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written detective story under name of Henry James. Must be acting for ED.
     
    There followed a reasonably accurate account of his history and of his parents’ death, and a final instruction.
     
    Try to find out what he knows. Offer to work with him. Get him to come in with us if possible. Point out that he has nothing to lose, ED is not reliable.
     
    He read this piece of paper three times, and then tried to make sense of what had happened. Montague and the man in the train were engaged in some shady enterprise together. ED, whoever he was, must be a rival. The enterprise was in some way connected with Bramley Hall, and for some inexplicable reason they had identified Applegate as an agent working for ED.
    He considered his own position. It seemed unfavourable. If he did as he had originally intended, and returned these letters to Montague’s pockets he would be in for some intensive questioning by the police, questioning that would be made more uncomfortable by the fact that he really had no idea of what the note meant. Then there was the matter of the knife. When he took it away from Winterbottom he had put it in his pocket. Had it still been in his possession when they had coffee with the Ponts? Thinking back, he was bound to admit that he had not the slightest idea, and that the knife could have been taken at any time. Pont could have taken it easily, so could Hedda, and so could Montague himself. Or it might have been taken before he had left the dining-hall.
    What should he do now? It seemed to Applegate that he would be acting with unnecessary foolishness by raising an alarm. It could make no difference to Montague whether he were discovered tonight or tomorrow. And it would be, surely, asking for trouble to return the letters. Tomorrow he would go and see Jenks in Murdstone and find out what this was all about. Tomorrow, after all, was another day. He became aware that he was very cold. He put the things he had taken from Montague’s pockets into his own wallet, got into bed, and in five minutes was asleep.

Chapter Nine
    In the morning things did not happen quite as he had expected. He was wakened by a knock on the door. It opened, and the face of Maureen Gardner peered round. “Derek’s murdered Mr Montague,” she said.
    Before falling asleep he had reminded himself that he must simulate surprise. He found no difficulty in doing so. “What?”
    “Derek did it. Stuck him like a pig. With that knife you took away from him, or another one like it. Have you still got that knife?” She felt in his clothes. “It’s gone. There you are.”
    “How do you know it was Derek?”
    “He’s gone. Run away. You’d better get up. I expect the police will want to talk to you.”
    When she had gone he looked at his watch and saw that it was half past eight. He washed, dressed, shaved, and went downstairs to the empty dining-hall. He learned later that Montague’s body had been found just before eight o’clock when one of the domestic staff took him some hot water, and received no reply to her knocking. Applegate had slept peacefully through the hysterics that immediately followed. Subsequently disorder had spread like a rash through the whole establishment. The central heating radiators were cold and the toast was burnt. In the centre of the breakfast table stood an enormous bowl of mush, which he took to be a standard Brooker-Timla dish. He shudderingly avoided it and tried to spread frozen butter on burnt toast. With this he drank lukewarm tea.
    The dining-hall did not remain empty for long. Two boys and a girl, not known to Applegate by name, came in and stared at him. “Will there be classes today?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Will you take them all, now the other one’s dead?”
    “I shouldn’t think so. You’d better organise your own class if you want to work. I’ll come and find you.” Surprisingly they seemed to think this a good idea, and went away to do it.
    A couple of minutes later Pont rushed