Free My Name is Michael Sibley by John Bingham

them everything, too. Don’t you think it might be better? Then we’d be absolutely clear.”
    I stroked her hair, and she reached up and caught hold of my hand and laid her thin face against it. She said, “I only want to do what you want me to do. You know best.”
    For a few seconds I was tempted to agree with her suggestion. Then I had a mental picture of her standing up in public answering questions and parrying innuendoes. I thought of her reading the newspaper accounts and seeing her picture. I imagined the curious looks of other members of the staff at her office, the inquisitive questions of other secretaries, the giggles and whispers which would stop when she entered a room, and the attempts of older members of the staff to be natural in their manner towards her.
    It was not hard to imagine some of the things they would say: “My dear, Kate of all people; she’s the last person I would have thought of. I always say it’s these quiet ones who are the worst. Still waters run deep, dear. It’s not as if she was a beauty, dear, even her friends couldn’t call her that, dear. Well, it just shows there’s hope for us all, dear, doesn’t it?”
    I couldn’t have that, not about little Kate.
    I said, “It’s not necessary, Kate, but you are sweet to suggest it. It’s just like you, dear Kate.”
    When I left her, I was once more glad that I had acted as I had done. My doubts of the previous night vanished. I was convinced that in the circumstances it was the best thing to do. I drove back to Harrington Gardens with a light heart.
     
    Ethel the maid sometimes used to turn my bed down at night, and if I was working she would bring me a cup of tea at about ten thirty. This was not included in the service, of course, but was a custom which had gradually grown up. I was on good terms with Ethel, and I have no doubt that her actions in this respect were prompted as much by kindliness of heart as by the reasonable tips I used to give her. I learnt early in life that it is a good economic policy to tip people well.
    When I saw that lights were on in my bedroom I assumed it was Ethel, but I was mistaken. The Chief Detective Inspector and the Sergeant rose to their feet when I opened the door.
    “Well, well, don’t you boys ever go to bed?” I asked.
    “I’m sorry to worry you so late at night,” said the Inspector.
    “That’s all right.”
    “There are just one or two points which have cropped up.”
    I went over to the corner cupboard. “Whisky and soda, as before, Inspector?”
    “Not tonight, thanks, sir.” The Sergeant also declined.
    “What about a beer, then?”
    “No thanks, sir. We had one on the way, as a matter of fact.”
    I poured myself out a glass of light ale, and sat down. The Sergeant took up his former position on the sofa and opened his notebook.
    “Well, as I say, sir, we’re sorry to have to bother you again, but if you could just tell us one or two things it might be helpful. It’s not an easy case.”
    “It is definitely a case, then?”
    “Well, we’re working on the assumption that there is something a bit fishy, sir. Now first of all, sir, do you happen to know anything about Mr. Prosset’s financial position?”
    “Well, no, I don’t; not very much. He seemed to have enough, though. As a matter of fact, now you come to mention it, he seemed to be a bit better off the last month or two. He exchanged his old car for a better one, and leased his cottage by the sea. Surely Mr. Day could help you there? They were partners.”
    “As a matter of fact, we’ve had a sniff around there,” said the Inspector after some hesitation. “This is all off the record, of course, sir, as far as newspapers go?”
    “Of course.”
    “As a matter of fact, they don’t seem to have been doing very well lately. Nothing startling. But they hoped it was only a temporary setback, according to this chap Day. But he said Mr. Prosset had been lucky with horses recently. Was he fond of