“Then, Harley,” I said in bewilderment, “you do believe that Camber committed the murder?”
“On the contrary,” he replied, “I am certain that he did not.”
I stood quite still.
“You are certain?” I began.
“I told you that the test of my theory, Knox, was to be looked for in the seventh yew from the northeast corner of the Tudor garden, did I not?”
“You did. And it is there. A bullet fired from a Lee-Enfield rifle; beyond any possible shadow of doubt the bullet which killed Colonel Menendez.”
“Beyond any possible shadow of doubt, as you say, Knox, the bullet which killed Colonel Menendez.”
“Therefore Camber is guilty?”
“On the contrary, therefore Camber is innocent!”
“What!”
“You are persistently overlooking one little point, Knox,” said Harley, mounting the steps on to the gravel path. “I spoke of the seventh yew tree from the northeast corner of the garden.”
“Well?”
“Well, my dear fellow, surely you observed that the bullet was embedded in the ninth?”
I was still groping for the significance of this point when, re-crossing the hall, we entered the library again, to find Inspector Aylesbury posed squarely before the mantelpiece stating his case to Wessex.
“You see,” he was saying, in his most oratorical manner, as we entered, “every little detail fits perfectly into place. For instance, I find that a woman, called Mrs. Powis, who for the past two years had acted as housekeeper at the Guest House and never taken a holiday, was sent away recently to her married daughter
