His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.
“Well?” I asked.
“He’s dead right enough – been dead half an hour, I should say.”
“Suicide?”
“Out of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, where’s the weapon?”
True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.
“We’d better not mess around with anything,” said Haydock. “I’d better ring up the police.”
He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.
“This is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?”
I explained. “Is – is it murder?” I asked rather faintly.
“Looks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn’t popular, but one isn’t often murdered for that reason – worse luck.”
“There’s one rather curious thing,” I said. “I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there every one was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.”
Haydock drew his brows together.
“That’s suggestive – very. You were being got out of the way. Where’s your wife?”
“Gone up to London for the day.”
“And the maid?”
“In the kitchen – right at the other side of the house.”
“Where she wouldn’t be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It’s a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?”
“He referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.”
“Meaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of any one who had a grudge against him? ”
The thought of Lawrence Redding’s white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
“The police,” said my friend, and rose to his feet.
Our police force were represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
“Good-evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “The Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot – in the Vicarage.”
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
PLAN B
He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can’t say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre – say a Mauser.25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding’s admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
“Did you speak, sir?”
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.
“When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?”
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
“The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.”
Hurst turned to me. “Did the girl hear anything?”
“As far as I know she heard nothing,” I said. “But you bad better ask her.”