Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers

clears Ralph,” said Crisp. “It’s corroborated in part by Watlington’s wife and negatively by Ralph’s own mis-statements—notably the statement that he struck through the wig, which we know he did not.”
    â€œLet’s have the other half, sir! Suppose there are two innocent persons?”
    â€œMost probably there are! There’s the difference in their respective tales. And there’s Querk’s point that they had no time in which to conspire. Yes—I think it’ll turn out to be a one-man job—or let’s say one-person job.”
    â€œYou mean, sir, that Miss Lofting might have returned to the library after Querk left it?”
    â€œShe might have. We know only that she was having a bath, round about five-fifteen. What’s a bath?—a couple of hours or a couple of minutes. She had opportunity plus motive. Querk had opportunity, but no motive, so far as we know.”
    â€œAll I can say,” announced Benscombe, “is that if Miss Lofting is the chief suspect, I’m ready to follow Querk and plump for Watlington’s wife. That ‘woman scorned’ stuff!”
    â€œWomen get scorned every day, but they don’t often commit murder about it. And don’t forget the penknife and the signet ring—which becomes an elaborate and pointless act from the wife’s point of view. To say nothing of ringing us up some hour and a half after the murder.”
    â€œBut we don’t know that she did that, sir!”
    â€œWe don’t. But it’s a working hypothesis that the murderer did, so as to get us bogged up with all those guests. Something may have happened then, which you and I missed. There’s a corker for you. But we don’t want corkers—we want facts. And we shan’t get any more here tonight. Come along!”
    As he gathered up the Chief Constable’s personal paraphernalia, Benscombe harked back.
    â€œI hope, sir, you don’t take your own little joke seriously. Miss Lofting means nothing to me. I don’t care tuppence whether she’s innocent or guilty. I just feel sure that she isn’t the type.”
    â€œOh, I feel that too! That’s because we’re human. But, you know, there’s no such thing as a murderer type.”
    In the hall, Claudia Lofting was waiting. As Crisp came out of the morning-room she approached him. She had discarded the evening dress, was wearing a morning frock and an apron, presumably borrowed from Bessie.
    â€œRalph is ill,” she said. “I want to take him away from here tomorrow. Is there any objection?”
    â€œWhat sort of ‘ill’?” asked Crisp.
    â€œThat confession! He’s a bit delirious after his excitement. He keeps telling me—over and over again—how he killed his uncle.”
    Again Crisp lapsed into the perilous business of assessing a human being on appearances. If she had been putting on an act, that apron would be free from stains, which it wasn’t. She looked tired and pre-occupied. So he took her words at their face value.
    â€œI have no authority in the matter,” he told her. “I suggest that you leave the decision to the doctor. We’ve a lot of spadework to do yet. And perhaps it would be in his own ultimate interest if he were to stay close at hand.”
    Claudia nodded. Some of her fatigue vanished and she smiled.
    â€œAnd in my ultimate interest too, Colonel?”
    â€œSince you ask—yes. Goodnight, Miss Lofting.”
    With Benscombe beside him, Crisp drove back with more dash than was decorous in a Chief Constable.
    â€œGood women,” he remarked, “may conceivably commit crime for what they believe to be a good motive.”
    Benscombe was irritated into an outburst of respectful agreement.

Chapter Seven
    On the following morning, an hour before he was due to report at headquarters, Benscombe was knocking at Arthur Fenchurch’s flat. Eventually,