‘Above all,’ he shouted, ‘Parish has done nothing but murmur against Legge. Suspicions, Bacon remarked, that are artificially nourished by the tales and whisperings of others, have stings. This, Parish foresaw. This he hoped would prove true. My case against Parish is that he took cyanide from the rat-hole as soon as he could after Abel Pomeroy put it there. Or, I offer it as an alternative, that he took cyanide from the original bottle, replaced the small amount with water, and contrived to rewrap and seal the bottle; and, as a blind, upset the vessel in the rat-hole without disturbing Pomeroy’s prints, and filled it with water. This suggests a subtlety of reasoning which may or may not appeal to you. But to the burden of my tale. Parish had, that very evening, heard of Watchman’s idiosyncrasy for cyanide, he had been reminded of Watchman’s habit of turning faint at the sight of his own blood, he had heard Watchman baiting Legge and Legge’s offer to perform his trick with Watchman’s hand, he had heard Watchman half-promise to let him try. The following night, when the brandy was produced and drunk, he saw his chance. He encouraged the drinking and the projected experiment. When Legge wounded Watchman and Watchman turned faint, Parish stood near the glass. He had the cyanide about him. Brandy was suggested. Parish put his poison in the glass. The lights went out. Parish groped on the floor, bumped his head against Cubitt’s legs, found the dart and infected it. He then ground whatever phial he had about him into powder together with the broken tumbler on the floor, and finding a more solid piece under his heel threw it into the fire. And from then onwards, gentlemen, I maintain that everything the fellow did or said is consistent with the theory that he murdered his cousin. I plump for Parish.’

Colonel Brammington stared about him with an unconvincing air of modesty tinged with a hint of anxiety.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there you are. An essay in Watsoniana. Am I to be set down? Shall I perceive my mentor wafting his eyes to the contrary and a falling lip of much contempt?’

‘No, indeed,’ said Alleyn. ‘I congratulate you, sir. A splendid marshalling of facts and a magnificent sequence of deductions.’

If so large and red a man could be said to simper, Colonel Brammington simpered.

‘Really,’ he said. ‘I have committed no atrocious blunder? My deductions march with yours?’

‘Almost all the way. We shall venture to disagree on one or two points.’

‘I make no claim to infallibility,’ said the chief constable. ‘What are the points? Let us have them.’

‘Well,’ said Alleyn apologetically and with an uncomfortable glance at Harper and at Fox, ‘there’s only one point of any importance. I—in our view of the case you’ve—you’ve hit on the wrong man.’

CHAPTER 20
Conjecture into Fact