“Poor devil,” said Tommy slowly. “If he was fond of his wife—”
But the Inspector interrupted him with a snort.
“Fond of her? That’s as may be. He was at his wits’ end where to turn for money. Lady Merivale had a large fortune of her own, and it all went to him. If she’d bolted with young Hale, he’d never have seen a penny of it.”
“That was it, was it?”
“Of course, from the very start, I sensed that Sir Arthur was a bad lot, and that Captain Hale was all right. We know pretty well what’s what at the Yard—but it’s awkward when you’re up against facts. I’ll be going down now—I should give your wife a glass of brandy if I were you, Mr. Beresford—it’s been upsetting like for her.”
“Greengrocers,” said Tuppence in a low voice as the door closed behind the imperturbable Inspector. “Butchers. Fishermen. Detectives. I was right, wasn’t I? He knew.”
Tommy, who had been busy at the sideboard, approached her with a large glass.
“Drink this.”
“What is it? Brandy?”
“No, it’s a large cocktail—suitable for a triumphant McCarty. Yes, Marriot’s right all round—that was the way of it. A bold finesse for game and rubber.”
Tuppence nodded.
“But he finessed the wrong way round.”
“And so,” said Tommy. “Exit the King.”