‘Campion,’ he said, ‘you know, of course, that Colonel Coombe died last night? Do you know how he died?’
Mr Campion looked surprised.
‘Heart, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I thought the old bird had been scratching round the grave for the last year or so.’
Abbershaw’s expression did not change.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘if that is all you know it may surprise you to hear that he was murdered – while the Dagger Ritual was going on.’
‘Murdered!’
Every trace of frivolity had vanished from Albert Campion’s face. There was no mistaking the fact that the news had appalled him, and he looked at Abbershaw with undisguised horror in his pale eyes.
‘Murdered?’ he repeated. ‘How do you know?’
‘I saw him,’ said Abbershaw simply. ‘They wanted a signature on the cremation certificate, and got me in for it. They wouldn’t let me examine the body, but I saw the face and neck and I also saw his invalid chair.’ His eyes were fixed on Campion the whole time he was speaking. ‘Then there was the dagger itself,’ he said. ‘There was blood on the dagger, and blood on the cushions of the chair, but even if I had not known of these, the body, though I saw so little of it, would have convinced me that he had been murdered. As perhaps you know,’ he went on, ‘it is my job to explain how men die, and as soon as I saw that dead grey face with the depleted veins I knew that he had died of some wound. Something that would bleed very freely. I should say it was a stab in the back, myself.’
The change in Mr Campion was extraordinary; he pulled himself together with an effort.