This was the wrong approach.
"No," said Masters. "And nobody could have exchanged the daggers either. But somebody smacking well did."
He extended the palm of his left hand, and with dangerous quietness tapped the forefinger of his right-hand in it.
"Don't you see it's the same mess all over again? By our evidence, the only person who could have exchanged the daggers was Mrs. Fane. But she didn't do it, because she had the strongest motive not to. The only person who could have poisoned the grapefruit was Captain Sharpless. But he didn't do it, because he had the strongest motive not to. Oh, lummy, lead me to a lunatic asylum."
Black clouds, edged with tarnished silver, shielded a sun which was still brilliant.
H.M. shook his head in slow and sour disbelief. He went over to inspect the dustbin, taking off the lid and replacing it with a clang. Then he pushed open the door of the garden shed, and thrust his big bald head inside. He disclosed nothing more than a lawn-mower, various rakes and shears, a short ladder, a wheelbarrow, and some beach-chairs.
"No!" he said.
"What do you mean, no?" Masters persisted.
"I mean it's not just the blinkin' awful cussedness of things in general. Not this time. It's design."
A step stirred in the gravel path through the rose-garden. Hubert Fane, wearing a gray double-breasted suit, a decorous black tie, and a white rose in his buttonhole, emerged from the garden. The sunlight made his thin hair look like spun glass, and accentuated the slight hollows of his temples. Even his big nose had an air of serenity and benevolence. He carried a pair of shears.