“There you are, you see,” cried the gardener triumphantly, “that’s c’roborative evidence, and c’roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough.”
“I thought it must be, David.”
“Not a doubt ’bout it, sir. We’ve got him this time safe enough, and he’ll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I’ll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure—you smelt him too, didn’t you?”
“Smelt him?” cried Tom.
“Ay, sir, that’s what I said. You could smell him yards away.”
“Oh no, I didn’t smell him,” said Tom, laughing.
“Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn’t smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o’ our wall?”
“I remember smelling onions very strong.”
“There!” cried David triumphantly. “Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little ’uns pickled, but that chap lives on ’em. You ask anybody in the village, and they’ll tell you they can’t keep an onion in their gardens for him. He’s a savage at ’em. And you mean to tell me that you didn’t smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”