"Wake's got a notion it was a put-up job between the two Whites," explained Hemingway.
"Well, that would surprise me!" said Cook. "Why, it's common knowledge young Alan loathes his father! And as for him firing a rifle, I doubt if he'd know how. He's a regular wet, that chap: doesn't hold with bloodsports, and talks a lot of half-baked stuff about Bolshevik Russia, and that kind of thing."
Hemingway lifted an eyebrow at his subordinate. Wake said obstinately: "It's wonderful what a difference money can make to a man. Supposing that quarrel he and his father had at lunchtime, on the Sunday, was just a blind to make us think they weren't on good terms?"
"Then by all accounts they've been putting up those blinds ever since they came to the district," said Cook dryly. "No, I reckon that's straight enough: there's no love lost between White and his son."
"Does White hate his son enough to send him out to murder Carter for him?" asked Hemingway.
"Good Lord, no, Inspector!" replied Cook, quite shocked. "Why, that would be downright wicked! Things aren't as bad as that! Stands to reason they can't be, or they wouldn't live in the same house."
"That's what I thought. Go back to the moment when White chucked the cigarettes into the chair, will you? What happened next?"
"He shouted to Jones and Miss White not to stand staring, but to come down to see what they could do for Carter, and set off for the bridge. They ran after him, of course, but Carter must have been dead before they got there."
"In fact," said Hemingway, "White got his two witnesses out of the way, for it's not to be supposed they'd pay attention to anything except Carter's body, once they'd been set on to look after him."
"You can put it that way if you like," Cook said, staring.