“Some time ago, a man Peter Whalley came to us and made a statement, Dr. Markfield.”
Markfield's face betrayed some surprise.
“Whalley?” he asked. “Do you mean the man who was murdered on the Lizardbridge Road?”
“He was murdered, certainly,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “But as I said, he made a statement to us. I'm not very clear about some points, and I think you might be able to fill in one or two of the gaps.”
Markfield's face showed a quick flash of suspicion.
“I'm not very sure what you mean,” he said, doubtfully, “If you're trying to trap me into saying things that might go against Silverdale, I may as well tell you I've no desire to give evidence against him. I'm sure he's innocent; and I don't wish to say anything to give you a handle against him. That's frank enough, isn't it?”
“If it relieves your mind, I may as well say I agree with you on that point, Dr. Markfield. So there's no reason why you shouldn't give us your help.”
Markfield seemed slightly taken aback by this, but he did his best to hide his feelings.
“Go on, then,” he said. “What is it you want?”
Sir Clinton half-opened the paper on the table, then took away his hand as though he needed no notes at the moment.