“No, it isn’t; I know that. But as they’re both dead, justice isn’t going to be cheated.”
“You’re going to publish your solution in the Courier, after the facts have come out at the inquest next Thursday?”
“Yes, but only as an interesting theory, of course. I don’t know whether there’s any law about libelling the dead, but in any case I couldn’t very well do more than put it forward as a workable solution, in the complete absence, as you say, of all proof.”
The inspector smoked a few more minutes in silence.
“I think, sir,” he said slowly, “that you’ll find the official explanation of the whole thing, for the benefit of the public, will be that Mrs. Vane’s death was an accident and Meadows committed suicide.”
Roger nodded. “Yes, I’d rather expected that. It’s tame, of course, but it’s safe. Do you mean, you don’t want me to attack that too fiercely in the Courier?”
“Well, we don’t want to stir up mud which it’s impossible to clarify,” replied the inspector, in somewhat deprecating tones.
“I see that. Very well, I promise not to be sarcastic. You must let me put my theory forward, just as an interesting piece of deductive reasoning, but I won’t insist upon its being the truth.—And after all,” Roger added, “I can’t defend it, except on the grounds of probability and commonsense. However convinced we ourselves may be that it’s the right solution, we’re always up against this unfortunate absence of decisive proof.”
The inspector nodded as if satisfied. “I think you’re wise, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” he said.
“Well, well,” remarked Anthony robustly. “What about a drink?”