‘ “I very much fear I shall have to get rid of Sebastien. He cooks divinely, but he has the temper of a fiend or an anthropoid ape, and I am really in bodily fear of him. We had a dispute the other day as to the correct sort of lunch to be served on Ash Wednesday, and I got so irritated and annoyed at his conceit and obstinacy that at last I threw a cupful of coffee in his face and called him at the same time an impudent jackanapes. Very little of the coffee went actually in his face, but I have never seen a human being show such deplorable lack of self-control. I laughed at the threat of killing me that he spluttered out in his rage, and thought the whole thing would blow over, but I have several times since caught him scowling and muttering in a highly unpleasant fashion, and lately I have fancied that he was dogging my footsteps about the grounds, particularly when I walk of an evening in the Italian Garden.’

‘It was on the steps in the Italian Garden that the body was found,’ commented Egbert, and resumed reading.

‘ “I dare say the danger is imaginary; but I shall feel more at ease when he has quitted my service.” ’

Egbert paused for a moment at the conclusion of the extract; then, as his uncle made no remark, he added: ‘If lack of motive was the only factor that saved Sebastien from prosecution I fancy this letter will put a different complexion on matters.’

‘Have you shown it to any one else?’ asked Sir Lulworth, reaching out his hand for the incriminating piece of paper.

‘No,’ said Egbert, handing it across the table, ‘I thought I would tell you about it first. Heavens, what are you doing.’

Egbert’s voice rose almost to a scream. Sir Lulworth had flung the paper well and truly into the glowing centre of the grate. The small, neat handwriting shrivelled into black flaky nothingness.

‘What on earth did you do that for?’ gasped Egbert. ‘That letter was our one piece of evidence to connect Sebastien with the crime.’

‘That is why I destroyed it,’ said Sir Lulworth.

‘But why should you want to shield him?’ cried Egbert; ‘the man is a common murderer.’

‘A common murderer, possibly, but a very uncommon cook.’