Chapter VII
“Extensive defalcations. A system of fraud that must have been carried on for many years,” repeated Aubrey Todmarsh. “Well, that pretty well settles the matter as far as Thompson is concerned.”
“I don't see it,” contradicted Tony Collyer. “Thompson is a defaulter. That doesn't prove he is a murderer. I don't believe he is. Old chap didn't look like a murderer.”
“My dear Tony, don't be childish!” responded Todmarsh. “A man that commits a murder never does look like a murderer. He wouldn't be so successful if he did.”
“Anyway, if Thompson is guilty, it pretty well knocks the stuffing out of your pet theory,” retorted Tony. “Thompson didn't go to the War.”
“No, but the lust for killing spread over the entire country,” Todmarsh went on, his face assuming a rapt expression as he gazed over Anthony's head at the little clouds scudding across the patch of sky which he could see through the windows above. “Besides, there were murders before the War, and there will be murders when, if ever, it is forgotten. But I do maintain that there have been many more brutal crimes since the War than ever before in the history of the country. Teach a man through all the most impressionable years of his life that there is nothing worth doing but killing his fellow-creatures and trying to kill them, and he will——”
“Oh, stow that—we have heard it all before,” Tony interrupted irritably. “According to your own showing the murder might just as well have been committed by one of your own dear conchies as anyone else. Anyway, I don't believe Thompson killed Uncle Luke. Why should he? He had got the money. He had only to make off with it. Why should he kill the old chap?”
“Well, Uncle Luke may have taxed him with his shortcomings and threatened to prosecute him, perhaps he tried to phone or something of that sort. And Thompson may have sprung at him and throttled him.”
“Don't believe it!” Tony said obstinately.
Todmarsh's eyes narrowed.