“It was pretty clear that the maid knew her murderer, anyhow,” the Inspector pointed out. “Everything points to that. I admit I'm only making a guess, sir. I can't bring any evidence against Silverdale on that count yet. For all one can tell, she may have seen something—blood on his coat from the shots, or something of that sort. Then he'd have to silence her.”
Sir Clinton made no comment on the Inspector's suggestion. Instead, he turned to a fresh aspect of the case.
“And where does Mr. Justice come into your theory of the affair? He wasn't your friend Whalley. That's evident.”
The Inspector rubbed his nose thoughtfully, as though trying to gain inspiration from the friction.
“It's a fact, sir, that I can't fit Mr. Justice into my theory at present. He wasn't Whalley, and that's a fact. But hold on a moment! Suppose that Whalley wasn't Silverdale's witness at all. Come to think of it, Whalley was hardly the sort that one would pick out for the job, if one had been in Silverdale's shoes.”
“I'm quite convinced of that, at any rate, Inspector. You needn't waste breath in persuading me.”
“Yes, but there's another possibility that's been overlooked, sir,” Flamborough interrupted eagerly. “I've been assuming all along that Silverdale was the only person at the opened window. But suppose he'd brought someone along with him. Both of them might have been looking through the front window, whilst Whalley was at the side window, quite unknown to them at the time.”
“Now you're getting positively brilliant, Inspector,” Sir Clinton commended. “I think you've got at least half the truth there, beyond a doubt.”
“Who could Silverdale's witness have been?” the Inspector pursued, as if impatient of the interruption. “What about the Deepcar girl?”
“Think again,” Sir Clinton advised him drily. “Do you really suppose that Silverdale—who seems in love with the girl—would have picked her out for business of that sort? It's incredible, Inspector.”