‘There’s just one point more, sir, I’d like to go into with you, if you don’t mind,’ he said at last. ‘Just a little discrepancy ’ere. Naturally we want to get everything co’erent if we can, you understand. This is just as a matter of form, of course. Only you see I’ve got to hand my report in and –’
‘That’s all right, Inspector. What is it?’ said Abbershaw encouragingly.
The Inspector removed his pencil from behind his ear and, after biting the end of it reflectively for a moment, said briskly: ‘Well, it’s about this ’ere tale of a murder, sir. Some of the accounts ’ave it that the accused, Benjamin Dawlish, believed to be an alias, made some rather startling accusations of murder when you was all locked up together on the evening of the 27th, that is, yesterday.’
He paused and looked at Abbershaw questioningly. The doctor hesitated.
There were certain details of the affair which he had decided to reserve for higher authorities since he did not want to risk the delay which a full exposure now would inevitably cause.
Whitby and the driver of the disguised Rolls had not returned. Doubtless they had been warned in time.
Meanwhile the Inspector was still waiting.
‘As I take it, sir,’ he said at length, ‘the story was a bit of “colour”, as you might say, put in by the accused to scare the ladies. Perhaps you ’ad some sort of the same idea?’
‘Something very much like that,’ agreed Abbershaw, glad to have evaded the awkward question so easily. ‘I signed the cremation certificate for Colonel Coombe’s body, you know.’
‘Oh, you did, did you, sir. Well, that clears that up.’