was a woman in the case—a woman who had worn a
gargantuan hat for the obvious purpose of remaining unidentifiable
when the question of the unfortunate victim’s companion that
afternoon came up for solution. And all these facts to put before an
expectant wife or an anxious mother!
As, no doubt, you have already foreseen, Lady Molly took the
difficult task on her own kind shoulders. She and I drove together to
Lorbury House, Fitzjohn’s Avenue, and on asking of the manservant
who opened the door if his mistress were at home, we were told that
Lady Irene Culledon was in the drawing-room.
Mine is not a story of sentiment, so I am not going to dwell on that
interview, which was one of the most painful moments I recollect
having lived through.
Lady Irene was young—not five-and-twenty, I should say—petite
and frail-looking, but with a quiet dignity of manner which was most
impressive. She was Irish, as you know, the daughter of the Earl of
Athyville, and, it seems, had married Mr. Mark Culledon in the teeth
of strenuous opposition on the part of her family, which was as
penniless as it was aristocratic, whilst Mr. Culledon had great
prospects and a splendid business, but possessed neither ancestors
nor high connections. She had only been married six months, poor
little soul, and from all accounts must have idolised her husband.
Lady Molly broke the news to her with infinite tact, but there it was!
It was a terrific blow—wasn’t it?—to deal to a young wife—now a
widow; and there was so little that a stranger could say in these
circumstances. Even my dear lady’s gentle voice, her persuasive
eloquence, her kindly words, sounded empty and conventional in the
face of such appalling grief.
2
“Well! we are no nearer than we were before,” said the chief, with
an impatient sigh, when the door had closed behind Katherine
Harris.
“Don’t you think so?” rejoined Lady Molly, blandly.
“Do you consider that what we have heard just now has helped us
to discover who was the woman in the big hat?” retorted the chief,
somewhat testily.
“Perhaps not,” replied my dear lady, with her sweet smile; “but it
may help us to discover who murdered Mr. Culledon.”
With which enigmatical statement she effectually silenced the
chief, and finally walked out of his office, followed by her faithful
Mary.
Following Katherine Harris’s indications, a description of the lady
who was wanted in connection with the murder of Mr. Culledon was
very widely circulated, and within two days of the interview with the
ex-parlour-maid another very momentous one took place in the
same office.
Lady Molly was at work with the chief over some reports, whilst I
was taking shorthand notes at a side desk, when a card was brought
in by one of the men, and the next moment, without waiting either for
permission to enter or to be more formally announced, a magnificent
apparition literally sailed into the dust-covered little back office, filling
it with an atmosphere of Parma violets and russia leather.
I don’t think that I had ever seen a more beautiful woman in my
life. Tall, with a splendid figure and perfect carriage, she vaguely
reminded me of the portraits one sees of the late Empress of Austria.
This lady was, moreover, dressed to perfection, and wore a large hat
adorned with a quantity of plumes.
The chief had instinctively risen to greet her, whilst Lady Molly, still
and placid, was eyeing her with a quizzical smile.
“You know who I am, sir,” began the visitor as soon as she had
sunk gracefully into a chair; “my name is on that card. My
appearance, I understand, tallies exactly with that of a woman who is
supposed to have murdered Mark Culledon.”
She said this so calmly, with such perfect self-possession, that I
literally gasped. The chief, too, seemed to have been metaphorically
lifted off his feet. He tried to mutter a reply.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, sir!” she interrupted him, with a smile.
“My landlady, my servant, my friends have all read the description of
the woman who murdered Mr. Culledon. For the past twenty-four
hours I have been watched by your police, therefore I have come to
you of my own accord, before they came to arrest me in my flat. I am
not too soon, am I?” she asked, with that same cool indifference
which was so startling, considering the subject of her conversation.
She spoke English with a scarcely perceptible foreign accent, but I
quite understood what Katherine Harris had meant when she said
that the lady looked “French like.” She certainly did not look English,
and when I caught sight of her name on the card, which the chief
had handed to Lady Molly, I put her down at once as Viennese. Miss
Elizabeth Löwenthal had all the charm, the grace, the elegance,
which one associates with Austrian women more than with those of
any other nation.
No wonder the chief found it difficult to tell her that, as a matter of
fact, the police were about to apply for a warrant that very morning
for her arrest on a charge of wilful murder.
“I know—I know,” she said, seeming to divine his thoughts; “but let
me tell you at once, sir, that I did not murder Mark Culledon. He
treated me shamefully, and I would willingly have made a scandal
just to spite him; he had become so respectable and strait-laced. But
between scandal and murder there is a wide gulf. Don’t you think so,
madam,” she added, turning for the first time towards Lady Molly.
“Undoubtedly,” replied my dear lady, with the same quizzical smile.
“A wide gulf which, no doubt, Miss Elizabeth Löwenthal will best
be able to demonstrate to the magistrate to-morrow,” rejoined the
chief, with official sternness of manner.
I thought that, for the space of a few seconds, the lady lost her
self-assurance at this obvious suggestion—the bloom on her cheeks
seemed to vanish, and two hard lines appeared between her fine
eyes. But, frightened or not, she quickly recovered herself, and said
quietly:
“Now, my dear sir, let us understand one another. I came here for
that express purpose. I take it that you don’t want your police to look
ridiculous any more than I want a scandal. I don’t want detectives to
hang about round my flat, questioning my neighbours and my
servants. They would soon find out that I did not murder Mark
Culledon, of course; but the atmosphere of the police would hang
round me, and I—I prefer Parma violets,” she added, raising a
daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose.
“Then you have come to make a statement?” asked the chief.
“Yes,” she replied; “I’ll tell you all I know. Mr. Culledon was
engaged to marry me; then he met the daughter of an earl, and
thought he would like her better as a wife than a simple Miss
Löwenthal. I suppose I should be considered an undesirable match
for a young man who has a highly respectable and snobbish aunt,
who would leave him all her money only on the condition that he
made a suitable marriage. I have a voice, and I came over to
England two years ago to study English, so that I might sing in
oratorio at the Albert Hall. I met Mark on the Calais-Dover boat,
when he was returning from a holiday abroad. He fell in love with
me, and presently he asked me to be his wife. After some demur, I
accepted him; we became engaged, but he told me that our
engagement must remain a secret, for he had an old aunt from
whom he had great expectations, and who might not approve of his
marrying a foreign girl, who was without connections and a
professional singer. From that moment I mistrusted him, nor was I
very astonished when gradually his affection for me seemed to cool.
Soon after, he informed me, quite callously, that he had changed his
mind, and was going to marry some swell English lady. I didn’t care
much, but I wanted to punish him by making a scandal, you
understand. I went to his house just to worry him, and finally I
decided to bring an action for breach of promise against him. It
would have upset him, I know; no doubt his aunt would have cut him
out of her will. That is all I wanted, but I did not care enough about
him to murder him.”
Somehow her tale carried conviction. We were all of us obviously
impressed. The chief alone looked visibly disturbed, and I could read
what was going on in his mind.
“As you say, Miss Löwenthal,” he rejoined, “the police would have
found all this out within the next few hours. Once your connection
with the murdered man was known to us, the record of your past and
his becomes an easy one to peruse. No doubt, too,” he added
insinuatingly, “our men would soon have been placed in possession
of the one undisputable proof of your complete innocence with
regard to that fateful afternoon spent at Mathis’ café.”
“What is that?” she queried blandly.
“An alibi.”
“You mean, where I was during the time that Mark was being
murdered in a tea shop?”
“Yes,” said the chief.
“I was out for a walk,” she replied quietly.
“Shopping, perhaps?”
“No.”
“You met some one who would remember the circumstance—or
your servants could say at what time you came in?”
“No,” she repeated dryly; “I met no one, for I took a brisk walk on
Primrose Hill. My two servants could only say that I went out at three
o’clock that afternoon and returned after five.”
There was silence in the little office for a moment or two. I could
hear the scraping of the pen with which the chief was idly scribbling
geometrical figures on his blotting pad.
Lady Molly was quite still. Her large, luminous eyes were fixed on
the beautiful woman who had just told us her strange story, with its
unaccountable sequel, its mystery which had deepened with the last
phrase which she had uttered. Miss Löwenthal, I felt sure, was
conscious of her peril. I am not sufficiently a psychologist to know
whether it was guilt or merely fear which was distorting the
handsome features now, hardening the face and causing the lips to
tremble.
Lady Molly scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper, which she
then passed over to the chief. Miss Löwenthal was making visible
efforts to steady her nerves.
“That is all I have to tell you,” she said, in a voice which sounded
dry and harsh. “I think I will go home now.”
But she did not rise from her chair, and seemed to hesitate as if
fearful lest permission to go were not granted her.
To her obvious astonishment—and, I must add, to my own—the
chief immediately rose and said, quite urbanely:
“I thank you very much for the helpful information which you have
given me. Of course, we may rely on your presence in town for the
next few days, may we not?”
She seemed greatly relieved, and all at once resumed her former
charm of manner and elegance of attitude. The beautiful face was lit
up by a smile.
The chief was bowing to her in quite a foreign fashion, and in spite
of her visible reassurance she eyed him very intently. Then she went
up to Lady Molly and held out her hand.
My dear lady took it without an instant’s hesitation. I, who knew
that it was the few words hastily scribbled by Lady Molly which had
dictated the chief’s conduct with regard to Miss Löwenthal, was left
wondering whether the woman I loved best in all the world had been
shaking hands with a murderess.
4
No doubt you will remember the sensation which was caused by the
arrest of Miss Löwenthal, on a charge of having murdered Mr. Mark
Culledon, by administering morphia to him in a cup of chocolate at
Mathis’ café in Regent Street.
The beauty of the accused, her undeniable charm of manner, the
hitherto blameless character of her life, all tended to make the public
take violent sides either for or against her, and the usual budget of
amateur correspondence, suggestions, recriminations and advice
poured into the chief’s office in titanic proportions.
I must say that, personally, all my sympathies went out to Miss
Löwenthal. As I have said before, I am no psychologist, but I had
seen her in the original interview at the office, and I could not get rid
of an absolutely unreasoning certitude that the beautiful Viennese
singer was innocent.
The magistrate’s court was packed, as you may well imagine, on
that first day of the inquiry; and, of course, sympathy with the
accused went up to fever pitch when she staggered into the dock,
beautiful still, despite the ravages caused by horror, anxiety, fear, in
face of the deadly peril in which she stood.
The magistrate was most kind to her; her solicitor was
unimpeachably assiduous; even our fellows, who had to give
evidence against her, did no more than their duty, and were as
lenient in their statements as possible.
Miss Löwenthal had been arrested in her flat by Danvers,
accompanied by two constables. She had loudly protested her
innocence all along, and did so still, pleading “Not guilty” in a firm
voice.
The great points in favour of the arrest were, firstly, the undoubted
motive of disappointment and revenge against a faithless
sweetheart, then the total inability to prove any kind of alibi, which,
under the circumstances, certainly added to the appearance of guilt.
The question of where the fatal drug was obtained was more
difficult to prove. It was stated that Mr. Mark Culledon was director of
several important companies, one of which carried on business as
wholesale druggists.
Therefore it was argued that the accused, at different times and
under some pretext or other, had obtained drugs from Mr. Culledon
himself. She had admitted to having visited the deceased at his
office in the City, both before and after his marriage.
Miss Löwenthal listened to all this evidence against her with a
hard, set face, as she did also to Katherine Harris’s statement about
her calling on Mr. Culledon at Lorbury House, but she brightened up
visibly when the various attendants at Mathis’ café were placed in
the box.
A very large hat belonging to the accused was shown to the
witnesses, but, though the police upheld the theory that that was the
headgear worn by the mysterious lady at the café on that fateful
afternoon, the waitresses made distinctly contradictory statements
with regard to it.
Whilst one girl swore that she recognised the very hat, another
was equally positive that it was distinctly smaller than the one she
recollected, and when the hat was placed on the head of Miss
Löwenthal, three out of the four witnesses positively refused to
identify her.
Most of these young women declared that though the accused,
when wearing the big hat, looked as if she might have been the lady
in question, yet there was a certain something about her which was
different.
With that vagueness which is a usual and highly irritating
characteristic of their class, the girls finally parried every question by
refusing to swear positively either for or against the identity of Miss
Löwenthal.
“There’s something that’s different about her somehow,” one of the
waitresses asserted positively.
“What is it that’s different?” asked the solicitor for the accused,
pressing his point.
“I can’t say,” was the perpetual, maddening reply.
Of course the poor young widow had to be dragged into the case,
and here, I think, opinions and even expressions of sympathy were
quite unanimous.
The whole tragedy had been inexpressibly painful to her, of
course, and now it must have seemed doubly so. The scandal which
had accumulated round her late husband’s name must have added
the poignancy of shame to that of grief. Mark Culledon had behaved
as callously to the girl whom clearly he had married from interested,
family motives, as he had to the one whom he had heartlessly cast
aside.
Lady Irene, however, was most moderate in her statements. There
was no doubt that she had known of her husband’s previous
entanglement with Miss Löwenthal, but apparently had not thought fit
to make him accountable for the past. She did not know that Miss
Löwenthal had threatened a breach of promise action against her
husband.
Throughout her evidence she spoke with absolute calm and
dignity, and looked indeed a strange contrast, in her closely fitting
tailor-made costume of black serge and tiny black toque, to the more
brilliant woman who stood in the dock.
The two great points in favour of the accused were, firstly, the
vagueness of the witnesses who were called to identify her, and,
secondly, the fact that she had undoubtedly begun proceedings for
breach of promise against the deceased. Judging by the latter’s
letters to her, she would have had a splendid case against him,
which fact naturally dealt a severe blow to the theory as to motive for
the murder.
On the whole, the magistrate felt that there was not a sufficiency of
evidence against the accused to warrant his committing her for trial;
he therefore discharged her, and, amid loud applause from the
public, Miss Löwenthal left the court a free woman.
Now, I know that the public did loudly, and, to my mind, very justly,
blame the police for that arrest, which was denounced as being as
cruel as it was unjustifiable. I felt as strongly as anybody on the
subject, for I knew that the prosecution had been instituted in
defiance of Lady Molly’s express advice, and in distinct contradiction
to the evidence which she had collected. When, therefore, the chief
again asked my dear lady to renew her efforts in that mysterious
case, it was small wonder that her enthusiasm did not respond to his
anxiety. That she would do her duty was beyond a doubt, but she
had very naturally lost her more fervent interest in the case.
The mysterious woman in the big hat was still the chief subject of
leading articles in the papers, coupled with that of the ineptitude of
the police who could not discover her. There were caricatures and
picture post-cards in all the shop windows of a gigantic hat covering
the whole figure of its wearer, only the feet, and a very long and
pointed chin, protruding from beneath the enormous brim. Below
was the device, “Who is she? Ask the police?”
One day—it was the second since the discharge of Miss
Löwenthal—my dear lady came into my room beaming. It was the
first time I had seen her smile for more than a week, and already I
had guessed what it was that had cheered her.
“Good news, Mary,” she said gaily. “At last I’ve got the chief to let
me have a free hand. Oh, dear! what a lot of argument it takes to
extricate that man from the tangled meshes of red tape!”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Prove that my theory is right as to who murdered Mark Culledon,”
she replied seriously; “and as a preliminary we’ll go and ask his
servants at Lorbury House a few questions.”
It was then three o’clock in the afternoon. At Lady Molly’s bidding,
I dressed somewhat smartly, and together we went off in a taxi to
Fitzjohn’s Avenue.
Lady Molly had written a few words on one of her cards, urgently
requesting an interview with Lady Irene Culledon. This she handed
over to the man-servant who opened the door at Lorbury House. A
few moments later we were sitting in the cosy boudoir. The young
widow, high-bred and dignified in her tight-fitting black gown, sat
opposite to us, her white hands folded demurely before her, her
small head, with its very close coiffure, bent in closest attention
towards Lady Molly.
“I most sincerely hope, Lady Irene,” began my dear lady, in her
most gentle and persuasive voice, “that you will look with all possible
indulgence on my growing desire—shared, I may say, by all my
superiors at Scotland Yard—to elucidate the mystery which still
surrounds your late husband’s death.”
Lady Molly paused, as if waiting for encouragement to proceed.
The subject must have been extremely painful to the young widow;
nevertheless she responded quite gently:
“I can understand that the police wish to do their duty in the
matter; as for me, I have done all, I think, that could be expected of
me. I am not made of iron, and after that day in the police court——”
She checked herself, as if afraid of having betrayed more emotion
than was consistent with good breeding, and concluded more calmly:
“I cannot do any more.”
“I fully appreciate your feelings in the matter,” said Lady Molly, “but
you would not mind helping us—would you?—in a passive way, if
you could, by some simple means, further the cause of justice.”
“What is it you want me to do?” asked Lady Irene.
“Only to allow me to ring for two of your maids and to ask them a
few questions. I promise you that they shall not be of such a nature
as to cause you the slightest pain.”
For a moment I thought that the young widow hesitated, then,
without a word, she rose and rang the bell.
“Which of my servants did you wish to see?” she asked, turning to
my dear lady as soon as the butler entered in answer to the bell.
“Your own maid and your parlour-maid, if I may,” replied Lady
Molly.
Lady Irene gave the necessary orders, and we all sat expectant
and silent until, a minute or two later, two girls entered the room. One
wore a cap and apron, the other, in neat black dress and dainty lace
collar, was obviously the lady’s maid.
“This lady,” said their mistress, addressing the two girls, “wishes to
ask you a few questions. She is a representative of the police, so
you had better do your best to satisfy her with your answers.”
“Oh!” rejoined Lady Molly pleasantly—choosing not to notice the
tone of acerbity with which the young widow had spoken, nor the
unmistakable barrier of hostility and reserve which her words had
immediately raised between the young servants and the
“representative of the police”—“what I am going to ask these two
young ladies is neither very difficult nor very unpleasant. I merely
want their kind help in a little comedy which will have to be played
this evening, in order to test the accuracy of certain statements
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