Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard MEGAPACK®. Josephine Tey

he said. I didn’t know what to do about it because I still thought of Bert as being on the way to New York. I went out and got a paper. They had all big headlines about the queue murder, and this time there was a full description of the man and his clothes and the contents of his pockets. That was in black type, and I knew at once it was Bert. I got on a bus, feeling sick all over, but meaning to go to Scotland Yard right away and tell them all I knew about it. On the bus I read the rest of the thing. It said that the murder had been done by some one left-handed, and wanted to know who had left the queue. Then I remembered that we had had an argument that any one might have overheard, and that I had all Bert’s money without a single thing to show how I got it. I got off the bus in an awful sweat, and walked about thinking what was to be done. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that I couldn’t go to Scotland Yard with a tale like that. I was torn between that and letting Bert lie there while the —— skunk that killed him went free. I was about crazy that day. I thought that, if I didn’t go, perhaps they’d get on to the track of the right man. And then I’d wonder if I was using that as an excuse for not going—funking, you know. My thoughts went round and round like that, and I couldn’t come to any decision. On Friday they said the inquest was to be that day, and that no one had claimed to know Bert. There was one time during that day that I very nearly went to the police station, and then, just when the thought of Bert had got my courage up, I remembered what a thin yarn I had about myself. So instead I sent some of Bert’s money to bury him. I’d have liked to say who he was, but I knew that would bring them all about me in a minute. And then next morning I saw they had my description. They were looking for me. I’d have gone then of my own accord. Only, in the description it said that the man had a scar on the inside of his finger or thumb. That tore it. I got that scar”—he extended his hand—“as I told you—carrying my trunk up the stairs to my room. The buckle caught me as I was letting it down. But that tore it all right. Who would believe me now? I waited till it was late afternoon, and then I went to Mrs. Everett. She was the only real friend I had, and she knew me. I told her every last thing about it. She believed me because she knew me, you see, but even she saw that no one who didn’t know me would believe me. She called me a fool, or as good as, for not going straight away to tell what I knew. She would have. She ruled us both. Bert used to call her Lady Macbeth, because she was Scotch and used to screw us up to doing things when we were wavering about them. She said all I could do now was to lie low. If they didn’t find me, there was always the chance of their getting on to the right man, and afterwards she would give me the money to go abroad. I couldn’t use Bert’s, somehow. When I left her I went all the way into town because I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my rooms with nothing to do but listen for feet on the stairs. I thought I would be safest in a movie show, and I meant to go up to the Haymarket. And then I looked back in the Strand and saw you behind me. You know that bit. I went back to my rooms at once, and didn’t stir out of them till Mrs. Everett came on Monday and told me you’d been to her. She came to King’s Cross with me and gave me the introduction to the people at Carninnish. You know the rest. After I’d been a day in Carninnish I began to think I had a chance, until I saw you come into the room for tea.”

      He lapsed into silence. Grant noticed that his hands were trembling.

      “What made you think that the money you say Sorrell left with you was all he had?”

      “Because it was the amount he had in his own private account at the bank. It was I who drew it for him more than a week before he was due to sail. He drew it all but a pound.”

      “Were you in the habit of drawing money for him?”

      “No; hardly ever. But that week he was terribly busy settling affairs at the office and clearing up generally.”

      “Why did he draw it so soon if he did not need it to pay his fare, as he evidently didn’t?”

      “I don’t know, unless he was afraid he wouldn’t have enough in the business account to pay off all the accounts. But he had. He didn’t leave a ha’penny owing.”

      “Was business good?”

      “Yes; not bad. As good as it ever is in the winter. We do very little National Hunt betting—did, I mean. During the ‘flat’ it was good enough.”

      “At the end of the winter would be a lean season with Sorrell, then?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you handed the money to Sorrell—when?”

      “Directly I got back from the bank.”

      “You say you quarrelled with Sorrell about the revolver. Can you prove the revolver was yours?”

      “No; how can I? No one knew about it because it was locked up—no one but Bert, I mean. It was loaded, just the way it was when the Armistice came. It wasn’t a thing to leave about.”

      “And what do you suggest that Sorrell wanted it for?”

      “I don’t know. I haven’t the remotest idea. I did think of suicide. It looked like that. But then there was no reason for it.”

      “When you said to me at Carninnish that in your opinion a woman had killed Sorrell, what did you mean?”

      “Well, you see, I knew all Bert’s men friends, and he didn’t have any girl ones—I mean girls that are more than acquaintances. But I always thought there might have been a woman before I knew him. He was very quiet about the things he cared about, and he wouldn’t have told me in any case. I have seen him sometimes get letters in a woman’s handwriting, but he never remarked about them, and Bert wasn’t the kind you teased about that sort of thing.”

      “Has a letter of that sort arrived for him lately—within the past six months, say?”

      Lamont thought for a while and said yes, he thought so.

      “What kind of writing?”

      “Biggish, with very round letters.”

      “You have read the description of the dagger that killed Sorrell. Have you ever handled one like it?”

      “I not only never handled one but I never saw one.”

      “Have you any suggestions as to who or what this hypothetical woman might have been?”

      “No.”

      “Do you mean to say that you were this man’s intimate friend for years—actually lived with him for four years—and yet know nothing of his past?”

      “I know quite a lot about his past, but not that. You didn’t know Bert or you wouldn’t expect him to tell me. He wasn’t secretive in ordinary things—only in special things.”

      “Why was he going to America?”

      “I don’t know. I told you I thought he hadn’t been happy lately. He never was exactly bubbling over, but lately—well, it’s been more of an atmosphere than anything you could give a name to.”

      “Was he going alone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Not with a woman?”

      “Certainly not,” said Lamont sharply, as if Grant had insulted him or his friend.

      “How do you know?”

      Lamont hunted round in his mind, evidently at a loss. He was quite obviously facing the possibility for the first time that his friend had intended to go abroad with some one and had not told him. Grant could see him considering the proposition and rejecting it. “I don’t know how I know, but I do know. He would have told me that.”

      “Then you deny having any knowledge as to how Sorrell met his end?”

      “I do. Don’t you think, if I had any knowledge, I’d tell you all I knew?”

      “I expect you would!” said Grant. “The very vagueness of your suspicions is a bad feature in your line of defence.” He asked the constable to read out what he had written, and Lamont agreed that it coincided with what he