of one emerging from a severe tussle.
‘Phew!’ he said. ‘That’s a tartar you’ve got, sir.’
‘Mary is essentially a girl of strong character,’ I replied.
‘Doesn’t like the police,’ he said. ‘I cautioned her – did what I could to put the fear of the law into her, but no good. She stood right up to me.’
‘Spirited,’ I said, feeling more kindly towards Mary.
‘But I pinned her down all right. She heard one shot – and one shot only. And it was a good long time after Colonel Protheroe came. I couldn’t get her to name a time, but we fixed it at last by means of the fish. The fish was late, and she blew the boy up when he came, and he said it was barely half-past six anyway, and it was just after that she heard the shot. Of course, that’s not accurate, so to speak, but it gives us an idea.’
‘H’m,’ said Melchett.
‘I don’t think Mrs Protheroe’s in this after all,’ said Slack, with a note of regret in his voice. ‘She wouldn’t have had time, to begin with, and then women never like fiddling about with firearms. Arsenic’s more in their line. No, I don’t think she did it. It’s a pity!’ He sighed.
Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs Price Ridley’s, and Slack approved.
‘May I come with you?’ I asked. ‘I’m getting interested.’
I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud ‘Hie’ greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.
‘Look here,’ he said to the Inspector, ‘what about that footprint I told you about?’
‘Gardener’s,’ said Inspector Slack laconically.
‘You don’t think it might be someone else wearing the gardener’s boots?’
‘No, I don’t!’ said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.
It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.
He held out a couple of burnt matches.
‘I found these by the Vicarage gate.’
‘Thank you,’ said Slack, and put them in his pocket.
Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.
‘You’re not arresting Uncle Len, are you?’ inquired Dennis facetiously.
‘Why should I?’ inquired Slack.
‘There’s a lot of evidence against him,’ declared Dennis. ‘You ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Weren’t you, Uncle Len?’
‘Er –’ I began.
Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realize that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.
‘Don’t be absurd, Dennis,’ I said irritably.
The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.
‘I say, it’s only a joke,’ he said. ‘Uncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.’
‘Ah!’ said Inspector Slack, ‘that explains something the maid said.’
Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the Inspector suspicious of me for life.
‘Come on, Clement,’ said Colonel Melchett.
‘Where are you going? Can I come, too?’ asked Dennis.
‘No, you can’t,’ I snapped.
We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs Price Ridley’s house and the Inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.
‘Mrs Price Ridley in?’ inquired Melchett.
‘No, sir.’ The maid paused and added: ‘She’s just gone down to the police station.’
This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:
‘If she’s gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.’
I hardly thought it likely that Mrs Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.
We found Mrs Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as ‘Hats for Matrons’ – they make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matron’s hat.
Mrs Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.
‘Mrs Price Ridley?’ inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.
‘Let me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs Price Ridley,’ I said. ‘Colonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.’
Mrs Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel.
‘We’ve just been round to your house, Mrs Price Ridley,’ explained the Colonel, ‘and heard you had come down here.’
Mrs Price Ridley thawed altogether.
‘Ah!’she said,‘I’m glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.’
There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.
‘Have you any light to throw upon the matter?’ he asked.
‘That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?’
One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!
‘We’re doing our best, Mrs Price Ridley,’ said the Chief Constable.
‘But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!’ cried the lady.
We
