She smiled, and nodded again, and went out of the room, returning, however, in a few moments to tell the Inspector not to make a special point of looking for the book, as she knew he had other things to think about.

The astonished Sergeant exchanged a glance with his superior, but Hemingway assured Maud that he would keep his eyes open.

‘Well!’ ejaculated the Sergeant, when Maud had gone away again. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘I’d say she was looking for her book.’

The Sergeant was disappointed. ‘It struck me she might be looking for the weapon that killed the old man. Seemed fishy to me.’

‘She wouldn’t have had to look far,’ said the Inspector. ‘Not if it’s in this room. What’s wrong with your eyesight, my lad?’

The Sergeant blinked, and gazed about him. Hemingway pointed a finger at the wall above the fireplace. Flanking the head of an antlered deer were two old flint-lock pistols, a pair of knives in ornate sheaths, and various other weapons, ranging from a Zulu knobkerrie to a seventeenth-century halberd.

‘Just about as much gumption as the locals, that’s what you’ve got!’ said Hemingway scornfully. ‘Get up on a chair, and take a look at those two daggers! And don’t go fingering them!’

Swallowing this insult, the Sergeant pulled a chair forward, and said that it was funny how you could miss a thing that was right under your nose.

‘I don’t know what you mean by “you”!’ retorted Hemingway. ‘I know what I’d mean by it, but that’s different. And funny isn’t the word I’d use, either. Any dust on those daggers?’

The Sergeant, standing on the chair, reached up, leaning a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘No. At least, yes: on the undersides,’ he said, peering at them.

‘Both free from dust on the outside?’

‘Pretty well. So’s this pike-affair. Careful servants in this house. I expect they do ’em with one of those feather dusters on the end of a long stick.’

‘Never mind what they do them with! Hand those daggers down to me!’

The Sergeant obeyed, using his handkerchief. Hemingway took them, and closely scrutinised them. It was plain that the sheaths at least had not been taken down recently, since dust clung to the undersides, and a few wispy cobwebs on the wall were revealed by their removal. Indeed, the Sergeant, descending from his perch, and studying the knives, gave it as his opinion that neither had been handled.

‘Take another look,’ advised Hemingway. ‘Notice anything about the hilts?’

The Sergeant glanced quickly at him, and then once more bent over the weapons. As Hemingway held them up the dust on them was clearly visible. Each sheath, where it had lain against the wall, was thinly coated with dust, and so was one hilt. The other hilt had no speck of dust on it, on either side.

The Sergeant drew in his breath. ‘My lord, Chief, you’re quick!’ he said respectfully.