Dalton rolled his eyes and looked innocently out the window.
'No doubt, no doubt,' Motherwell said. 'But these things do happen, now and then.'
'Yes, they do,' Thaxton said. 'Tell me, Inspector, would it be a breach of security to inquire whether you have any suspects?'
'There are any number of suspects, or none, depending on how you look at it. Anyone could have done it. There were plenty of people out there with a shotgun today.'
'Yes. Ten in all. I've heard all the names, but I wonder, Inspector, if you'd refresh my memory.'
Motherwell consulted his notebook. 'Well, let me see. There was Mr. Thayne-Chetwynde, Mr. Grimsby, Miss Daphne Pembroke, Sir Laurence Denning, Mr. Wicklow, Mr. Thripps, Amanda Thripps, a Mr. Geoffrey Ballifants. who incidentally is not a local-'
'Honoria's half-brother, from up Middlesborough way,' Petheridge supplied.
'Yes. And another guest, this one hailing from a good deal farther away.'
'The Mahajadi,' Petheridge said. 'Not a bad young bloke, for a wog. Royalty, you know. Here to visit the Queen.'
'His name's… Pandanam.' Motherwell wrinkled his now. 'Pandanam. Mouthful, that. Also Lady Festleton's mentor, is he not?'
'Oh, yes,' Petheridge said. 'Bloody heathen nonsense. Dancing, yammering prayers. Hideous stuff.'
'Strange,' Motherwell said, 'him being invited to hunt.'
'Honoria insisted. Broad-minded girl, she is. As I said, though, not a bad bloke. For a wog.'
'And the colonel, here,' Motherwell continued. 'That completes the hunting party roster. Oh, forgot the gamekeeper, with the dogs. He didn't have a gun, though.'
'Quite a list,' Thaxton commented.
'But we have no suspects,' Motherwell stated, 'unless you count Lady Festleton.'
'By Jove!' The colonel's monocle dropped from his eye. 'What the devil do you mean by that, Motherwell?'
'Sorry, Colonel. I realize you're a longtime friend of the family. But I'm afraid we can't establish that anyone else was near Lord Festleton at the time of the shooting. Ground's quite mucky. Only two sets of footprints, his and hers. Her ladyship says he was dead when she got there. Yet there is the problem of the lack of powder burns, which would be expected if the gun had gone off in a fall.'
'Well, someone shot him from cover, by Jupiter.'
Motherwell shook his frizzy head. 'Not a chance. The shot scattering won't allow it. He was shot at close range. Not point-blank, but close, within the clearing. By someone standing about eight feet away.'
'Well, good God, man. How did the old girl do it?'
'Do what?'
'How did she get the gun off him, her dressed in slippers and tutu? Did she overpower the poor bloke? Judo, perhaps?'
'Colonel, the point is moot,' Motherwell said, ignoring the sarcasm. 'The earl wasn't shot with his own gun. It had not been fired.'
'Well, there you have it,' the colonel said. 'Honoria couldn't have done it.'
'She might have used another gun and hid it.'
Petheridge scoffed. 'You can't be serious about this.'
Motherwell stiffened. 'His lordship, here, asked a question, and I answered it. I did not say I was about to arrest Lady Festleton for the murder of her husband. There's simply no evidence. However, she did have the means, the opportunity, and… '
The colonel's right eyebrow arched imperiously. 'And what?'
'The motive.'
The colonel's sails spilled their wind. Apparently he did not find the notion out of the question.
'Oh, I see.' Thaxton began, 'I wonder if it would be indelicate of me to inquire…?'
The colonel and the Inspector looked at each other. Petheridge shrugged and turned away. 'Bound to find out at some point.'
Motherwell nodded. 'Yes, well, how shall I put it? His lordship was a bit of a Don Juan.'
'Cocksman extraordinaire, is how I'd put it,' the colonel muttered, looking away.
'Yes, well. At any rate, it was a constant source of friction between the lord and lady. They had frequent arguments. In fact, Lady Festleton was not above physically attacking her husband, on occasion.'
'Can't be denied,' the colonel said, then suddenly turned on Motherwell. 'But she's not capable of murder. I've known her since she was a whelp. She's spirited, but a murderess? No.'
'I should have thought,' Thaxton said, 'that an Orientalist such as Lady Festleton-and I gather she is… '
'Oh, yes, quite,' the colonel said. 'Loves all the bloody wogs.'
'She was in the middle of something when she took a sudden notion to run out into the woods,' Motherwell commented. He paged through his notebook. ''Dancemeditation,' it says here. In costume, which you noticed when you saw her from the road, Lord Peter.'
'Er, yes, but as I said, I caught only a glimpse.'
'Sorry, my lord, you were saying something about her love of Eastern lore?'
'Yes,' Thaxton continued. 'Isn't that stuff about forbearance, peace of mind… you know, pacifism, asceticism, and all that bosh?'
'Yes. Are you saying that her hotheadedness belies all that `bosh,' as you call it?'
'Merely pointing out a possible incongruity,' Thaxton said with a smile. 'Don't pay me any mind, Constable. Just musin', don't you know.'
Dalton grimaced.
Motherwell nodded. 'Yes, well, I'm open to suggestions. But I'm afraid I don't quite know what you're driving at, my lord.'
'Let me ruminate awhile,' Thaxton said.
'Very well, my lord.'
A knock came at the library door. The door opened and a uniformed policeman stuck his helmeted head into the room. 'Oh, there you are, sir.'
Motherwell said, 'Yes, Featherstone?'
'Found something in the wood's, sir.'
Featherstone entered, carrying an object wrapped in a white handkerchief. He carefully set it on a library table and revealed it. It was a single-barrel shotgun, both barrel and stock sawed off severely. The resultant weapon was scarcely bigger than a pistol.
'The murder gun, no doubt,' Motherwell said. 'Well, this puts a different light on it.'
'By Jove,' Petheridge said quietly.
'Wonder who dropped this,' Motherwell said.
'I'll wager whoever shot him deliberately threw the weapon into the brush,' Thaxton said, bending close to scrutinize the curious thing.
'Why?' Motherwell asked.
Thaxton looked up. 'Eh?'
'If the murderer got clean away, why did he ditch the murder weapon?'
Thaxton straightened up and said, 'Maybe he didn't want to take any chances being caught with it. How about this: the murderer secretes it on his person when everyone goes out to hunt. He sees Lord Festleton go off by himself and capitalizes on the opportunity. Follows him, shoots him with the sawed-off affair, arranges the body to make the shooting look like an accident, then throws the murder gun into the weeds. He returns to the hunt party with his own gun unfired, thereby fending off any suspicion.'
'Plausible scenario,' Motherwell said. 'Or… '
'Yes, Inspector?'
'Forgive me, Colonel Petheridge. The alternative is that this gun belongs to Lady Festleton.'
Petheridge grunted.
'Mind you, I'm not saying it's probable,' Motherwell went on. 'It simply remains a possibility, given the domestic situation at the Festleton household.'
