“So we supposed,” Sir Clinton commented. “You haven't a second Colt pistol, have you?”
“No. One's all I have.”
“So you didn't fire a shot from behind the groyne, by any chance?”
Both Fleetwood and Cressida seemed completely taken aback by this question. They glanced at each other; and then Stanley Fleetwood answered:
“No, of course I didn't. How could I, when I hadn't a pistol?”
“Of course not,” Sir Clinton admitted. “Occasionally one has to ask questions as a matter of form, you know. Now, what happened after Mrs. Fleetwood's pistol went off? I mean, what did you yourself do?”
“I saw her hurrying up the beach towards the road, where she expected to find me; so naturally I bolted up the way I'd come and joined her at the car.”
“And then?”
“She told me she'd shot Staveley. I shed no tears over him, of course; but I wanted to get my wife away as quick as I could, in case anyone came along, attracted by the noise of the shot. So I drove up towards the hotel. I didn't put on the lights of the car, because they might have been noticed by someone in the distance; and I didn't want to be traced through the car if I could help it. I'm being quite frank with you, you see.”
“I wish we could persuade everybody to be quite frank,” Sir Clinton confessed. “It would lighten police work considerably. What happened next, please?”