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Updated: June 13, 2025
A great number of our authoress's poems still continue unpublished, in the hands of the rev. Mr. Creake, and some were in possession of the right hon. the countess of Hertford. The countess of Winchelsea died August 9, 1720, without issue. She was happy in the friendship of Mr.
If your sister is going to be murdered it may as well be done next week as next year so far as I am concerned. Excuse my brutality, Mr. Hollyer, but this is simply a case to me and I regard it strategically. Now Mr. Carlyle's organization can look after Mrs. Creake for a few weeks, but it cannot look after her for ever. By increasing the immediate risk we diminish the permanent risk."
Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle. "My poor Max," he explained, "you have put yourself to an amount of ingenious trouble for nothing. Creake is evidently taking a few days' holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office forecast before going.
"There was a feeling of suspicion and before me polite hatred that would have gone a good way towards it. All the same there was something more definite. Millicent told me this the day after I went there. There is no doubt that a few months ago Creake deliberately planned to poison her with some weed-killer.
Creake is obviously susceptible to both. Have you seen him?" "No. As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town. Then, two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest for he certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might take a sensational turn at any time I went down to Mulling Common myself.
It proved to be a vast collection of the poems of my beloved Anne Finch. I immediately communicated with the bookseller, and asked him whence it came. He replied that it had been sold, with furniture, pictures and books, at the dispersing of the effects of a family of the name of Creake. Thank you, divine Ardelia! It was well done; it was worthy of you.
When he has removed a few outward traces of his work Creake might quite safely 'discover' his dead wife and rush off for the nearest doctor. Or he may have decided to arrange a convincing alibi, and creep away, leaving the discovery to another. We shall never know; he will make no confession."
"You wish to see over the house?" she said, in a voice that was utterly devoid of any interest. Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to the nearest door and threw it open. "This is the drawing-room," she said, standing aside. They walked into a sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room and made a pretence of looking round, while Mrs. Creake remained silent and aloof.
Hollyer. Have you any idea whether Mrs. Creake has real ground for it?" "I should have told you that," replied Lieutenant Hollyer. "I happened to strike up with a newspaper man whose office is in the same block as Creake's. When I mentioned the name he grinned. 'Creake, he said, 'oh, he's the man with the romantic typist, isn't he? 'Well, he's my brother-in-law, I replied.
"I am Inspector Beedel," said the man on his right side. "You are charged with the attempted murder of your wife, Millicent Creake." "You are mad," retorted the miserable creature, falling into a desperate calmness. "She has been struck by lightning." "No, you blackguard, she hasn't," wrathfully exclaimed his brother-in-law, jumping up. "Would you like to see her?"
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