“I don’t care if he’s the Prime Minister!” snapped Fayre, still hot from his gruelling at Gregg’s hands. “But I’d give something to know where he was on the night of Mrs. Draycott’s death!”
Bill Staveley gave a low whistle.
“As bad as that, is it? Why, he was at the farm, wasn’t he? I thought he gave evidence.”
“He turned up at the farm soon after ten o’clock, after the police had been trying to get him for nearly an hour. The assumption was that he had come in late from a case and, as far as I know, he has never been asked to give an account of his movements. All I do know is that he left the Whitbury garage at five-thirty in a hired car and, apparently, did not get home till about nine-thirty, when he found the police call waiting for him.”
Staveley’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fayre.
“You don’t seriously mean that you suspect Gregg of Mrs. Draycott’s murder?” he ejaculated.
“On my word, I don’t know what to think. If the fellow was bluffing this afternoon he did it uncommonly well. If he wasn’t, why didn’t he clear himself? He could have done it easily.”
“What line did he take?”
“Told me to go to the devil—in other words, the police—and flatly refused to give any account of himself whatever. The worst of it is, he’s in a very strong position. Practically the only thing I’ve got to go on at present is the fact that he undoubtedly knew Mrs. Draycott at one time and has gone out of his way to lie to the police about it. You must admit it looks fishy.”
“The devil he did! Do the police know?”