"No, he doesn't. Silly, weak kind of face, and by all accounts he was a selfish young bounder, not given to putting himself out for anyone but himself. No, what it looks like to me, at first glance, is an attempt to put the black on the late Ernest. Not much of an attempt either, which is about what you'd expect, judging from his record."
"Yes," Hannasyde agreed. "And then we come up against the murder."
"Slap up against it," nodded the Sergeant. "And it doesn't fit."
"Several loose ends somewhere. He fits the description given by Glass and Mrs. North, though - but I admit they were too vague to be of much use."
"Oh, so Mrs. North was there, was she?"
"She was there, and unless I am much mistaken she thinks it was her husband who killed Fletcher."
The Sergeant opened his eyes at that. "You do see life in the suburbs, don't you? Nice goings-on! Whatever does Ichabod say about it?"
"As I haven't told him anything about it, he hasn't yet favoured me with his opinion."
"You wait till he gets wind of it. He'll learn a whole new piece to say to us. But this line on Mrs. North's husband is very confusing. What's been happening your end, Chief?"
Hannasyde gave him a brief account of his two interviews with Helen North. The Sergeant listened in silence, his bright, penetrating eyes fixed on his superior's face with an expression in them of gradually deepening disgust.