"Yes, sir, it has, naturally. Might be several answers. Or whoever killed Carter with that rifle may have wanted a light pull."
"Light, perhaps, but not hair-trigger, surely! It would only need a touch to set it off Too risky."
The Inspector's gaze was fixed meditatively on a large saloon car, approaching at a regal and stately pace down the village street. "Very shrewd of your father, sir. I'm much obliged to him." A grin suddenly spread over his face. "Well, I wondered whether it was Royalty for the moment, but I see now that you won't be needing me any longer."
Hugh looked round, as the Rolls Royce, taking up most of the available space in the street, drew up outside the little butcher's shop. In it, looking rather like the Tragic Muse, sat Vicky, swathed in black, and with her sunny curls smoothed into two demure wings that framed her face. A halo hat made an extremely becoming setting for this fair primness.
".Now what's she playing at?" said Hugh Voice.
"Looks to me like Lady Jane Grey on her way to the block," remarked the Inspector, following him down the street to the Rolls Royce.
By the time they had reached it, the chauffeur had opened the door, and received from one gloved and languid hand a scrap of paper bearing the order for the butcher. He went into the shop as Hugh came up. Hugh pulled the door open again, and demanded: "What the devil do you think you're doing, got up like Queen Victoria?"
Vicky surveyed him in an aloof fashion. "I feel like that," she said simply.
Hugh looked grimly back at her. "I thought I told you you were not to start any more of your antics?"
"Yes," sighed Vicky, "but my car died on me."