‘I expected it,’ repeated Mr Nark firmly. ‘I had a chat with the chief inspector this morning.’

‘After which, in course,’ said Abel, ‘he knew his business. All he’s got to do is to clap handcuffs on somebody.’

‘Abel,’ said Mr Nark, ‘you’re a bitter man. I’m not blaming you. A chap with a tumble load on his conscience, same as what you’ve got, is scarcely responsible for his words.’

‘On his conscience!’ said Abel angrily. ‘What the devil do you mean? Why doan’t ‘ee say straight out I’m a murderer?’

‘Because you’re not, Abel. Murder’s one thing and negligence is another. Manslaughter is the term for your crime. If proper care had been took, as I told the chief inspector—though, mind you, I’m not a chap to teach a man his own business—’

‘What sort of a chap did you say you wasn’t?’

Miss Darragh intervened.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, ‘we all must hope for the end of this terrible affair. Whether ‘twas accident, or whether ‘twas something else, it’s been a dreadful strain and an anxiety for us all.’

‘So it has then, Miss,’ agreed Abel. He looked at Legge who had turned his back and was engaged, with the assistance of a twisted handkerchief, on an unattractive exploration of his left ear. ‘Sooner they catch the murderer the happier all of us’ll be.’

Parish caught Abel’s eyes and he too looked at Legge.

‘I can’t believe,’ said Parish, ‘that a crime like this can go unpunished. I shall not rest content until I know my cousin is avenged.’

‘Ah now, Mr Parish,’ said Miss Darragh, ‘you must not let this tragedy make the bitter man of you. Sure, you’re talking like the Count of Monte Cristo if ‘twas he was the character I call to mind.’

‘Do I sound bitter?’ asked Parish in his beautiful voice. ‘Perhaps I do. Perhaps I am.’

A shadow of something that might have been a twinkle flitted across Miss Darragh’s face.

‘A little too bitter,’ she said, and it was impossible to tell whether or not she spoke ironically.

On the floor above them there was a sudden commotion. A man’s voice spoke urgently. They heard a scuffle of feet and then someone ran along the upstairs passage.

‘What’s wrong with the sleuths?’ asked Parish.

No one answered. Miss Darragh took up her knitting. Mr Nark picked his teeth. Parish finished his beer.

‘We all want to see the man caught,’ said Legge suddenly. He spoke in his usual querulous, muffled voice. He looked ill and he seemed extremely nervous. Miss Darragh glanced at him and said soothingly:

‘Of course.’

‘Their behaviour,’ said Legge, ‘is abominable. Abominable! I intend writing a letter to the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. It is disgraceful.’