The butler smiled again. He was beginning to like Furneaux.
"You have never heard, I suppose, of Mr. Fenley receiving any threatening letters?" continued Winter.
"No, sir. Some stupid postcards were sent when he tried to close a right of way through the park; but they were merely ridiculous, and that occurred years ago."
"So you, like the rest of us, feel utterly unable to assign a motive for this crime?"
"Sir, it's like a thunderbolt from a clear sky."
"Were the brothers, or half brothers, on good terms with each other?"
Tomlinson started at those words, "or half brothers." He was not prepared for the Superintendent's close acquaintance with the Fenley records.
"They're as different as chalk and cheese, sir," he said, after a pause to collect his wits. "Mr. Hilton is clever and well read, and cares nothing about sport, though he has a wonderful steady nerve. Yes, I mean that——" for Winter's prominent eyes showed surprise at the statement. "He's a strange mixture, is Mr. Hilton. He's a fair nailer with a revolver. I've seen him hit a penny three times straight off at twelve paces, and, when in the mind, he would bowl over running rabbits with a rook rifle. Yet he never joined the shooting parties in October. Said it made him ill to see graceful birds shattered by clumsy folk. All the same, he would ill-treat a horse something shameful. I——"
The butler bethought himself, and pulled up with a jerk. But Winter smiled encouragingly.
"Say what you had in mind," he said. "You are not giving evidence. You may rely on our discretion."