The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie

to explain himself. Haltingly, and with many disclaimers to his own belief in the thing, he described the events of the previous afternoon and the message that had purported to come through for himself.
    “You mean, Major Burnaby, that the table spelt out the name of Trevelyan and informed you that he was dead - murdered?”
    Major Burnaby wiped his forehead.
    “Yes, that's what happened. I didn't believe in it - naturally, I didn't believe in it.” He looked ashamed. “Well - it was Friday and I thought after all I would make sure and go along and see if everything was all right.”
    The Inspector reflected on the difficulties of that six mile walk, with the piled up snowdrifts and the prospect of a heavy snow fall, and he realized that deny it as he would Major Burnaby must have been deeply impressed by the spirit message. Narracott turned it over in his mind. A queer thing to happen - a very queer thing to happen. The sort of thing you couldn't explain satisfactorily. There might be something in this spirit business after all. It was the first well authenticated case he had come across.
    A very queer business altogether but, as far as he could see, though it explained Major Burnaby's attitude, it had no practical bearing on the case as far as he himself was concerned. He had to deal with the physical world and not the psychic.
    It was his job to track down the murderer.
    And to do that he required no guidance from the spirit world.

The Sittaford Mystery

Chapter 8
    MR CHARLES ENDERBY
    Glancing at his watch, the Inspector realized he could just catch the train for Exeter if he hurried off. He was anxious to interview the late Captain Trevelyan's sister as soon as possible and obtain from her the addresses of the other members of the family. So, with a hurried word of farewell to Major Burnaby, he raced off to the station. The Major retraced his steps to the Three Crowns. He had hardly put a foot across the doorstep when he was accosted by a bright young man with a very shiny head and a round, boyish face.
    “Major Burnaby?” said the young man.
    “Yes.”
    “Of No. 1 Sittaford Cottages?”
    “Yes,” said Major Burnaby.
    “I represent the Daily Wire,” said the young man, “and I -”
    He got no further. In true military fashion of the old school, the Major exploded.
    “Not another word,” he roared. “I know you and your kind. No decency. No reticence. Clustering round a murder like vultures round a carcass, but I can tell you, young man, you will get no information from me. Not a word. No story for your damned paper. If you want to know anything, go and ask the police, and have the decency to leave the friends of the dead man alone.”
    The young man seemed not a whit taken aback. He smiled more encouragingly than ever.
    “I say, sir, you know you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I know nothing about this murder business.”
    This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. No one in Exhampton could pretend ignorance of the event that had shaken the quiet moorland town to its core.
    “I am empowered on behalf of the Daily Wire,” went on the young man, “to hand you this check for 5,000 pounds and congratulate you on sending in the only correct solution of our football competition.”
    Major Burnaby was completely taken aback.
    “I have no doubt,” continued the young man, “that you have already received our letter yesterday morning informing you of the good news.”
    “Letter?” said Major Burnaby. “Do you realize, young man, that Sittaford is about ten feet deep in snow? What chance do you think we have had in the last few days of a regular delivery of letters?”
    “But doubtless you saw your name announced as winner in the Daily Wire, this morning?”
    “No,” said Major Burnaby. “I haven't glanced at the paper this morning.”
    “Ah! of course not,” said the young man. “This sad business. The murdered man was a friend of yours, I understand.”
    “My best friend,” said