“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.
“Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard of—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”
“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said the inspector, deprecatingly.
“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real thing, is it, sir?”
“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”
“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.
“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.”
Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.
“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t come butting in.”