“There’s a couple of men here—come from a newspaper, so they say. Do you want to see them?”
“No,” I said, “certainly not. Refer them to Inspector Slack at the police station.”
Mary nodded and turned away.
“And when you’ve got rid of them,” I said, “come back here. There’s something I want to ask you.”
Mary nodded again.
It was some few minutes before she returned.
“Had a job getting rid of them,” she said. “Persistent. You never saw anything like it. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“I expect we shall be a good deal troubled with them,” I said. “Now, Mary, what I want to ask you is this: Are you quite certain you didn’t hear the shot yesterday evening?”
“The shot what killed him? No, of course I didn’t. If I had of done, I should have gone in to see what had happened.”
“Yes, but—” I was remembering Miss Marple’s statement that she had heard a shot “in the wood.” I changed the form of my question. “Did you hear any other shot—one down in the wood, for instance?”
“Oh! that.” The girl paused. “Yes, now I come to think of it, I believe I did. Not a lot of shots, just one. Queer sort of bang it was.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now what time was that?”
“Time?”
“Yes, time.”