"Just like this case," nodded Mr. Amberley.
"You've hit it, sir," said the sergeant. "It's the chief constable. He's what you might call - well, a bit timid. Now when I said that there wasn't anything queer about this case, what I meant was, it's all straight on the surface. Nothing known against Dawson, no enemies, no women, been in service at the manor for years, everything above board. Well, that ain't natural. Take it from, me, Mr. Amberley, when a man gets himself murdered there's always something behind, and ten to one he's a wrong 'un. Setting aside women, that is. Now in this case there's only one thing that looks a bit fishy."
"Do you wear glasses?" asked Mr. Amberley suddenly.
"Me, sir? No, I do not."
"You should."
"Not me, Mr. Amberley. I see as well as I did when l was a two-year-old."
"That's what I meant. Go on."
"Blessed if I know what you're driving at, sir," said the sergeant candidly. "Well, this fishy thing is the money Dawson had put by. It all goes to his sister. She's a widow, living in London. He hadn't made a will, so she gets it. And there's a tidy sum by what one can make out."
"I always imagined butlers made a bit on the side."
"Some do and some don't. But I never heard of one who made as much as Dawson did. As far as we can make out he's got a matter of a couple of thousand laid by. Spread about, too. Make anything of that, sir?"