Skinner ignored it. “But though Chambers, the deputy, established these facts, he was still unable to convince the sheriff, and the district attorney, Mr. Regan here, that there was ponderable doubt of its having been an accident. In my opinion, that speaks well for the charitable nature of their minds and their disinclination to stir up trouble in the case of so eminent a citizen as Mr. Dunn. However, the sheriff did not forbid his deputy to make further inquiry. On Wednesday, Chambers brought the gun to New York. Thursday, yesterday, our police laboratory reported that there was blood residue, recently deposited, in analyzable quantity, in the crack between the stock and the heelplate, and traces elsewhere. Also yesterday, Chambers found something. A path goes through a corner of the woods, northeast, and at a point it branches, one branch going north to emerge at the edge of the public highway, and the other branch turning east toward your house. Under a shrub near that path, Chambers found a wisp of meadow grass that had been twisted and crushed and apparently used to rub something, and stained in the process. He and Mr. Regan brought it to New York this morning. Four hours ago the laboratory reported that the stains are a mixture of blood and the oily film of the gun, and further, that certain particles which they had previously found on the gun are bits of pollen and fiber from that bunch of grass. Mr. Regan, convinced, consulted me. He told me frankly that on account of the prominence of the persons involved he feared to act. Whatever Miss May Hawthorne may think, it was with reluctance that I accepted his conclusion, and with even greater reluctance that I agreed to help him.”
“The conclusion being?” June demanded.
“The obvious and inescapable one, Mrs. Dunn, that your brother was murdered.” Skinner met her steady gaze. “If his death was an accident, if he tripped or caught the gun trigger on a briar as was supposed, it is, to put it mildly, difficult to account for the fingerprints. A man doesn’t handle a gun that way. And since we have your son’s statement, and Mr. Stauffer’s, that the gun wasn’t touched after the body was discovered, there is no possible way, if it was an accident, to account for the wiping of the gun, the blood on it, and the wisp of grass. There would be the same objections to a theory of suicide, were such a theory advanced. Only on the supposition that it was murder can these facts be explained. The murderer shot your brother. He chose not to use his handkerchief, if he had one, to wipe his own fingerprints and a spot of blood from the gun, but instead plucked a bunch of grass. Then he printed your brother’s fingers on the gun, using the right hand, and getting them on the barrel upside down. On his way out through the woods, he tossed the bunch of grass among some undergrowth. If he had done that after he reached the fork instead of before, we would know whether he was headed for the highway or for your house. As it is, he bungled badly, either because he figured no crime would be suspected, or because he was stupid, or because he feared someone might come and was in great haste.”
“I don’t believe it,” said April Hawthorne. Everyone looked at her. Her pallor had disappeared, and the famous ripple was in her voice again. “Not any of it.”
Skinner faced her. “What is it you don’t believe, Miss Hawthorne? The facts, or the interpretation of them?”
“I simply don’t believe that my brother was murdered. I don’t believe that we Hawthornes are having this happen to us. I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I.” It was Osric Stauffer backing her up, energetically.
The district attorney shrugged and returned to June. “Do you, Mrs. Dunn? I mean, I earnestly want you to realize that this is what it is, what I said, the cruel and remorseless march of events. I regret it, but I have to deal with it.”
June looked at him, said nothing, gave no sign.
“Here,” Skinner said, “I want to convince you — I want — I’ll have to have — your co-operation in this — and you must understand that your sisters’ suspicions, which I suppose you share — are absolutely groundless. No political gossip or slander has anything to do with it. I presume, since you were here consulting him, you regard Nero Wolfe as your friend. He is certainly an expert on crime and evidence.” He pivoted. “Mr. Wolfe, is it your opinion that Noel Hawthorne’s death was an accident?”