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SO DISCREET WAS the police presence Joe thought that Hu
“Not waiting exactly,” said a cheerful voice from inside. “I’ve just about solved this one while you were toying with your toast.”
The corpse was still in place, as was the rifle. Hu
“I’m just on my way to church. Blood-stained shirt and shoes … wouldn’t want to frighten the vicar …” Joe began.
“He’s seen worse! The Rev. Easterby was a front line padré in the last lot. Just help me out here—I’m assuming this fingerprint in blood on the neck of the body is yours.”
“I’ll supply my prints for the record, of course. Yes, the man was still alive when I got here. I rushed forward to offer assistance. Nothing I could do for him. I stood there by his side and said a prayer to Diana …”
“Crikey! Super Plod turns up to administer the last pagan rites? That must have sent him off rejoicing!”
Hu
“The recently deceased threw a log at me yesterday. The wound opened up again when I was rolling around on the forest floor dodging bullets on my way back to the Hall an hour ago. Is this Suffolk or the Somme? Not sure.”
Hu
“That villain tried to kill me. We’re lucky it’s not my corpse you’re waving off in an ambulance.”
“Everybody’s lucky this is the corpse if I read his letter aright.” Hu
“Not a suicide, then, Hu
Joe received a scathing look. “I think you know that as well as I do. Could easily have been, though. I’ve come across these cases before. Bankrupt farmers usually. Their guns are old friends. If your arm is long enough, you can reach the trigger and fire it upwards into your head. Toe grip not unknown. Remote place like this—he’d have kept his gun at the ready under the bed in the country way. It’ll be interesting to see whose fingerprints are on the trigger.”
“I’m betting—Goodfellow’s.” Joe sighed.
“So am I. This is murder, Sandilands; we both know that. But it’s murder by a bloke who’s very sure of himself. Cool as you please. No emotion in evidence—no fight, nothing broken. Familiar with the victim’s habits. Knew he’d find him sleeping off a hangover. Knew he kept a loaded gun to hand. This was pla
“I was there at the Horse, Sandilands, last night. For the first part of the evening at any rate. In the public bar. Goodfellow was in the snug buying a round for his cronies. His last round as it turns out. I noted he sank two pints before I left. The barman will cast further light. We shall see. The murderer hadn’t counted on the instinctive recoil of a threatened body away from a blast, what’s more. Point blank range. The bullet was supposed to go straight up and take the top of the head off. But it went crosswise, through the throat and jaw. Removed his ear but left the skull intact, I’d say.”
Hu
“Nothing much our bloke could do to finish him off though. A dying suicide doesn’t generally have the strength to fire the second barrel.”
“He couldn’t hang around after the shot. He must have judged his victim had only minutes to survive. Made a fast exit and hoped for the best. Too bad for him that a nosy Scotland Yarder was taking the air in the environs and had the benefit of hearing the victim’s last gasp. What the hell were you doing in the wood at that hour? Never mind,” he rushed on, “Timing, Joe? Can you be precise?”
“No trouble! Styles and I heard the shot at seven o’clock exactly as I said. We were breakfasting together and he happened to open the window at the crucial moment.”
“That confirms what Adelaide told me. She sent Timmy back to me with a note. She was out in the garden and heard the first shot at seven. A second at seven forty. Country folk are so used to gunfire they wouldn’t notice but being just down from London, Adelaide did.”
“That’s exact. The second was the one fired at me as I retreated. But tell me, Adam, what did you make of his letter?” Joe had been aware that the superintendent had, in his rush of sympathy for him, fallen into calling him by his Christian name. It seemed polite to return the compliment and in view of the personal nature of the question, a more natural and feeling approach.
The handsome features congealed into a dark scowl. “Hardly the last note from a bloke about to top himself, was it? Had more the flavour of one who was just about to call a taxi and leg it. In fact, he’d got as far as packing. His bag’s the other side of the bed. Full to the gunwales! He wasn’t counting on coming back.” The professional comment was followed by a more dismissive tone. “It was no more than I’d expected. And suspected for years. It’s all right, Joe. I’m not one to have a fit of the vapours. I hope you didn’t fall for his blarney?”