Abbershaw’s astonishment was obvious, and Meggie looked at him curiously, but Martin was too interested in his theory to raise any question.
‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘Whitby. Why not? Think of it in cold blood, who was the first man to find Colonel Coombe dead? Who had a better motive for murdering him than anyone else? It seems quite obvious to me.’ He paused, and as neither of them spoke went on again, raising his voice a little in his enthusiasm.
‘My dear people, just think of it,’ he insisted. ‘It struck me as soon as it occurred to me that it was so obvious that I’ve been wondering ever since why we didn’t hit on it at once. We should have done, of course, if we hadn’t all been having fun in our quiet way. Look here, this is exactly how it happened.’
He perched himself on an armchair and regarded them seriously.
‘Our little friend Albert is the first person to be considered. There is absolutely no reason to doubt that fellow’s word, his yarn sounds true. He showed up jolly well when we were in a tight place. I think we’ll take him as cleared. His story is true, then. That is to say, during Act One of the drama when we were all playing “touch” with the haunted dagger, little Albert stepped smartly up, murmured “Abracadabra” in the old man’s ear and collected the doings, leaving the Colonel hale and hearty. What happened next?’ He paused and glanced at them eagerly. ‘See what I’m driving at? No? Well, see column two – “The Remarkable Story of the Aged and Batty Housemaid!” Now have you got it?’
Meggie started to her feet, her eyes brightening.
‘George,’ she said, ‘I do believe he’s got it. Don’t you see, Mrs Meade told us that she had actually seen Whitby come in with the news that the Colonel was stabbed in the back. Why – why it’s quite clear –’
‘Not so fast, not so fast, young lady, if you please. Let the clever detective tell his story in his own words.’
Martin leant forward as he spoke and beamed at them triumphantly.
‘I’ve worked it all out,’ he said, ‘and, putting my becoming modesty aside, I will now detail to you the facts which my superlative deductions have brought to light and which only require the paltry matter of proof to make them as clear as glass to the meanest intelligence. Get the scene into your mind. Whitby, a poor pawn in his chief’s hands, a man whose liberty, perhaps his very life, hangs upon the word of his superior, von Faber; this man leads his chief to the Colonel’s desk to find that precious income-tax form or whatever it was they were all so keen about, and when he gets there the cupboard is bare, as the classics have it.’ Martin, who had been gradually working himself up, now broke into a snatch of imaginary dialogue: