"Ah, ah. Well?”
"Our witness named Simon Frew, the one with the powerful binoculars, was sittin' astride the centre gable. Just opposite us. Now Arthur Puckston, with the brass telescope: where was he?"
Masters pointed to their left
"Astride the north gable. There!"
"That's right. Therefore he was lookin' sideways. Sideways." H.M. ruminated, like an ogre with a bone. "And there was nobody on the south gable. And… y'see, Masters, I didn't like Puckston's testimony one little bit He didn't like George Fleet either."
Masters gestured impatiently with the brief-case. "I told you there wasn't much in that! Sir George thought a pub across from his house was undignified and spoiled the view. But he couldn't even get Puckston's license revoked by the magistrates, let alone snaffle the land by some legal…" '
"Legal, hey?"
"Maybe you've heard the word, sir?"
"Once or twice. That's what Stannard was do’in’ here on the day it happened, as sure as Moses had a beard." H.M. nodded vaguely. "Finally, you were goin' to tell me something more about George Fleet's field-glasses, only you didn't"
"For the last time," Masters said with powerful restraint "there was NOTHING wrong with those field-glasses. They fell on the grass and weren't broken. Bert Hartshorn, the constable, took them into the house only a second or two after the gentleman fell. No murderous devices. No—"