The Major was stricken to silence; Charles said, under his breath: “Must you always dramatise yourself?” and Hemingway, with an air of cosy interest, said conversationally: “Did you, though, sir? And how did you manage that, or is it a secret?”
“It's a lot of nonsense!” muttered Sergeant Carsethorn, glowering at Gavin.
“I induced him to kill himself, Chief Inspector, thus succeeding to his property. I won't say to his debts, for they were really almost negligible—unlike the liabilities which attach to any estate in these delightful times. Of course, had I known that Walter's money was almost wholly tied up in land—did I say that reverently enough, Charles? I've been practising ever since I succeeded Walter, but I fear I still haven't got it right—well, had I known this, I'm not at all sure that I should have driven him to suicide.”
“If you don't like living at Thornden House, why don't you clear out?” demanded Charles.
“Find me a buyer!”
The Major rose to his feet. “I must be getting along,” he said. “If I may say so, Plenmeller, you're talking plain balderdash!”
“What a lovely word! May I use it, or is it copyright?”
The Major ignored him, saying to Hemingway: “The late Mr. Plenmeller, as I have no doubt the Sergeant will tell you, was a bit of a war-casualty, and took his own life while temporarily of unsound mind.”
“Leaving a letter accusing me of having driven him to it. Don't forget that!”
“It's a pity you can't,” said the Major, with unaccustomed sternness. “Mistake to keep on brooding over things. Goodnight, Abby!”