The Murder at the Vicarage · Chapter 12 (2/2)

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 Dennis 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 realize 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 anyone 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.”