It was not until he and Campion were entering the outskirts of London late that evening that he again discussed the subject which perplexed him chiefly.
Mr Campion had chatted in his own particular fashion all the way up, but now he turned to Abbershaw with something more serious in his face.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘what did happen about old Daddy Coombe? No one raised any row, I see. What’s the idea? Dawlish said he was murdered; you said he was murdered; Prenderby said he was murdered. Was he?’
His expression was curious but certainly not fearful, Abbershaw was certain.
‘I didn’t say anything, of course, to the old Inspector person,’ Campion went on, ‘because I didn’t know anything, but I thought you fellows would have got busy. Why the reticence? You didn’t do it by any chance, did you?’
‘No,’ said Abbershaw shortly, some of his old pompousness returning at the suggestion of such a likelihood.
‘No offence meant,’ said Mr Campion, dropping into the vernacular of the neighbourhood through which they were passing. ‘Nor none taken, I hope. No, what I was suggesting, my dear old bird, was this: Are you sleuthing a bit in your own inimitable way? Is the old cerebral machine ticking over? Who and what and why and wherefore, so to speak?’
‘I don’t know, Campion,’ said Abbershaw slowly. ‘I don’t know any more than you do who did it. But Colonel Coombe was murdered. Of that I’m perfectly certain, and – I don’t think Dawlish or his gang had anything to do with it.’
‘My dear Holmes,’ said Mr Campion, ‘you’ve got me all of a flutter. You’re not serious, are you?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Abbershaw. ‘After all, who might not have done it, with an opportunity like that, if they wanted to? Hang it all, how do I know that you didn’t do it?’