It was a piece of Vicarage notepaper, and it was headed at the top 6:20.
“ Dear Clement ”—it began—“Sorry I cannot wait any longer, but I must …”
Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said Inspector Slack triumphantly. “He sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?”
“I’d just like to say—” I began.
“Out of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.”
He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.
“I think you ought to know—” I said obstinately.
The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.
“We’ll go into all that later. I’d be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.”
We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.
Hours seemed to have passed—yet it was only a quarter-past seven.
“Well,” said Haydock. “That’s that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.”
“The mistress is back,” said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. “Come in about five minutes ago.”