“And so you want me to do a little Sherlock Holmes work while he’s taking my temperature! Cynthia can play Watson! Joking apart, though, I like Dr. Gregg and I can’t believe he’s got any real connection with the murder. He’s a much better sort than people think.”
“Probably,” said Fayre. “Though I don’t care for the chap myself. But it doesn’t follow that he mayn’t have a shrewd idea who did commit the murder and be shielding him for some reason of his own.”
Sybil Kean laughed.
“Edward would say we were a lot of old women, with our impressions and deductions. Still, considering the paucity of clues, it seems a pity to disregard anything.”
“Y.0.7.” admitted Fayre ruefully. “It’s not much to go on.”
Sybil Kean looked up quickly.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“All we have got of the number of the car. That and a stylographic pen that might have been lying in the grass for ages.”
“A pen!” exclaimed Cynthia. “This is quite new. You’ve been keeping it up your sleeve all this time, Uncle Fayre!”
“Didn’t Edward tell you? I suppose he hadn’t time. I picked up a red stylographic pen—a ‘Red Dwarf,’ I think they used to be called—by the gate the first time we went to the farm. The day we were there with you and Leslie. As I say, it may have been there for ages or, more probably still, was dropped by one of the reporters after the murder. I know he didn’t consider it of much importance.”