“They seem to be just ordinary-pattern air-gun darts. They’d fit any of the guns we have. But someone seems to have been monkeying with them—boring holes in them and filling them up with some dirt or other. And the feathering’s all filthy, too.”
He completed his examination and handed the box back to Sir Clinton.
“Anybody else claim to be an expert?” asked the Chief Constable.
Sylvia looked at the tiny missiles with a shudder.
“They’re just ordinary darts so far as I can see,” she said. “And was it one of these things that killed my uncles? They seem such harmless little things. I’ve fired them often and often at targets myself. One would never dream they could be deadly.”
Sir Clinton closed the box and put it down on the mantel-piece behind him. He seemed suddenly to have been struck by a fresh idea.
“You said ‘any of the guns we have,’ Mr. Hawkhurst. I’d like to know how many air-guns you have on the premises.”
Arthur looked at him distrustfully.
“I can’t tell you on the spot,” he admitted, grudgingly. “We have half a dozen that I could lay my hands on; but we’ve got more than that lying about somewhere or other. They get left in odd places. The gardeners sometimes use them for shooting rats for amusement and so on, and one never knows where the guns are till one asks for them.”
Sir Clinton seemed rather taken aback.