“Yessir, but honest I never shot the gentleman!” said Reg, sweating a little.
“What did you shoot?”
“Nothing, sir! It was only target-practice, like Ted told me I ought to do. It was Ted learnt me to shoot, and I only went out with him the three times. And then he got his call-up papers, and he said to take the rifle back to the Reverend, and, honest, I meant to! Only there was some cartridges left, and I thought if I was to use them for practice the Reverend wouldn't mind, and I could take the rifle back on the Sunday.”
“Well, why didn't you?”
“It—it was all over the village Mr. Warrenby had been shot.”
“Had the wind up, eh?”
“Well, I— Well, sir—”
“Because,” pursued Hemingway relentlessly, “this target-practice of yours was quite close to Fox House, wasn't it?”
“No, sir!” asserted Reg, the colour rising to his face. “That's what old Mr. Biggleswade told you, but it isn't true! I went to Squire's gravel-pit, “cos there's no one there of a Saturday afternoon, and it's a safe place. And I brought my cards, sir, just to show you it's true, what I'm telling you!”
With these words, he produced from his pocket several small cardboard targets, and laid them on the desk before the Chief Inspector. If they were valueless as proof that Reg had not fired the Vicar's rifle in the vicinity of Fox House, they did at least convince Hemingway that only by accident could he have shot a man through the head at a range of nearly a hundred yards. There was a decided twinkle in his eye as he looked at the targets. He said: “What was your range?”