“Yes. For my cricket week.”
“Known him long?”
“No. It would help you materially, if I informed you of the circumstances of the acquaintanceship. Prescott was at Oxford with my son and Mr. Cunningham here, and we met him at Lords’ during the last ’Varsity Match—just a month ago. We invited him here for our annual week.”
The Inspector was impressed. “Is he G. O. L. Prescott then—that played for Oxford against Cambridge?”
“He is, Inspector! And there’s one more fact that I had omitted to mention, he had met my daughter, Mary, some months previously.”
“Where?” Baddeley’s face betrayed keen interest.
“At Twickenham, in December.”
“You have no reason to suspect, Sir Charles, that any developments had transpired from these meetings?”
“None whatever. As far as my knowledge goes, Mr. Prescott and my daughter entertained no feelings for each other, beyond those of mere friendship.”
“I see.” Baddeley fingered his chin. “You’ve seen nothing during his stay here, that you consider might have any bearing upon his death? Nothing—however seemingly unimportant? Think, Sir Charles!”