“You forget his capacity for being overlooked—and underestimated. Besides, how he came is nothing to why. Can you make smoke rings to order, Beddoes, or are they quite fortuitous?”

“Just a chance. You haven’t seen Ivan since they locked him in?” said Beddoes slowly.

Brett shook his head.

“Oh. They asked him that. He said he went back because he had a friend in that car.”

“But he’d never set eyes on any of us till today! Good God!” Brett jumped out of his chair. “Surely we’re not going to have to start thinking about Majendie again?”

“Oh, boil, bake and fry me slowly!” said Beddoes. “Sometimes I wonder—” He stopped, sighed ostentatiously, and shook his head.

“What?” said Brett. “Well, what did he mean by it?”

“Forget it. He’s not too bright, after all. And you know the old bird—Mr. Majendie’s really all right, don’t you? Well, stop worrying. More to the point,” said Beddoes with a sly look, “to ask why he decided to give himself up. After all, to face a murder charge is no sneezing matter.”

“Ivan may get off with manslaughter. I think he should.”

Beddoes whistled, with slight tremolo effect. “He’ll need a good counsel.”

“He’ll get it.”

The door opened, to readmit the head and uniformed shoulder.

“Your call to London, sir. Will you take it in here?”

“Yes,” said Brett. “Thank you, put it through.”

“Ah,” said Beddoes, sliding off the table, “this is where I get a chance to take a look at the crackling!” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and loped, grinning, out of the door.

Brett picked up the telephone. “Hullo!” he said. “Christina?”

“Yes, darling, what is it?”

So casual, so unconcerned! Of course, it wasn’t at all late, as he was thinking. She wouldn’t have been expecting him.

“Nothing really,” he said. “I’m in Canterbury.”

“Good heavens! Do you remember that awful hot day we were there? Red-faced girls all sweat and haversacks combing their hair in the cathedral. Oh darling, won’t you be able to come home for tomorrow?”

“Yes, oh yes, tonight. What’s special about tomorrow?”

“Brett! Christmas.”

“Oh, hell and damnation!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said hastily, “I was thinking of something else.” He was thinking of the cameo. “Did you enjoy the cantata? I didn’t want to wake you this morning.”

“Oh, it wasn’t bad, except that they had a moo-cow instead of an alto, and of course he had no idea—”

“Chris,” he interrupted, “you know that saying, He that toucheth pitch—”

“Oh, there was nothing wrong with her pitch, it was just those awful lowing scoops, and the way she bludgeoned the phrases.”

Brett sighed. “Listen Christina. Does it ever dismay you to think that you’re married to a detective, all scum and suspicion?”

“What? Brett—are you all right?”

“Of course I am,” he said impatiently, “how else could I be talking to you? I only asked a simple question. Isn’t there a simple answer?”