Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpectedly. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.
“Good morning, vicar,” he said. “Nasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didn’t. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasn’t upset your missus?”
I said Griselda had taken it very well.
“That’s lucky. Rotten thing to happen in one’s house. I must say I’m surprised at young Redding—doing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for anyone’s feelings.”
A wild desire to laugh came over me, but Colonel Melchett evidently saw nothing odd in the idea of a murderer being considerate, so I held my peace.
“I must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up,” continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.
“How did it happen exactly?”
“Last night. About ten o’clock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol and says: ‘Here I am. I did it.’ Just like that.”
“What account does he give of the business?”
“Precious little. He was warned, of course, about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see you—found Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Won’t say what the quarrel was