“Thanks.” Martin took up the glass and sipped it meditatively. It was evident from his manner that he was bubbling with suppressed excitement. “I say,” he said suddenly, unable to control his eagerness any longer, “have you folk twigged the murderer?”
Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.
“No,” he said hesitatingly. “Why, have you?”
Martin nodded.
“Fancy so,” he said, and there was a distinctly satisfied expression in his grey eyes. “It seems pretty obvious to me, why—”
“Hold hard, Martin.”
Abbershaw was surprised at the apprehension in his own voice, and he reddened slightly as the other two stared at him.
Martin frowned.
“I don’t get you,” he said at last. “There’s no special reason against suspecting Whitby, is there?”
“Whitby?”
Abbershaw’s astonishment was obvious, and Meggie looked at him curiously, but Martin was too interested in his theory to raise any question.
“Why, yes,” he said. “Whitby. Why not? Think of it in cold blood, who was the first man to find Colonel Coombe dead? Who had a better motive for murdering him than anyone else? It seems quite obvious to me.” He paused, and as neither of them spoke went on again, raising his voice a little in his enthusiasm.
“My dear people, just think of it,” he insisted. “It struck me as soon as it occurred to me that it was so obvious that I’ve been wondering ever since why we didn’t hit on it at once. We should have done, of course if we hadn’t all been having fun in our quiet way. Look here, this is exactly how it happened.”
He perched himself on an armchair and regarded them seriously.
“Our little friend Albert is the first person to be considered. There is absolutely no reason to doubt that fellow’s word, his yarn sounds true. He showed up jolly well when we were in a tight place. I think we’ll take him as cleared. His story is true, then. That is to say, during Act One of the drama when we were all playing ‘touch’ with the haunted dagger, little Albert stepped smartly up, murmured ‘Abracadabra’ in the old man’s ear and collected the doings, leaving the Colonel hale and hearty. What happened next?” He paused and glanced at them eagerly. “See what I’m driving at? No? Well, see column two—‘The Remarkable Story of the Aged and Batty Housemaid!’ Now have you got it?”
Meggie started to her feet, her eyes brightening.
“George,” she said, “I do believe he’s got it. Don’t you see, Mrs. Meade told us that she had actually seen Whitby come in with the news that the Colonel was stabbed in the back. Why—why it’s quite clear—”
“Not so fast, not so fast, young lady, if you please. Let the clever detective tell his story in his own words.”
Martin leant forward as he spoke and beamed at them triumphantly.
“I’ve worked it all out,” he said, “and, putting my becoming modesty aside, I will now detail to you the facts which my superlative deductions have brought to light and which only require the paltry matter of proof to make them as clear as glass to the meanest intelligence. Get the scene into your mind. Whitby, a poor pawn in his chief’s hands, a man whose liberty, perhaps his very life, hangs upon the word of his superior, von Faber; this man leads his chief to the Colonel’s desk to find that precious income-tax form or whatever it was they were all so keen about, and when he gets here the cupboard is bare, as the classics have it.” Martin, who had been gradually working himself up, now broke into a snatch of imaginary dialogue:
“ ‘It must be on Coombe himself,’ growls the Hun,” he began.
“ ‘Of course,’ agrees the pawn, adding mentally: ‘Heaven pray it may be so,’ or words to that effect. ‘Go and see, you!’ venoms the Hun, and off goes Whitby, fear padding at his heels.”
He paused for breath and regarded them soberly.
“Seriously, though,” he continued with sudden gravity. “The chap must have had a nasty ten minutes. He knew that if anything had gone wrong and old Coombe had somehow managed to double-cross the gang, as guardian he was for it with von Faber at his nastiest. Look now,” he went on cheerfully, “this is where the deduction comes in; as I work it out, as soon as Whitby entered the darkened part of the house, someone put the dagger in his hand and then, I should say, the whole idea occurred to him. He went up to old Coombe in the dark, asked him for the papers; Coombe replied that he hadn’t got them. Then Whitby, maddened with the thought of the yarn he was bound to take back to von Faber, struck the old boy in the back and, after making a rapid search, took the dagger, joined in the game for thirty seconds, maybe—just enough time to hand the thing on to somebody—and then dashed back to Faber and Gideon, with his news. How about that?”
He smiled at them with deep satisfaction—he had no doubts himself.
For some minutes his audience were silent. This solution was certainly very plausible. At last Abbershaw raised his head. The expression on his face was almost hopeful.
“It’s not a bad idea, Martin,” he said thoughtfully. “In fact, the more I think about it the more likely it seems to become.”
Martin pressed his argument home eagerly.
“I feel like that too,” he said. “You see, it explains so many things. First of all, it gives a good reason why von Faber thought that one of our crowd had done it. Then it also makes it clear why Whitby never turned up again. And then it has another advantage—it provides a motive. No one else had any reason for killing the old boy. As far as I can see he seems to have been very useful to his own gang and no harm to anybody else. Candidly now, don’t you think I’m obviously right?”
He looked from one to the other of them questioningly.
Meggie was frowning.
“There is just one
