“Phew!” Mr. Steadman gave a low whistle. “That—that puts a very different complexion on the matter.”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
“Well, for one thing it settles the question of premeditation.”
The inspector coughed.
“I have never believed Mr. Bechcombe's murder to have been unpremeditated. Neither have you, I think, sir.”
“Well, no,” the other conceded. “The crime has always looked to me like a carefully planned and skilfully executed murder. And yet—I don't know.”
“It is the most absolutely baffling affair I have come across for years,” Inspector Furnival observed slowly. “It is the question of motive that is so puzzling. Once we have discovered that I do not think the identity of the murderer will remain a secret long.”
“The public seems to have made up its mind that Thompson is guilty.”
“I know.” Inspector Furnival stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “But why should Thompson, having robbed his master systematically for years, suddenly make up his mind to murder him? For he didn't have the rubber gloves and the chloroform by accident you know, sir.”
“Obviously not.” Mr. Steadman studied his finger nails in silence for a minute, then he looked up suddenly. “Inspector, to my mind absolute frankness is always best. Now, we do not know that Thompson went to Mr. Bechcombe's room at all on the morning of the murder. But there is another whose name is being freely canvassed who certainly did go to the room.”