Wyatt shrugged.
‘I’m afraid third degree is hardly in my line,’ he said slowly. ‘But I certainly propose to see Mr Tyson.’
Knight rose at once.
‘Good – I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that,’ he declared. ‘When do you think you’ll go?’
‘Some time this morning, I dare say.’
‘That’s fine. I hope you’ll catch him in a better temper – and if he isn’t, don’t hesitate to throw a scare into him.’
‘I rather gather that you don’t much care for Mr Tyson,’ said Wyatt with a faint smile.
‘I think he knows more than he’s told anyone so far.’ He finished his coffee and picked up his hat.
‘I must rush off now. Perhaps I’ll see you in London?’
‘It’s quite possible,’ nodded Wyatt, taking his stick and crossing to the door with him.
When he returned a minute later, he found Sally standing at the window watching their departing visitor.
‘Well?’ said Wyatt.
‘He’s much too good-looking,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘I thought he had a singularly weak face,’ said Wyatt.
‘He’s a typical playboy, of course.’
‘Do you think he was telling the truth about that car?’
‘I can easily get it checked when we’re in Town.’
‘If he was telling the truth,’ continued Sally, ‘it rather looks as if there is some sort of plot to prevent people going to see Mr Tyson.’
‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ he conceded. ‘All the same, we are going to see Tyson – this very morning, just as soon as I can get a car.’
Sally turned from the window.
‘Darling, why don’t we walk over there? It’s only four miles, and it’s a lovely morning.’
‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘if you’re quite sure you feel up to it.’
‘I feel fine.’
Two hours later they were slowly climbing the cliff road on which Bill Tyson’s cottage stood. They had enjoyed their walk, but Sally was feeling a little tired and was holding on to her husband’s arm. Occasionally they stopped to admire the view across the bay, or to watch a seagull as it swooped overhead.
There was a sudden sound of footsteps descending the rough road, and round a corner came Hugo Linder, whistling to himself. He greeted them warmly.
‘I thought you were going back to Town this morning,’ said Wyatt casually.
‘In half an hour,’ replied Linder. ‘I’ve just been to say goodbye to Tyson.’
‘As a matter of fact, that’s where we’re going. Is the old boy in?’
‘Yes, he’s in all right,’ said Linder, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t find him in a very good humour. He seems quite morose just lately.’
‘How far is the cottage?’ asked Sally.
‘Only just round the next bend, Mrs Wyatt. It’s quite a climb up here, but I always think it’s worth it.’
Linder bade them a cheerful farewell, and went swinging down the road.
‘Come on, darling, put your best foot forward,’ urged Wyatt, whose leg was beginning to ache for the first time since their arrival.
They toiled on up the hill, and sure enough there was a very small cottage standing well back from the road just round the next bend. They stopped to admire the neatly kept front garden, then Wyatt pushed open the gate and went up the stone-flagged path. He knocked at the front door and waited for some time.
Sally followed him up the path, stooping to smell the old-fashioned stocks and wallflowers.
‘The old boy doesn’t seem to be in after all,’ said Wyatt, knocking again.
‘He may have gone down to the shore,’ said Sally.
‘It can’t be more than a few minutes since Linder was here.’
Wyatt knocked again and stood listening intently. He imagined he heard a slight movement inside, but could not be certain.
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sally.
‘I don’t know. I should like to have seen Tyson before we leave Shorecombe and—’
The unmistakable sound of a revolver shot cut him short.
‘Lionel!’ Sally clutched his arm.
‘It came from inside the cottage – the room at the back,’ he said quickly. ‘You stay here, Sally. Stand clear of the door, just in case …’
Sally moved along to the corner of the cottage, and Wyatt vanished round the back.
He was not very surprised to find the back door half-open. He stopped for a moment and listened, but all seemed to be quiet inside. He moved up to the door and slowly put his head inside.
The back room was a kitchen-scullery, with a sink under the window. A door opposite led into the front room; this was closed, but across the table near it lay the shirt-sleeved figure of an elderly man. Wyatt walked over to the table and saw that the man had been shot through the forehead. Wyatt picked up his left hand, felt the pulse, then let it fall again. The man was dead.
A revolver lay on the floor, and Wyatt carefully picked it up with his handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He replaced the weapon in the exact spot where he had found it, and looked round the room. There was nothing that looked in any way unusual, and he went through into the front room and opened the door, having carefully closed the connecting door behind him.
‘You’d better come inside, Sally,’ he called, and she came running along the front of the cottage.
‘What was it?’ she demanded rather breathlessly.
‘It’s a nasty business,’ he replied tersely. ‘I’m afraid Tyson’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ repeated Sally wonderingly, gazing at the scullery door.
‘I’d rather you didn’t see him,’ said Wyatt, interpreting her thoughts. ‘He isn’t exactly a pleasant spectacle.’
‘What happened?’
‘He’s been shot through the head; he must have committed suicide.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Everything seems to point to it.’
‘Was that the shot we heard?’
‘Yes. And if it was fired by anyone but Tyson, then he made a very quick getaway.’
‘He might still be in the house,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes … there’s just a chance. Wait here, Sally …’
He opened a third door beside the fireplace, which led upstairs, and mounted the narrow stairs as silently as possible. But both the bedrooms were empty, and showed no trace of an intruder. He came down slowly, to find Sally sitting on a rocking-chair and staring at the scullery door.
‘Is he in there?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’s sprawled across the table. Don’t go in, darling; it’ll only upset you.’
‘You’re quite sure it’s suicide?’ she insisted in a pensive tone.