H.M. saved the situation then by deliberately reaching behind Masters, unobserved, and pushing the kitchen clock off the shelf.
It was the sacrifice of a good clock, but it worked.
"She's upset, poor old girl," observed Sharpless sympathetically, watching Mrs. Propper as she tried to conceal her emotion by a distracted examination of broken wheels and springs. "I'm going up to see Vicky. Cheer-ho. See you later." The swing-door closed.
"My poor little clock!" cried Mrs. «Propper. "My nice little clock!"
Ann Browning spoke in a low, clear, firm voice.
"Sir Henry," she said, "that boy isn't guilty. You know it as well as I do."
"Why is that man wearing his hat in my house?" demanded Mrs. Propper, gathering up the clock and pointing at Masters. "I won't have him wearing his hat in our house."
Holding himself under strong restraint, Masters walked — he almost tiptoed — to the door leading out into the back garden. He opened this, stood aside, and nodded to the others. H.M., Ann, and Courtney filed out. Masters followed them, and firmly closed the door.
Even the thick, close air outside was welcome after the air of die kitchen.
"Chief Inspector," said Courtney, "I didn't know I was speaking in prophecy. No offense is meant. But, as Ann said, you know as sure as you're born that Frank Sharpless never poisoned a grapefruit to give to Vicky Fane. And if Frank didn't do it, nobody else could have done it. So it follows that nobody could have poisoned the grapefruit."