Spider's Web by Agatha Christie

you returned to the house, you came in by the back door – at least I suppose you did?”
    “Yes, sir,” Elgin replied, nervousness now making him rather more deferential in manner.
    “Did you notice anything unusual?”
    The butler thought for a moment, and then replied, “Now I come to think of it, there was a strange car standing near the stables.”
    “A strange car? What do you mean?”
    “I wondered at the time whose it might be,” Elgin recalled. “It seemed a curious place to leave it.”
    “Was there anybody in it?”
    “Not so far as I could see, sir.”
    “Go and take a look at it, Jones,” the Inspector ordered his constable.
    “Jones!” Clarissa exclaimed involuntarily, with a start.
    “I beg your pardon,” said the Inspector, turning to her.
    Clarissa recovered herself quickly. Smiling at him, she murmured, “It's nothing – just – I didn't think he looked very Welsh.”
    The Inspector gestured to the Constable and to Elgin, indicating that they should go. They left the room together, and a silence ensued. After a moment, Jeremy got up, went across to the sofa, sat and began to eat the sandwiches. The Inspector, who was still carrying his hat and gloves, put them on the armchair, and then, taking a deep breath, addressed the assembled company.
    “It seems,” he declared, speaking slowly and deliberately, “that someone came here tonight who is unaccounted for.” He looked at Clarissa. “You're sure you weren't expecting anyone?” he asked her.
    “Oh, no – no,” Clarissa replied. “We didn't want anyone to turn up. You see, we were just the four of us for bridge.”
    “Really?” said the Inspector. “I'm fond of a game of bridge myself.”
    “Oh, are you?” Clarissa replied. “Do you play Blackwood?”
    “I just like a common-sense game,” the Inspector told her. “Tell me, Mrs. Hailsham-Brown,” he continued, “you haven't lived here for very long, have you?”
    “No,” Clarissa told him. “About six weeks.”
    The Inspector regarded her steadily. “And there's been no funny business of any kind since you've been living here?” he asked.
    Before Clarissa could answer, Sir Rowland interjected. “What exactly do you mean by funny business, Inspector?”
    The Inspector turned to address him. “Well, it's rather a curious story, sir,” he informed Sir Rowland. “This house used to belong to Mr. Sellon, the antique dealer. He died six months ago.”
    “Yes,” Clarissa remembered. “He had some kind of accident, didn't he?”
    “That's right,” said the Inspector. “He fell downstairs, pitched on his head.” He looked around at Jeremy and Hugo, and added, “Accidental death, they brought in. It might have been that, but it might not.”
    “Do you mean,” Clarissa asked, “that somebody might have pushed him?”
    The Inspector turned to her. “That,” he agreed, “or else somebody hit him a crack on the head – ”
    He paused, and the tension among his hearers was palpable. Hugo rose, took a few steps to the desk stool, and sat again. The others froze, and the Inspector went on speaking. “Someone could have arranged Sellon's body to look right, at the bottom of the stairs.”
    “The staircase here in this house?” Clarissa asked nervously.
    “No, it happened at his shop,” the Inspector informed her. “There was no conclusive evidence, of course – but he was rather a dark horse, Mr. Sellon.”
    “In what way, Inspector?” Sir Rowland asked him.
    “Well,” the Inspector replied, “once or twice there were a couple of things he had to explain to us, as you might say. And the Narcotic Squad came down from London and had a word with him on one occasion...” He paused before continuing, “But it was all no more than suspicion.”
    “Officially, that is to say,” Sir Rowland observed.
    The Inspector turned to him. “That's right, sir,” he said meaningfully. “Officially.”
    “Whereas, unofficially... ?” Sir Rowland prompted