Von Faber was still suffering from concussion, and there seemed every likelihood of his remaining under medical supervision for the term of his imprisonment at least.
Whitby and his companion had not been traced, and no one, save himself, so far as Abbershaw could tell, was likely to raise any inquiries about Colonel Coombe.
All the same, although he had several excellent reasons for wishing the whole question to remain in oblivion, Abbershaw had forced himself to institute at least a private inquiry into the mystery.
He and Meggie had dined together when Martin Watt was admitted.
The girl sat in one of the high-backed Stuart chairs by the fire, her brocade-shod feet crossed, and her hands folded quietly in her lap.
Glancing at her, Abbershaw could not help reflecting that their forthcoming marriage was more interesting to him than any criminal hunt in the world.
Martin was more enthusiastic on the subject of the murder. He came in excited, all trace of indolence had vanished from his face, and he looked about him with some surprise.
‘No one else here?’ he said. ‘I thought we were going to have a pukka consultation with all the crowd present – decorations, banners, and salute of guns!’
Abbershaw shook his head.
‘Sorry! I’m afraid there’s only Prenderby to come,’ he said. ‘Campion has disappeared, Anne Edgeware is in the South of France recuperating, Jeanne doesn’t want to hear or think anything about Black Dudley ever again, so Michael tells me, and I didn’t think we’d mention the thing to Wyatt, until it’s a certainty at any rate. He’s had his share of unpleasantness already. So you see there are only the four of us to talk it over. Have a drink?’