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the Edison effect. It can be demonstrated by . . .’
    Inspector Gibson hastily intervened. ‘Never mind that, sir. You say there was no personal disagreement between you and Mr Otterbourne?’
    ‘No.’ The Professor looked puzzled. ‘Why on earth should there be?’
    Inspector Gibson ignored the question. ‘About ten or fifteen minutes later, the butler and the chauffeur heard a shot. They found you in the study, holding a gun.’
    Alan Carrington ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve explained all that,’ he complained. ‘And I must say, I thought both the menservants behaved in a disgraceful way.’ He dropped his gaze and looked away. ‘I don’t know what came over them.’
    Gerard Carrington stood up. ‘Listen to me, Dad.’ He spoke slowly and clearly. Professor Carrington unwillingly raised his chin and looked at his son. ‘Mr Otterbourne is dead.’ Professor Carrington flinched. ‘The police think you shot him.’
    He ignored his father’s murmur of ridiculous . ‘You were found holding the gun. How did that come about?’ The elder man swallowed but said nothing. Gerard Carrington took a deep breath. He spoke very deliberately, spacing out the words. ‘Did you shoot Mr Otterbourne?’
    Alan Carrington started back as if he’d been struck. ‘Of course not! Gerry, you mustn’t say such things, even in jest.’
    ‘Then tell us what happened.’ Again, Gerard Carrington spoke very deliberately.
    Professor Carrington covered his face with his hands. ‘I went out of the room. It was a call of nature, you understand. I was only a few minutes at most. When I came back in he was dead.’ He dropped his hands. ‘I suppose he committed suicide but why he should do any such thing, I do not know. He seemed perfectly in control of himself before I left. I was astonished. He was lying face down on the floor with a gun beside him. As I went to turn him over, the menservants burst into the room and demanded to know what I was doing. Their manner was abrasive in the extreme.’
    ‘You actually had the gun in your hand, I believe,’ said the Inspector.
    ‘I picked it up, yes.’
    ‘And you threatened the butler with it.’
    ‘I did no such thing!’ said Carrington indignantly. ‘I told him to stop talking nonsense – he was babbling that I had shot his master – and I told him to stop.’
    ‘Whilst holding the gun.’
    ‘What the devil was I meant to do with it?’
    Inspector Gibson glanced at Sergeant Atterby and took a deep breath. ‘Professor Carrington, I’m afraid I have to ask you to accompany me to the station.’
    ‘To catch the train?’ asked the Professor hopefully.
    Gerard Carrington caught hold of his father’s arm. ‘Dad, you’re being taken to the police station. Stop pretending you don’t know what’s going on. You’re being arrested.’
    ‘Arrested?’ repeated Alan Carrington. ‘ Arrested? ’
    ‘Yes. For the murder of Mr Otterbourne.’
    And Alan Carrington started to laugh.
    It was nearly nine o’clock that evening when Gerard Carrington returned to Stoke Horam House.
    Steve Lewis was standing by the fireplace in the drawing room, his elbow on the mantelpiece, talking earnestly to a sandy-haired man about his own age. He broke off abruptly as Carrington was shown into the room. ‘Gerry! I can hardly believe what’s happened. I was at Uncle Maurice’s. I’ve only just got back. Why didn’t someone try and get hold of me?’
    ‘I knew you were there,’ said Carrington. ‘Your wife said so when we first arrived. Uncle Maurice is Colonel Willoughby, isn’t he? I don’t know his address or if he’s on the telephone or not.’
    ‘He’s not on the phone but Molly should have sent a telegram.’
    Carrington shook his head. He was speaking mechanically, forcing himself to think of the words. ‘Your wife was knocked sideways. The doctor packed her off to bed with a sleeping draught.’
    ‘Yes, Hamilton told me she’d taken it pretty hard.’ Steve Lewis looked