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As we moved on, Wells muttered to me, “Such a size of ship, rolling over in ten feet? It hardly seems likely!”

I agreed with the young author. But Holmes would make no remark.

Tarquin took us to a gantry which crossed the chamber above the wrecked ship. We stood a few inches from a bank of cables, many of which showed necking, shearing and cracking; they had clearly snapped under extreme pressure. But one cable – a fat, orange-painted rope as thick as my arm – had a clean, gleaming termination. At my feet was a gas cutting kit, and a set of protector goggles. It seemed absurdly obvious, like a puzzle set by a child, that a load-bearing cable had been cut by this torch!

Tarquin said, “Not all the cables supported the weight of the ship. Some carried power, air for the passenger, and so forth.”

Holmes said, “You say you were both working up here, on this gantry, when the accident occurred? Both you and Bryson?”

“Yes. We were doing some maintenance. We were the only people in the chamber – apart from Ralph, of course. He was inside the vessel itself, performing calculations there.”

Holmes asked, “And the Inertial Adjustor was in operation at the time?”

“It was.”

I pointed to the fat orange cable. “Was that the main support?”

He nodded. “Although I did not know that at the time.”

“And it has been cut with this torch?”

“That is right,” he said evenly. He leaned against the gantry rail, arms folded. “The flame sliced clean through, like ice under a hot tap. When the big one went the others started to stretch and snap. And soon the ship fell.”

“And Bryson was using the torch? Is that what you are saying?”

“Oh, no.” He looked mildly surprised at Wells’s question. “I was doing the cutting. I was working it under Bryson’s supervision.”

I demanded, “But if you were working the torch, how can you accuse Bryson of murder?”

“Because he is responsible. Do not you see? He told me specifically to cut the orange cable. I followed his instructions, not knowing that it was supporting the capsule.”

“You said you are trained to know every detail of the ship, inside and out.”

“The ship itself, yes, doctor. Not the details of this chamber, however. But Bryson knew.”

Wells remarked, “But it must have taken minutes to cut through that cable. Look at its thickness! Did Bryson not see what you were doing and stop you?”

“Bryson was not here,” Tarquin said coldly. “As you have heard, he was taking breakfast with my sister-in-law, as was their wont. You see, gentlemen,” he went on, a controlled anger entering his voice, “I was just a tool Bryson used to achieve his ends. As innocent as that torch at your feet.”

Wells stared at the torch, the ripped cables. “Tarquin, your brother knew Bryson for years. He relied on him utterly. Why would Bryson do such a thing?”

He straightened up, brushing dust from his jacket. “You must ask him that,” he said.

The next step was obvious to us all: we must confront the accused.

And so we returned to the drawing room of the main house, and confronted the wretched Bryson. He stood on the carpet, his broad, strong hands dangling useless at his side, his overalls oil-stained and bulging with tools. He was, on Wells’s testimony, solid, unimaginative, able – and utterly reliable. I could not avoid a sense of embarrassment as Holmes summarized to Bryson the accusation levelled against him.

Jack Bryson hung his head and ran his palm over his scalp. “So you think I killed him,” he said, sounding resigned. “That is that, then. Are you going to call in the police?”

“Slow down.” Holmes held his hands up. “To begin with, I do not know what possible reason you could have for wanting to harm Ralph Brimicombe.”

“It was Jane,” he said suddenly.

Wells frowned. “Brimicombe’s wife? What about her?”

“She and I –” He hesitated. “I may as well tell you straight; you will find out anyway. I do not know if you would call it an affair. I am a good bit older than she is – but still – Ralph was so distant, you know, so wrapped up in his work. And Jane – ”

“– is