“No. I’m sure he didn’t.”
Sir Arthur sighed loud relief. “Thank the Lord for that! But, Gethryn, how was it you hadn’t heard about this? And if you hadn’t, how was it you weren’t surprised? Weren’t you at the inquest?”
“Only roughly speaking,” said Anthony. “And I wasn’t surprised because I knew on what evidence the police were working. Pardon me if I seem flippant—I’m not really—but what we’ve got to do is to find out who really did kill Cock Robin. That’s the only way of getting Deacon off. The police take Deacon to be the Sparrow. You and I believe that he isn’t; but we’ve got to admit that the case against him is good, extraordinarily good. His size and strength fit the part of the murderer. And above all his finger-marks were found on the Bow and Arrow. That last will want a deal of explaining, especially to an English jury, who don’t, as a rule, know that real life’s more like a fairy story than Hans Andersen.”
“I know, I know,” Sir Arthur groaned. “Those finger-prints. He must have touched the—the—what do they call the thing?”
“Wood-rasp. A file for wood.”
“Ah, yes. He—I suppose he must have touched it. Must have. But I’ll swear the boy had nothing to do with—with John’s death. And he said he’d never seen the thing. And I believe him!”
“So he’d never even seen the thing,” Anthony said. “Now that’s interesting. Most interesting!”
But Sir Arthur was not listening. “What I’m feeling so—so damnably,” he burst out, “is that my evidence helped to make things look worse for the boy.”
“How?”
“Because they took mine first; and in describing that awful night I mentioned, like the idiot I am, that Deacon had come into my room at a quarter to eleven. You see, he’d asked me the time, and I’d told him: that’s what made me remember. Then later it all came out about the clock in the study, and now every one says the boy put the hands back because he knew he had an alibi. Oh! It’s all a ghastly, horrible mistake!”