Tuppence shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound she had already imagined—the sickening thud far beneath. Inspector Marriot uttered an oath.
“We should have thought of the window,” he said. “Though, mind you, it would have been a difficult thing to prove. I’ll go down and—and—see to things.”
“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?”