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been in Market Plumpton before. And you’ve had dealings at this bank before. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Only once before, last year. I was passing through on a walking holiday with two other friends and I called in here to withdraw some money. On that occasion I saw only Mr Ravenswood here.’
    â€˜Do you remember that?’ Hyde asked, putting his question to the bank manager.
    â€˜I believe I do,’ Ravenswood replied thoughtfully. ‘This is not a busy branch, and I believe I do remember Mr Lewis’s visit. If I recollect correctly, he called when Mr Grimm was on his lunch hour so I dealt with him myself.’
    At this point Jack protested vigorously that we were mere visitors, passing through, that our role as eyewitnesses was a matter of chance, and that we really had no more to offer. Hyde bristled, but he reluctantly agreed that we could go back to the pub. As long, he said, as we made ourselves available to speak to the man from Scotland Yard tomorrow. So it was that we made our escape from the dark and gloomy bank building, with its high ceilings and dark timber walls, out into the fresh air and sunshine.
    Back at
The Boar’s Head
, Jack, Warnie and I ordered drinks and went out to the beer garden behind the pub. This was a grassed yard that sloped down from the back door to the rapidly flowing Plum River that circled half the town. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered across the lawn. We found a place in the warm sun not far from the towpath at the water’s edge where we could sit down and stretch out our legs.
    â€˜This is looking like a pretty duff holiday,’ grumbled Warnie.
    Quite right, I thought, but if we can’t walk at least we can talk.
    â€˜Now Jack,’ I said, ‘we were interrupted this morning when you made that outrageous claim that relativism kills reason. Surely you can’t mean that?’
    â€˜I think the truth of that would be obvious even to a sea anemone of average intelligence. If everything is relative—if what is true from your point of view is not true from mine—then the whole category of truth simply ceases to exist and reason has no function. Unless there is a shared objective truth, there’s nothing we can reason about together.’
    â€˜Cut it out, you two,’ puffed Warnie. ‘We have other problems—problems we ought to do something about.’
    â€˜Such as?’ I asked.
    â€˜Well,’ said Warnie, ‘obviously we’re suspects, and I have no confidence in the police to release us to resume our holiday any time soon. In all the detective novels I’ve read, the police are complete duffers and they need Lord Peter Wimsey or Hercule Poirot to step in and solve their mysteries for them. So we can’t just leave this to the police.’
    â€˜What’s the alternative?’ I asked.
    With glee Warnie replied, ‘We step in and do something about it ourselves.’
    At this point Frank Jones arrived with a tray bearing three pints of bitter. As he placed drinks on our table I asked, ‘Do what, Warnie, old chap?’
    â€˜Well, Jack has twice the brains of any Scotland Yard fellow,’ replied Warnie with brotherly loyalty. Although it was more than that, I knew: my old tutor had a brain the size of the Albert Hall.
    â€˜And you are suggesting that Jack do what exactly?’ I asked.
    â€˜Solve the murder!’ spluttered Warnie. ‘Jack can solve this puzzle faster than anyone else, and get this shadow of suspicion off us, and get us released to resume our holiday.’
    All of this the publican Frank Jones followed with great interest, so Jack turned to him and said, ‘Mr Jones, would you like to pull up a chair and join our conversation?’
    Jones glanced back at the kitchen window before he replied, ‘Don’t mind if I do. It’s either this or peel potatoes, and I know which I’d prefer.’
    â€˜Now, Mr