“I can’t say, I’m afraid. We haven’t seen him since breakfast. Is it anything important?”
“It is rather.”
“Well, have a drink while you’re waiting. I can recommend the beer here.”
“Thanks.”
“Anthony, shout down for three tankards,” Roger said hospitably, quite unperturbed by his guest’s noticeable failure to return his own cordiality; indeed the young man’s manner was so abrupt and cold as to be not far short of downright rude.
Anthony’s stentorian shout echoed down the dark stairs.
“Couldn’t I give the inspector a message, if he’s longer than you care to wait?” Roger asked, turning back to Woodthorpe.
“I’m afraid not,” said the young man stiffly. “My business with him is rather private.” He swallowed slightly and swept a nervous glance toward the door, through which Anthony was just returning. “Oh, well,” he burst out with sudden defiance, “you’ll know soon enough in any case, so I may as well tell you now. I’ve come to give myself up. I killed Mrs. Vane and—and Meadows.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.