“Something of that sort might account for things. I don't press the point. Now we come to the next item—the smell of pear-drops.”
“But that's accounted for all right, surely. I found the bag of sweets on the dresser myself,” Wendover protested. “Peter Hay had been eating them. There's nothing in that, Clinton.”
Sir Clinton smiled a little sardonically.
“Not so fast, squire. You found a bag of pear-drops, I admit. But who told you that Peter Hay bought them and put them there?”
“It stands to reason that he did, surely,” Wendover protested. “The constable told you he kept a bag of sweets in the house for children.”
“Quite so. And there wasn't a second bag there, I'll admit. But let's confine ourselves to the pear-drops for a moment. One can't deny that they've got a distinctive perfume. Can you think of anything else that smells like that?”
Inspector Armadale's face lighted up.
“That stuff they use for covering cuts—New-Skin, isn't it? That stuff smells like pear-drops.”
The look of comprehension faded slowly as he added:
“But I don't see how New-Skin comes into the affair, sir.”