“He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my cousin Cressida during the war.”
Armadale's face lighted up as he heard this.
“Then how do you account for her being the wife of Mr. Stanley Fleetwood?” he asked abruptly.
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently.
“Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn't turn up after the war, so I expect she wrote him down as dead. She'd hardly grieve over him, from what I know of his habits.”
“Ah,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “That's interesting. Had she come across him by any chance since he came down here?”
“I couldn't say. I'm hardly in touch with the rest of my family at present.”
The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the claimant to the Foxhills estate, did not think it necessary to pursue the matter further. He turned back to the more immediate question.
“Can you tell me anything about Staveley's movements last night?”
“Nothing much. We played poker after dinner. Someone interrupted us—a friend of Staveley's. Then we played some more. Then I went to bed early. That's all.”