“Very good, Mr. Brunton,” the inspector said as he stopped. “And now just you tell Mr. Steadman why you listened—why you were anxious to hear.”
The youth glanced at Steadman in a scared fashion. “I—I listened, sir, because I recognized the voices, one voice at least for certain—the man's. It was Mr. Amos Thompson's, the late Mr. Bechcombe's managing clerk.”
John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “You are sure?”
“Quite certain, as certain as I could be of anything,” asseverated Brunton. “I knew Mr. Thompson's voice too well to make any mistake, sir. I had good reason to, for he was for ever nagging at me when I was at Mr. Bechcombe's. There wouldn't be one of us clerks who wouldn't recognize Mr. Thompson's voice.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows again. “And the other voice—the woman's?”
Mr. Brunton fidgeted. “I wasn't so certain of that, sir. I hadn't had so many opportunities of hearing it, you see. But it sounded like Miss Hoyle's—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary. I heard it at the inquest.”
“I understand you saw absolutely nothing to show that you were right in either surmise,” John Steadman said, his face showing none of the surprise he felt at hearing Cecily's name.
“Nothing—nothing at all!” Mr. Brunton confirmed. “But, if I ever heard it on earth, it was Mr. Thompson's voice I heard then. And I don't think—I really don't think I was wrong in taking the other for Miss Hoyle's, as I say I heard it at the inquest, and I took particular notice of it.”
“Um!” John Steadman stroked his nose meditatively. “How long had you been in Mr. Bechcombe's office, Mr. Brunton?”
Mr. Brunton hesitated a moment.