Hawes’s appearance distressed me very much. His hands were shaking and his face kept twitching nervously. In my opinion he should have been in bed, and I told him so. He insisted that he was perfectly well.
“I assure you, sir, I never felt better. Never in my life.”
This was so obviously wide of the truth that I hardly knew how to answer. I have a certain admiration for a man who will not give in to illness, but Hawes was carrying the thing rather too far.
“I called to tell you how sorry I was—that such a thing should happen in the Vicarage.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s not very pleasant.”
“It’s terrible—quite terrible. It seems they haven’t arrested Mr. Redding after all?”
“No. That was a mistake. He made—er—rather a foolish statement.”
“And the police are now quite convinced that he is innocent?”
“Perfectly.”
“Why is that, may I ask? Is it—I mean, do they suspect anyone else?”
I should never have suspected that Hawes would take such a keen interest in the details of a murder case. Perhaps it is because it happened in the Vicarage. He appeared as eager as a reporter.
“I don’t know that I am completely in Inspector Slack’s confidence. As far as I know, he does not suspect anyone in particular. He is at present engaged in making inquiries.”