Swynford looked up as he heard Pitt come in. His face was ashen.
'Good afternoon, Inspector,' he said unsteadily. He climbed to his feet. 'I am afraid there has been an-an appalling accident. My wife's cousin Esmond Vanderley was alone in my study, where I keep some antique guns. He must have found the case of dueling pistols, and God knows what made him do it, but he took one out and loaded it-' He stopped, apparently unable to keep his composure.
'Is he dead?' Pitt inquired, although he knew already that he was. A strange sense of unreality was creeping over him, over the whole room, as if it were all merely a rehearsal for something else and in some bizarre way they all knew what each person would say.
'Yes.' Swynford blinked. 'Yes, he's dead. That is why I sent for you. We have one of these new telephones. God knows I never thought I would use it for this!'
'Perhaps I had better go and look at him.' Pitt went to the door.
'Of course.' Swynford followed him. 'I'll show you. Cal-lantha, you will remain here. I shall see that it is all taken care of. If you would prefer to go upstairs, I am sure the Inspector will not mind.' It was not a question; he was assuming Pitt would feel unable to argue.
Pitt turned in the doorway; he wanted Callantha there. He was not sure why, but the feeling was strong.
'No, thank you.' She spoke before Pitt had time to speak. 'I prefer to stay. Esmond was my cousin. I wish to know th& truth.'
Swynford opened his mouth to argue, but something in her had changed and he saw it. Perhaps he would reassert his authority as soon as Pitt had gone, but not now-not here in front of him. This was not the time for a battle of wills he might rn^t win immediately.
'Very well,' he said quickly. 'If that is what you prefer.' 270
He led Pitt out and across the hallway toward the rear of the house. There was another footman outside the study door. He stood aside and they went in.
Esmond Vanderley was lying on his back on the red carpet in front of the fire. He had been shot in the head and the gun was still in his hand. There were powder burns on his skin, and blood. The gun lay on the floor beside him, his fingers crooked loosely around the butt.
Pitt bent down and looked, without touching anything. His mind raced. An accident-to Vanderley-now, of all times, when he was at last finding the first shreds of evidence to connect him with Albie?
But he was not close enough yet-not nearly close enough for Vanderley to panic! In fact, the more he knew of the garish half-world that Albie had lived in, the more he doubted he would ever have proof he could bring to court that Vanderley had killed Albie. Surely Vanderley knew that too? He had stayed calm through all the investigation. Now, with Jerome about to be hanged, suicide was senseless.
In the original case, it was Arthur who had panicked, at his understanding of those lesions-not Vanderley. Vanderley had acted quickly, even adroitly, in an obscene way. He played any game to the last card. Why suicide now? He was far from being cornered.
But he would have known that Pitt was after him. Word would have spread-that was inevitable. There had never been any chance of stalking him, surprising him.
But it had been too soon for panic-and infinitely too soon for suicide. And an accident was idiotic!
He stood up and turned to face Swynford. An idea was gathering in his mind, still shapeless as yet, but becoming stronger.
'Shall we go back to the other room, sir?' he suggested. 'It is not necessary to discuss it in here.'
'Well-' Swynford hesitated.
Pitt affected a look of piety. 'Let us leave the dead in peace.' It was imperative that he say what he intended in front of Callantha, and even in front of Titus and Fanny, cruel though it was. Without them it was all academic-if he was right.
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Swynford could not argue. He led the way back to the withdrawing room.
'You surely do not require my wife and children to remain, Inspector?' he said, leaving the door
