“In a fire at the exchange, wasn’t it? That’s right. I remembered her name from before.”

“Before what?” Inspector Newcombe asked.

Mr. Klein frowned. “Maybe I’ve run into her around town? Go on. What were the other names?”

“The next person was the master of the local hunt. Major Wesley-Parker.”

Mr. Klein looked up suddenly. “Dapper little man with a mustache like that dreadful Hitler fellow? Thinks a lot of himself?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Oh, I remember him all right,” he said. “I served on a jury with him several years ago. He was an officious person. Took charge from square one. Bossed us all around. Wanted everything his way.”

“A jury?” Inspector Newcombe exchanged an excited look with us.

“That’s right. Come to think of it, that telephone lady must have been on it too. At least, there was some woman who chattered nonstop, inane stuff. I believe her last name was Tripp.”

“Think carefully, Mr. Klein,” Inspector Newcombe said slowly. “Who else can you remember on that jury?”

“Let me see. A refined older lady who locked horns with your hunting chap. There were a couple of people who never said a word—a large countrywoman, I remember, who looked distinctly out of place and uncomfortable. Did her knitting all the time. Click of knitting needles was most annoying. Then there were a couple of younger men who wouldn’t take anything seriously. That Major Whatsit did get annoyed with them. ‘You’re a disgrace to the county set,’ he said.” And Mr. Klein chuckled.

“Freddie Partridge. Johnnie Protheroe?” I asked.

“I really can’t remember names, if I even knew them. You don’t ever want to get too friendly with fellow jurors. It’s such an unreal situation that you just want to do the job and get out of there. At least, that was the way I felt. And most of them ignored me. I’m the sort that people overlook.”

The inspector cleared his throat. “Mr. Klein, what was the nature of the case? And the name of the defendant?”

“Now, that I do remember,” he said. “It was quite interesting, actually. He’d been a well-known music hall artiste. Had fallen on hard times since the demise of the music hall and taken to swindling old ladies out of their life savings. The prosecution wanted us to believe that he’d killed more than one of them. His last landlady had died from a fall down the stairs, but there was no real proof that he’d actually pushed her.”

“And his name, Mr. Klein? Do you remember his name?”

“His name was Robbins.”

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The inspector got to his feet, slamming his fist into his open hand. “I knew it. I knew my instinct was right all along.”

“You know him, then?” Mr. Klein asked.