Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs. Price Ridley’s, and Slack approved.
“May I come with you?” I asked. “I’m getting interested.”
I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud “Hie” greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.
“Look here,” he said to the inspector, “what about that footprint I told you about?”
“Gardener’s,” said Inspector Slack laconically.
“You don’t think it might be someone else wearing the gardener’s boots?”
“No, I don’t!” said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.
It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.
He held out a couple of burnt matches.
“I found these by the Vicarage gate.”
“Thank you,” said Slack, and put them in his pocket.
Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.
“You’re not arresting Uncle Len, are you?” inquired Dermis facetiously.
“Why should I?” inquired Slack.
“There’s a lot of evidence against him,” declared Dennis. “You ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Weren’t you, Uncle Len?”
“Er -” I began.
Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realise that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.
“Don’t be absurd, Dennis,” I said irritably.
The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.
“I say, it’s only a joke,” he said. “Uncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.”
“Ah!” said Inspector Slack, “that explains something the maid said.”
Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the inspector suspicious of me for life.
“Come on, Clement,” said Colonel Melchett.
“Where are you going? Can I come, too?” asked Dennis.
“No, you can’t,” I snapped.
We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs. Price Ridley’s house and the inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.
“Mrs. Price Ridley in?” inquired Melchett.
“No, sir.” The maid paused and added: “She’s just gone down to the police station.”
This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:
“If she’s gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.”
CHAPTER XIII
I hardly thought it likely that Mrs. Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.
We found Mrs. Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs. Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as “Hats for Matrons” – they make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matron’s hat.
Mrs. Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.
“Mrs. Price Ridley?” inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.
“Let me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs. Price Ridley,” I said. “Colonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.”
Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the colonel.
“We’ve just been round to your house, Mrs. Price Ridley,” explained the colonel, “and heard you had come down here.”
Mrs. Price Ridley thawed altogether.
“Ah!” she said, “I’m glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.”
There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.