Ryland Fratten looked with surprise at his visitor. His first impression of him had suggested anything but a policeman.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Not the usual car-obstruction rot?”
Poole smiled.
“No, sir. It’s rather a confidential matter. I wondered if I might have a talk with you somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed—your rooms, perhaps.”
“I haven’t got much in the way of rooms,” said Fratten, “and they’re a long way off. No one’s in the least likely to barge into this coal-cellar. I wish you’d have a drink. Have a cigarette, anyway.”
“No, thank you, sir. I’ve been instructed to ask you for certain information regarding the death of your father, Sir Garth Fratten.”
Poole watched his companion closely as he said these words. He saw the light-hearted, careless expression on his face change to one of serious attention—Ryland Fratten was listening now, very carefully.
“To be quite frank,” the detective continued, “we are not quite satisfied with the circumstances surrounding Sir Garth’s death; there really should, strictly speaking, have been an inquest, though Sir Horace Spavage informs us that he was perfectly satisfied that death was due to natural causes, arising out of his disease, and that he had no hesitation in giving a certificate. Can you by any chance throw any light on the matter?”
“I don’t think so. What sort of light?”
“You weren’t with your father, or near him, when the accident occurred?”