The inspector was giving his instructions to a large burly countryman, disguised as a policeman, who had been waiting patiently in the hall all this time. While Jefferson led the way to the morning room, the latter ambled portentously into the library. It was the first time he had been placed in charge, however temporary, of a case of this importance, and he respected himself tremendously for it.
Arrived on the scene of the tragedy, he frowned heavily about him, gazed severely at the body for a moment and then very solemnly smelled at the ink-pot. He had once read a lurid story in which what had been thought at first to be a case of suicide had turned out eventually to be a murder carried out by means of a poisoned ink-pot; and he was taking no chances.
CHAPTER V.
Mr. Sheringham Asks a Question
“Now, gentlemen,” said the inspector, when the four of them were seated in the morning room, “there is a certain amount of routine work for me to do, though it may strike you as unimportant.” He smiled slightly towards Roger.
“Not a bit,” said that gentleman quickly. “I’m extraordinarily interested in all this. You’ve no idea how useful it will be if I ever want to write a detective novel.”
“Well, the chief thing I want to know,” the inspector resumed, “is who was the last person to see the deceased alive. Now when did you see him last, Major Jefferson?”
“About an hour and a half after dinner. Say ten o’clock. He was smoking in the garden with Mr. Sheringham, and I wanted to ask him something about the arrangements for to-day.”
“That’s right,” Roger nodded. “I remember. It was a few minutes past ten. The church clock in the village had just struck.”
“And what did you want to ask him?”
“Oh, nothing very important. Only what time he wanted the car in the morning, if at all. But I usually made a point of seeing him about that time every evening, in case he had any instructions to give me for the following day.”