plaid scarf. The inspector lifted it out. Next came a faded dark blue overcoat, very much the worse for wear. A checked cap followed.
“A shoddy lot,” said the inspector.
A pair of boots very down at heel and battered came next. At the bottom of the suitcase was a parcel done up in newspaper.
“Fancy shirt, I suppose,” said the inspector bitterly, as he tore it open.
A moment later he had caught his breath in surprise.
For inside the parcel were some demure little silver objects and a round platter of the same metal.
Miss Marple gave a shrill exclamation of recognition.
“The trencher salts,” she exclaimed. “Colonel Protheroe’s trencher salts, and the Charles II tazza. Did you ever hear of such a thing!”
The inspector had got very red.
“So that was the game,” he muttered. “Robbery. But I can’t make it out. There’s been no mention of these things being missing.”
“Perhaps they haven’t discovered the loss,” I suggested. “I presume these valuable things would not have been kept out in common use. Colonel Protheroe probably kept them locked away in a safe.”
“I must investigate this,” said the inspector. “I’ll go right up to Old Hall now. So that’s why our Dr. Stone made himself scarce. What with the murder and one thing and another, he was afraid we’d get wind of his activities. As likely as not his belongings might have been searched. He got the girl to hide them in the wood with a suitable change of clothing. He meant to come back by a roundabout route and go off with them one