“Well, not all of it. He left another hundred or so in the savings bank, and some small investments in building societies and so forth—a matter of five hundred. Either he didn’t mean to vanish, or he was in the deuce of a hurry to go.”
“Yes. Yes, there’s another little point. Five or six hundred isn’t much to retire on. Why was he in such a hurry to retire?”
“He may have had more than we can trace, of course. He may have gone off with some Carwell property. But there is no evidence of anything being stolen.”
“The plain fact is,” Finchampstead boomed, “you have found out nothing but that he’s gone. We knew that before.”
“And it’s a pity you kept it dark,” said Lomas acidly. “You wouldn’t have had an appeal to fight.”
“The case against Mark Carwell is intrinsically as strong as ever,” Finchampstead pronounced. “There is no reason whatever to suspect the butler, he had no motive for murder, he gained nothing by it, his disappearance is most naturally accounted for by an accident.”
“Yes, you’ll have to say all that in the Court of Appeal. I don’t think it will cut much ice.”
“I am free to admit that his disappearance is an awkward complication in the case,” Finchampstead’s oratory rolled on. “But surely, Lomas, you have formed some theory in explanation?”
Lomas shook his head.
“We’ve had too much theory, Finch,” said Reggie cheerfully. “Let’s try some facts. I want the body exhumed.”