“Do you belong to the Force?”
“Not at all.”
“Then are you—?”
“Sherlock Holmes disguised,” I said with a laugh. “Why not? Anyway, Kelham is no fool. Why not take his advice and let me come in? Not that you can keep me out, but it’s easier. I am not a detective, not at all, but merely a writer of books. Still, I have discovered a few little things that have been useful to the police and especially to Kelham.”
“Are you quite sure you will know who—?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite sure I shall know eventually. But whether the knowledge will be of any use to you is another matter. I only solve the mystery, but you have to prove the case.”
“Yes,” Pepster said thoughtfully, “and that is a different thing, isn’t it? I may have a good idea who did it, but where is my proof? But as to letting you in, it seems I can’t help myself. I showed Kelham’s letter to the Chief Constable this morning. ‘Dennis Holt?’ he said. ‘Is he at Cartordale? Did he come down especially for this?’ I told him, no, that you’d been living here and that you’d been on the jury. ‘Go and see him,’ he said. ‘Talk it over with him. Tell him everything.’ And there you are.”
“Just so,” I replied. “And I’ll make the same bargain with you I did with Kelham and his crowd. What I discover I will pass on, but I don’t appear in it publicly. Do we work together?”
“Why, yes, certainly,” Pepster said. “Since both Kelham and the Chief insist on it I should be a fool to stand out.”
We strode along in silence for a few minutes.