He was conscious that he should be thinking of the sadness of sudden death, the unpredictability of life, of the virtues of the late Colonel Worthington. In fact his thoughts were occupied exclusively with how the members would react to the exiting of the corpse and the news of the reason for it, whether he would have to attend the funeral, and how it would affect the reputation of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen. A suicide perhaps. That was to be expected, if frowned upon, on club premises. But the unthinkable – a murder? Why, a murder implied that . . . no, that thought he resolutely pushed from his mind. Why, oh why, had this torment come upon him? He felt like the Lady of Shalott. And goodness knows what Jessie would say to him when – or rather if, for it looked like being a long night – he returned home. That’s if – with a start he remembered that his wife must still be here, waiting placidly to be taken home. He would take this monstrous bull by its horns: ‘No one, Inspector, would wish to murder Colonel Worthington.
