“H’m,” said Melchett.
“I don’t think Mrs. Protheroe’s in this after all,” said Slack, with a note of regret in his voice. “She wouldn’t have had time, to begin with, and then women never like fiddling about with firearms. Arsenic’s more in their line. No, I don’t think she did it. It’s a pity!”
He sighed.
Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs. Price Ridley’s, and Slack approved.
“May I come with you?” I asked. “I’m getting interested.”
I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud “Hie” greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.
“Look here,” he said to the inspector, “what about that footprint I told you about?”
“Gardener’s,” said Inspector Slack laconically.
“You don’t think it might be someone else wearing the gardener’s boots?”
“No, I don’t!” said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.
It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.
He held out a couple of burnt matches.
“I found these by the Vicarage gate.”
“Thank you,” said Slack, and put them in his pocket.
Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.