“I caught hold of your arm, didn’t I, Archie, when it happened? I was simply scared to death. I just had to hold on to you.”

“Poor little kitten,” said the Colonel playfully.

V

The Inspector ran Miss Hinchcliffe to earth by a pigsty.

“Nice creatures, pigs,” said Miss Hinchcliffe, scratching a wrinkled pink back. “Coming on well, isn’t he? Good bacon round about Christmas time. Well, what do you want to see me about? I told your people last night I hadn’t the least idea who the man was. Never seen him anywhere in the neighbourhood snooping about or anything of that sort. Our Mrs. Mopp says he came from one of the big hotels in Medenham Wells. Why didn’t he hold up someone there if he wanted to? Get a much better haul.”

That was undeniable—Craddock proceeded with his inquiries.

“Where were you exactly when the incident took place?”

“Incident! Reminds me of my A.R.P. days. Saw some incidents then, I can tell you. Where was I when the shooting started? That what you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Leaning up against the mantelpiece hoping to God someone would offer me a drink soon,” replied Miss Hinchcliffe promptly.

“Do you think that the shots were fired blindly, or aimed carefully at one particular person?”

“You mean aimed at Letty Blacklock? How the devil should I know? Damned hard to sort out what your impressions really were or what really happened after it’s all over. All I know is the lights went out, and that torch went whirling round dazzling us all, and then the shots were fired and I thought to myself, ‘If that damned young fool Patrick Simmons is playing his jokes with a loaded revolver somebody will get hurt.’”

“You thought it was Patrick Simmons?”

“Well, it seemed likely. Edmund Swettenham is intellectual and writes books and doesn’t care for horseplay, and old Colonel Easterbrook wouldn’t think that sort of thing funny. But Patrick’s a wild boy. However, I apologize to him for the idea.”

“Did your friend think it might be Patrick Simmons?”

“Murgatroyd? You’d better talk to her yourself. Not that you’ll get any sense out of her. She’s down the orchard. I’ll yell for her if you like.”

Miss Hinchcliffe raised her stentorian voice in a powerful bellow:

“Hi-youp, Murgatroyd….”

“Coming …” floated back a thin cry.

“Hurry up—Polieece,” bellowed Miss Hinchcliffe.

Miss Murgatroyd arrived at a brisk trot very much out of breath. Her skirt was down at the hem and her hair was escaping from an inadequate hair net. Her round, good-natured face beamed.

“Is it Scotland Yard?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d no idea. Or I wouldn’t have left the house.”

“We haven’t called in Scotland Yard yet, Miss Murgatroyd. I’m Inspector Craddock from Milchester.”

“Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure,” said Miss Murgatroyd vaguely. “Have you found any clues?”

“Where were you at the time of the crime, that’s what he wants to know, Murgatroyd?” said Miss Hinchcliffe. She winked at Craddock.