He sat down, and began to fill his pipe from an old-fashioned rubber pouch. The Chief Inspector took a cigarette, and lit it; and his subordinate, offered the box by Sergeant Carsethorn, said in a deep voice that he never smoked.
Having, by the expenditure of several matches, got his pipe going, it did not take the Colonel long to lay the bare facts of the case before Hemingway. It took rather longer to enumerate and to describe the various persons who made up the society of Thornden; and here it was seen that the Colonel was picking his words carefully. Inspector Harbottle, who had been sitting with his eyes fixed on the opposite wall with an immobility strongly suggestive of catalepsy, suddenly bent a gloomy gaze upon him; but his superior maintained his air of birdlike, uncritical interest.
“Dr. Rotherhope performed the autopsy this morning,” concluded the Colonel. “Perhaps you'd like to read the report. Nothing much to it, of course: the cause of death was never in doubt.”
Hemingway took the report, and ran through it. “No,” he agreed. “The only information it gives us which we didn't know before is that the bullet was probably fired from a .22 rifle, and that's a bit of news I could have done without. Not but what I daresay I should have guessed it. Oh, well! I don't suppose there are more than forty or fifty .22 rifles knocking around the neighbourhood. It'll make a nice job for my chaps, rounding them up. Cartridge-case been found, by any chance?”
“Yes, sir,” said Carsethorn, not without pride. “It's here. Took a lot of time to find it. It was in the gorse-bushes you see on the plan.”
“Nice work!” approved Hemingway, putting a tiny magnifying glass to one eye, and closely scrutinising the cartridge case through it. “Got some clear markings on it, too, which all goes to show you should never make up your mind in advance. I thought it wouldn't show anything much: nine times out of ten a .22 rifle is so worn it doesn't give you any help at all. We ought to be able to identify the gun this little fellow was fired from. Supposing we were to find it, which I daresay we shan't. If I didn't know that the easier a case looks at the start the worse it turns out to be in the middle, I should say this one's a piece of cake.”
“I hope you may find it so,” said the Colonel heavily.
“Yes, sir, but it's standing out a mile I shan't. From what you've told me I can see we've got a very classy decor, and, in my experience, that always makes things difficult.”
“Does it?” said the Colonel staring.
“Stands to reason, sir,” said Hemingway, flicking over a page of the police-surgeon's report. “For one thing, these people you've been telling me about—Squire, Vicar, family solicitor, retired Major—will all stand by one another. I'm sure I don't blame them,” he added cheerfully, oblivious of a slight stiffening on the Colonel's part. “They don't want to have a lot of nosy policemen prying into their affairs. They weren't brought up to it, like the more usual kind of criminal. And, for another, they're apt to have a lot more sense than the criminal classes. In fact, it's a good thing they don't take to crime more often. Yes, I can see this isn't going to be all beer and skittles, not by a long chalk it isn't!” He laid the report down. “Bit coy about the time of death, your Dr. Rotherhope, sir. Any doubt about that?”