“I haven't met him yet, but I've got reason to think he may have been cavorting about the common with the Vicar's gun on Saturday. He's a very unlikely suspect, but I'm including him because he's got that rifle hidden away somewhere. I've left orders he's to bring it in to us tomorrow on his way to work. From what I've seen of his family, I should say he would. If he doesn't, you can go and pull him in. All told, that makes nine people—but I admit I don't fancy some of them.”
“You've forgotten the Major,” said Harbottle dryly.
“I'm keeping him up my sleeve, in case all else fails,” retorted Hemingway, gathering the papers on the desk into a pile, and tying them up. “Come on! We've done enough for today.”
“Are you asking for an adjournment tomorrow, sir? Who is going to preside over the inquest?”
“Fellow from Hawkshead. The Chief Constable tells me he's all right, but one of these chatty old boys that like to go into all the irrelevant details, so I daresay we shall waste the better part of the morning on the job. However, there's not much I can do till I hear from Hinckley again. Come on!”
On the following morning, Hemingway was greeted by the news, when he walked into the police station, that young Ditchling had arrived there ten minutes earlier, and was awaiting his pleasure.
“Did he bring in that rifle?” asked Hemingway.
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Knarsdale has it.”
“All right. Know anything about this lad?”
“No, sir—nothing against him, that it. It's a very respectable family. All in steady jobs, and none of them been in any kind of trouble. This kid's just over sixteen. Works at Ockley's Stores, and is well spoken of by the boss. But I'd say he's pretty scared.”