“Listen, grandfather!” interposed Hemingway. “There's nothing I'd like better than to hear your life-story, but the trouble is I've got work to do. So you just tell me what you want to see me about, will you?”
“That's right, my lad, you listen to me, and you'll get made a Sergeant!” said Mr. Biggleswade approvingly. “'Cos I know who done this 'ere murder!”
“You do?” said Hemingway.
“He don't know anything of the sort, sir!” expostulated Hobkirk. “He's in his dotage! Sergeant! Why, you silly old fool—”
“You leave him alone!” said Hemingway briefly. “Come on, grandfather! Who did do it?”
An expression of intense cunning came into the wizened countenance of Mr. Biggleswade. “Mind, I'll 'ave me pitcher in the papers!” he warned the Chief Inspector. “And if there's a reward I'll 'ave that too! Else I won't tell you nothing!”
“That's all right,” said Hemingway encouragingly. “If you can tell me the name of the man I'm after, I'll take a photo of you myself!”
Much gratified, Mr. Biggleswade said: “You're a smart lad, that's wot you are! Well, if you want to know 'oo done it I'll tell you! It were young Reg Ditchling!”
“Father!” said his daughter imploringly. “It isn't right to go taking that poor boy's character away from him! I keep telling you you've got it all wrong!”
“Reg Ditchling,” repeated Mr. Biggleswade, nodding his hoary head mysteriously. “And don't you let no one tell you different! I was up on that there common—ah, and no so far from Cox Lane neither!—and I 'eared a shot. Plain as I 'ear you yammering now I 'eard it, and don't none of you start talking to me about no backfires, “cos there ain't any man living knows more about gunshots than wot I do—I didn't pay no 'eed, “cos it weren't none of my business, but 'oo do you think I seen not ten minutes later, “idling be'ind a blackberry bush?”