without this little lot.”
“With one notable exception,” Sloan reminded him. “Those downstairs are ornamental. These are for use.”
The guns showed every sign of having as much loving care expended on them as did the china.
“Those deer that the Earl’s so keen about,” said Crosby.
“Yes?”
“Does he shoot them?”
“He breeds them first,” said Sloan.
“Then he shoots them?”
“I expect so.”
Crosby scratched his forehead. “Funny lot, the aristocracy, sir, aren’t they?”
“Government by the best citizens, Constable, that’s what it means.” Sloan took out his pen and got back to business. “It’s one weapon on one brain that’s our trouble, you know.”
Dillow brought them welcome beer and sandwiches, and was word perfect about what he’d said before.
“No, sir, I was not aware until I took tea to their Ladyships upstairs that Mr. Meredith was not taking tea with them as usual on Fridays.”
“What time would that have been?” Sloan discovered there was one exception to the rule that policemen called all other men “sir.” That was when the other chap got it in first.
“About half-past three, sir. They like it early on account of their taking a short nap after luncheon.”
“Thank you, Dillow.”
The phrase constituted dismissal to a butler and Dillow left them.
They went on working while they ate. Inspector Sloan turned over a fresh sheet in his notebook. Outside the window a peacock shrilled harshly.
“Why doesn’t he shoot them instead?” muttered Crosby indistinctly.
“They’re another sort of ornament, that’s why.”
“Give me the gryphons any day.” Crosby took another sandwich. “At least they don’t make a noise.”
Sloan stared at the blank page in front of him. “Now then, how far have we got?”
“Nowhere,” said Crosby.
“We know who the victim is,” said Sloan patiently. That was a head start on some of the cases he’d been on.“ And we know where we think he was killed.”
“Sitting down at the table at the far end of the Library,” agreed Crosby. “Confirmed as probable by the Forensic people.”
“How nearly do we know when?” The inductive method, that’s what this was called. Crosby didn’t seem much good at the deductive sort.
“After Lady Eleanor and Dillow saw him about four o’clock.”
“But before he’d had time to eat his tea.”
“Unless they’re both lying, sir,” said Crosby assiduously.
“True.”
“We don’t know why he was killed.” Crosby was making good headway with the sandwiches.
“Half-why,” said Sloan, taking one himself while they were still there to take. “He’d found out something somebody didn’t want him to know. Mrs. Ames confirms the telephone call, by the way, but you must check on the Vicar’s movements before five-thirty.”
“I have,” said Crosby unexpectedly. “I had a word with the post-mistress. She knows everything. He was in the village until just before half-past five. She saw him going in and out of houses.”
Sloan nodded. “So we know when—within limits.”
“But we don’t really know why, sir, do we?” Pessimistically.
“We know where.”
“But we don’t know who.” Crosby took the last sandwich. “These are jolly good, sir, aren’t they?”
“They were,” said Sloan sarcastically. He was wasting his time.
“We know who it wasn’t, though, sir, don’t we?” mumbled Crosby, undeterred by a mouthful of sandwich.
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t the Earl and Countess because they were together in the drawing-room from teatime onwards.”
“There might have been collusion between them. They’re husband and wife, remember…”
Crosby frowned. “I shouldn’t care to collude—colluse—what you said, sir—with the Countess myself. Too risky. Anyway, their son’and daughter didn’t leave them until about twenty past four and I bet old Meredith would have got his teeth into his tea by then if he’d been alive to do it.”
“Like you fell upon your lunch just now?”
“Well, sir, he wouldn’t have just sat looking at it, would he?”
“I agree it’s unlikely.”
“And if the Honourable Miles is speaking the truth…”
“If…”
“Purvis and Hackle were together completely outside the house.”
“That leaves…” Sloan started to write.
“Cousin Gertrude, who was on the loose…”
That was one way of putting it.
“Miles himself,” said Crosby. “He could have seen the two others from a window.”
Sloan nodded. “Make a note to ask them if they saw him.”
“William Murton, who may or who may not have been in Ornum.”
“And Dillow,” said Sloan.
“Four suspects,” concluded Crosby, recapping. “Cousin Gertrude, Miles, William, and Dillow.”
“While we’re reconstructing the crime,” said Sloan, “let’s go on with what happened after.”
“After, sir?”
“It can’t have escaped your notice, Crosby, that the body wasn’t found in the Library.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then…”
“Somebody removed it from the Library.”
“Well done. The murderer, would you think? Or did someone come along and tidy it away just to be helpful?”
“Unlikely, that, sir.”
“Of course it’s unlikely,” snapped Sloan. Sarcasm was a real boomerang of a weapon. He should have remembered that. He went on more peaceably, “The murderer moved it to the armoury…”
“Yes, sir, but they didn’t put it straight into the armour, did they, because of rigor mortis. The doctor said so.”
Sloan tapped his notebook. “Now I wonder when he did that.”
“Dead of night?” suggested Crosby brightly.
“Leaving the body from four o’clock onwards in the Library.”
“Risky,” agreed Crosby.
“But not desperately risky. They don’t strike one as great readers here… Crosby.”
Crosby was engaged in draining the beer bottle to the very last drop. “Sir?”
“Think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Muniments come into this somewhere. I wish I knew how.”
“Whoever did the Muniments,” offered Crosby after a little thought, “did them after Meredith had been… er… done.”
“I grant you that,” said Sloan immediately. “Meredith wouldn’t have stood for that. When were the Muniments disturbed?”
“We don’t know, sir.” There was positively no beer left now.
