“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”
“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.
“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We'll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.”
Badgworthy was in seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.
“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t come butting in.”
The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to happen under the circumstances.
They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that of Johnson.
“Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since the time of Tom Pearse.”
All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, The Jolly Cricketers, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway.
“Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the Cricketers? I haven't seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.”
“He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson.
Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore always well up in arrivals and departures.
“Who was there for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.
“Lady Eileen, she come down by the 3.40, and two gentlemen with her, an American gent, and a young Army chap—neither of them with valets. His lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one that’s been shot as likely as not, by the 5.40, and the foreign gentleman’s valet. Mr. Eversleigh
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