‘Of course, there may be a perfectly simple explanation,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the landlord didn’t want to—’
‘Oh, yes. There may be quite a simple explanation. But there’s just one other little point. Your brother was holding the revolver in his left hand.’
Steve Trent looked puzzled. ‘But Gerald was left-handed,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Temple, quietly. ‘That’s just the point.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Steve.
‘I mean, my dear Miss Trent, that your brother was murdered by someone with a little too much imagination and not sufficient intelligence.’
A journalistic training had sharpened Steve Trent’s already quick powers of perception. Moreover, she never accepted facts at their face value but preferred to look both behind and beyond them.
‘But if it’s so very obvious that my brother was murdered, why do the police think he committed suicide?’
‘What makes you so certain that the police think he committed suicide?’ asked Paul Temple.
‘Why, it’s been in all the newspapers, and even at the inquest, they…they—’ she broke off, apparently in deep thought. Suddenly she exclaimed with a queer note of surprise in her voice: ‘You think they know he was murdered?’
‘I’m almost sure of it.’
‘Then why on earth did they make out it was suicide?’ she asked. ‘Surely—’
‘I expect they have a reason, Steve. And I shouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t a very good one.’
Paul Temple slowly stretched his legs, poured more coffee out for each of them, then strolled towards the sideboard and returned with the bottle of cherry brandy between his fingers. He refilled their glasses and offered Steve another of the Turkish cigarettes she had liked so much.
Then he blew through his long cigarette holder, watched the butt end of his cigarette go flying into the fire, and carefully replaced the holder on the mantelpiece. Paul Temple was by no means a cigarette smoker, but he liked an occasional cigarette, especially while drinking tea or coffee.
He now brought forth the briar pipe which had been his constant companion for three years. It was alight and going well before he sat down again.
‘Who was the lady that was staying at the inn? Miss…er…?’
‘Miss Parchment?’ asked Temple. ‘She’s a retired schoolmistress with a passion for old English inns. Very old English inns. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no particular reason,’ Steve replied. ‘I noticed her at the inquest, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘I called in at “The Little General” last time I was down here. I don’t trust that man Daley – there’s just something about him that makes me suspicious.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Temple quietly. ‘Yes – I can understand that. As a matter of fact, there’s something rather peculiar about the inn itself, if you ask me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, according to Miss Parchment, the inn wasn’t always called “The Little General”; it used to be known as “The Green Finger”!’
‘“The Green Finger”…that’s a peculiar name.’
‘Yes, it’s peculiar in more senses than one,’ replied Paul Temple. ‘After the Birmingham robbery, the night watchman died. He was chloroformed. Before he died, however, he said “The Green Finger”.’
‘You don’t think this inn – “The Little General” – is used as a sort of meeting-place? That would account for—’
Temple interrupted. ‘Yes. I did think of that,’ he said quietly.
‘It might be a good idea to have the place watched.’
‘Merritt’s watching it,’ Temple informed her. ‘He’ll let me know if anything funny happens.’
Steve puckered her brow. ‘Merritt? Who’s Merritt?’
Paul Temple looked puzzled in turn. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Inspector Charles Mortimer Merritt! Dear, oh dear, he would be flattered!’
Steve appeared to think for a moment or two, then her forehead became its normal attractive self again.
‘Oh, I remember. He was helping Gerald and Chief Inspector Dale over the jewel robberies. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘By Timothy, yes!’ exclaimed Paul Temple. ‘Merritt and I get along like a house on fire.’ He grinned widely. ‘He’s a funny little devil, always got some wild sort of theory at the back of his head, but he’s really as cute as a box of monkeys. I’m sure you’d like him.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘About five or six years,’ replied Temple, as he took his briar out of his mouth and carefully scraped the burnt ash out of it. ‘He hasn’t been in this country all that long. He was out in New Zealand for a little while, I think, or somewhere like that. If he wasn’t so damned rude to his superiors,’ he added with a smile, ‘they’d have had him at the Yard ages ago.’
‘Paul!’ exclaimed Steve Trent suddenly, and the new note of friendly familiarity made Paul Temple look over to her with an unexpected pleasure, ‘do you really think I ought to tell Scotland Yard what Gerald thought about the Knave being responsible for—’
‘Yes, I do, Steve. Believe me, I’ll do all I possibly can to help you, my dear. I promised you that, but until Scotland Yard finally decide to—’
The telephone bell ringing outside interrupted him in midsentence.
Presently, the ringing stopped and they heard Pryce’s voice. ‘Yes, sir, this is Bramley Lodge! Yes, sir…I’ll see if he’s in!’ After a little while Pryce came into the drawing-room.
‘Chief Inspector Dale on the telephone, sir,’ he said.
‘Dale!’ said Paul Temple with some measure of surprise. He left the room and picked up the receiver off the small table in the hall.
‘Hello? Yes, Paul Temple speaking. Hello, Dale, how are you? I’m pretty fit, thanks. Pardon? Yes.… Yes…When does he want to see me? Mm…All right. Tell Sir Graham I’ll be there. Thanks for ringing. Goodbye!’ He replaced the receiver and came back into the drawing-room looking rather amused. ‘That was Dale of Scotland Yard!’ he informed Steve. ‘He was speaking for the Commissioner.’
‘Speaking for the Commissioner,’ repeated Steve with obvious surprise in her voice.
Temple nodded.
‘They want to see me!’ he said quietly.
‘To see you. That can only mean…’
‘It can only mean one of two things,’ said Paul Temple slowly, ‘they either want to know the reason why your brother visited me the night he was murdered, or they’ve decided—’
Steve completed the sentence for him.
‘To send for Paul Temple!’
Temple looked at her with a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To send for Paul Temple.’