Died in the Wool by Ngaio Marsh Page B

gasp.
    â€˜Fabian!’ Ursula murmured, and put her arm about him, pressing him against her knees. ‘Darling Fabian, don’t.’
    Douglas stared at Fabian and then looked away in embarrassment. ‘You don’t want to think of it like that,’ he said. ‘It was a tribute. She was enormously popular. We had to let them do it. Personally—’
    â€˜Go on with the story, Douglas,’ said Terence.
    â€˜Wait,’ said Fabian. ‘I’ve got to explain. It’s my turn. I want to explain.’
    â€˜No,’ cried Ursula. ‘Please not.’
    â€˜We agreed to tell him everything. I’ve got to explain why I can’t join in this nil nisi stuff. It crops up at every turn. Let’s clear it up and then get on with the job.’
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜I’ve got to, Ursy. Please don’t interrupt, it’s so deadly important. And, after all, one can’t make a fool of oneself without some sort of apology.’
    â€˜Mr Alleyn will understand.’ Ursula appealed urgently to Alleyn, her hands still pressed down on Fabian’s shoulders. ‘It’s the war,’ she said. ‘He was dreadfully ill after Dunkirk. You mustn’t mind.’
    â€˜For pity’s sake shut up, darling, and let me tell him,’ said Fabian violently.
    â€˜But it’s crazy. I won’t let you, Fabian. I won’t let you.’
    â€˜You can’t stop me,’ he said.
    â€˜What the hell is this about?’ Douglas asked angrily.
    â€˜It’s about me,’ said Fabian. ‘It’s about whether or not I killed your Aunt Florence. Now, for God’s sake, hold your tongue and listen.’

CHAPTER FOUR
According to Fabian Losse
    S ITTING ON THE floor and hugging his knees, Fabian began his narrative. At first he stammered. The phrases tumbled over each other and his lips trembled. As often as this happened he paused, frowning, and, in a level voice, repeated the sentence he had bungled, so that presently he was master of himself and spoke composedly.
    â€˜I think I told you,’ he said, ‘that I got a crack on the head at Dunkirk. I also told you, didn’t I, that for some weeks after I was supposed to be more or less patched up, they put me on a specialized job in England. It was then I got the notion of a magnetic fuse for anti-aircraft shells, which is, to make no bones about it, the general idea behind our precious X Adjustment. I suppose, if things had gone normally, I’d have muddled away at it there in England, but they didn’t.
    â€˜I went to my job one morning with a splitting headache. What an admirably chosen expression that is: “a splitting headache.” My head really felt like that. I’d had bad bouts of it before and tried not to pay any attention. I was sitting at my desk looking at a memorandum from my senior officer and thinking I must collect myself and do something about it. I remember pulling a sheet of paper towards me. An age of nothingness followed this and then I came up in horrible waves out of dark into light. I was hanging over a gate in a road a few minutes away from my own billet. It was a very high gate, an eight-barred affair with wire on top, and padlocked. The place beyond was army property. I must have climbed up. I was very sick. After a bit I looked at my watch. I’d missed an hour. It was as if it had been cut out of my mind. I looked at my right hand and saw there was ink on my fingers. Then I went home, feeling filthily ill. I rang up the office and I suppose I sounded peculiar because the army quack came in the next morning and had a look at me. He said it was the crack on my skull. I’ve got the report he gave me to bring out here. You can see it if you like.
    â€˜While he was with me the letter came.
    â€˜It was addressed to me by me. That gives one an unpleasant feeling at any time. When I opened it, six sheets of office paper fell out. They were