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yourself. His account of his movements, outside the library, is true. He says Watlington was asleep when he went in. Possible but unlikely, because Cornboise must have entered by the window within two minutes or so of Miss Lofting leaving by the door.”
    He outlined Claudia Lofting’s evidence.
    â€œNext, he says he struck through the wig. Untrue. The doctor says the wig was removed and replaced after the fatal blow had been struck. Also, I saw the wig myself. It was a bit awry, but undamaged. I was looking for signs of violence and found none.
    â€œNext, he says he dropped the die-stamp on the floor. It was found on the mantelpiece. Admittedly, he revealed knowledge that death had been caused by a single blow, but he dodged my question about the appearance after death.
    â€œFurther, my question as to whether Watlington was already dead when Cornboise entered the study suggested that Miss Lofting might be guilty. As she warned me, he promptly confessed.”
    â€œYes, sir. But assuming he’s innocent, he wouldn’t know about the murder until we turned up. I’m putting myself in his place and assuming I’m innocent. The first thing I’d do when the police turned up would be to talk it over with my fiancée—there were about a couple of hours for this purpose. I’d say: ‘The police are bound to quiz us. Where were we when it happened? We’d better tell ’em the same tale or they’ll think we’re fishy.’ That’s what I’d say, sir—if I were innocent. But if I were guilty I’d avoid discussing it with her. Cornboise did avoid discussing it with her.”
    â€œThat would equally prove her guilty instead of him,” Crisp pointed out, “since she did not discuss it with him. The only inference you can draw from the fact that their tales conflict is that they are not in conspiracy.”
    â€œAnd another thing, sir!” continued Benscombe unabashed. “What about that Will? When you handed him the envelope he fingered it and said it wasn’t the Will. When you opened up and showed it was, he threw his laughing fit. There was something there that shook his nerve. And it wasn’t the text of the Will.”
    â€œHm! You’ve got something there, boy!” It was part of Crisp’s policy to encourage bright juniors. “We’ll have to get to the bottom of this Will business—see who that is knocking.”
    Benscombe opened the door to Andrew Querk in an advanced state of alarm.

Chapter Six
    â€œPray forgive me for this intrusion, Chief Constable. I have just seen Ralph Cornboise going upstairs, apparently in—ah—custody. As he passed me he called out: ‘Goodbye, Mr. Querk. I’m done for.’ My imagination attached an appalling meaning to those words—”
    â€œHe has confessed that he murdered his uncle, and has signed the confession—”
    â€œI feared it! I knew it!” wailed Querk. “Lacking a shred of proof, I was nevertheless positive, though I refused to admit it to myself.”
    â€œCome in, please, Mr. Querk.”
    Querk came in, but not as other men come into a room. He walked as a man walks when he is leading a procession. He came to a halt when he had reached a position from which he could address the. Chief Constable and his aide as an audience.
    â€œThis is tragedy. Stark tragedy!” he proclaimed. He removed his pince-nez, deemed to have been obscured by the effects of his emotion. When he replaced them, he abandoned his office as a symbolic figure and became a provincial mayor in distress. “Forgive me! We were old friends, Lord Watlington and I. I was ‘dear old Andrew’ to him and he was ‘old pal Samuel’ to me—though, of course, he was considerably my senior in years.”
    â€œQuite! Will you sit here, Mr. Querk. There are one or two questions—”
    â€œAsk me anything you like, Colonel.