“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “The Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot—in the Vicarage.”
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can’t say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre—say a Mauser .25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding’s admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
“Did you speak, sir?”
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.