proposed that a fund be set up to help Wilt with his legal fees. Dr Lomax, Head of Commerce, argued against this and pointed out that Wilt had, by dismembering his wife, brought the profession into disrepute. Braintree said Wilt hadn’t dismembered anyone and that even the police hadn’t suggested he had, and there was such a thing as a law against slander. Dr Lomax withdrew his remark. Major Millfield insisted that there were good grounds for thinking Wilt had murdered his wife and that anyway Habeas Corpus didn’t exist in Russia. Bill Trent said that capital punishment didn’t either. Major Millfield said, ‘Bosh.’ In the end, after prolonged argument, Major Millfield’s motion on hanging was passed by a block vote of the Catering Department while Braintree’s proposal and the motion of the New Left were defeated, and the meeting went on to discuss a pay increase of forty-five per cent, to keep Teachers in Technical institutes in line with comparably qualified professions. Afterwards Peter Braintree went down to the Police Station to see if there was anything Henry wanted.
‘I wonder if I might see him,’ he asked the Sergeant at the desk.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said the Sergeant, ‘Mr Wilt is still helping us with our enquiries.’
‘But isn’t there anything I can get him? Doesn’t he need anything?’
‘Mr Wilt is well provided for,’ said the Sergeant, with the private reservation that what Wilt needed was his head read.
‘But shouldn’t he have a solicitor?’
‘When Mr Wilt asks for a solicitor he will be allowed to see one,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I can assure you that so far he hasn’t asked.’
And Wilt hadn’t. Having finally been allowed three hours sleep he had emerged from his cell at twelve o’clock and had eaten a hearty breakfast in the police canteen. He returned to the Interview Room, haggard and unshaven, and with his sense of the improbable markedly increased.
‘Now then, Henry,’ said Inspector Flint, dropping an official octave nomenclaturewise in the hope that Wilt would respond, ‘about this blood.’
‘What blood?’ said Wilt, looking round the aseptic room.
The blood on the walls of the bathroom at the Pringsheims’ house. The blood on the landing. Have you any idea how it got there? Any idea at all?’
‘None,’ said Wilt, ‘I can only assume that someone was bleeding.’
‘Right,’ said the Inspector, ‘who?’
‘Search me,’ said Wilt.
‘Quite, and you know what we’ve found?’
Wilt shook his head.
‘No idea?’
‘None,’ said Wilt.
‘Bloodspots on a pair of grey trousers in your wardrobe’ said the Inspector. ‘Bloodspots. Henry, bloodspots.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Wilt. ‘I mean if you looked hard enough you’d be bound to find some bloodspots in anyone’s wardrobe. The thing is I wasn’t wearing grey trousers at that party. I was wearing blue jeans.’
‘You were wearing blue jeans? You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the bloodspots on the bathroom wall and the bloodspots on your grey trousers have nothing to do with one another?’
‘Inspector,’ said Wilt. ‘far be it from me to teach you your own business but you have a technical branch that specialises in matching bloodstains. Now may I suggest that you
