“Haven’t one doubt,” affirmed the Chief Constable. “Murder! We shall have to go deeply into his doings, his whereabouts, between half-past ten last night and early this morning. According to the police-surgeon he was shot about four o’clock. What was he doing?—where was he?—in that interval? You live in Markenmore, Chilford, don’t you?”
“Outskirts,” answered Chilford, “but he never came to see me, if that’s what you’re thinking of. I didn’t know he’d been here, till just now.”
“I suppose he didn’t come to see you, Mr. Harborough?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No,” said Harborough. “Certainly not.”
“I thought you’d probably known each other before he left home,” said the Chief Constable. “Well, there’s a lot to do, Chilford; you’d better go and tell his brother and sister and prepare them. His body will be brought here—presently—and the inquest will be held here. Break it to them—they’ve got to know.”
Chilford nodded, and silently left the room. Braxfield, wiping his eyes, came back.
“You’ll excuse my emotion, gentlemen,” he said. “Forty years’ service in this family, you know—like my own, if I may say so. Come to the morning-room, gentlemen, if you please—there’s a good fire there, by now; this room’s never used, and it’s too cold to stay in.”
The three men followed the old butler across the hall to the room in which Harborough had talked to Harry and Valencia the previous evening. And there, escorted by Chilford, the brother and sister presently joined them. One glance at their faces made the Chief Constable turn to Mr. Fransemmery with a sigh of relief.
“Good!” he whispered. “Cool as cucumbers! Know how to control their feelings!—sure sign of old blood and good breeding that! That’s your sort, Fransemmery—true stuff!”
Then, next minute, he found himself quietly explaining matters to Harry and Valencia, who listened attentively, taking in each of the preliminary details that he could give them.