inside of the french windows.â
âIâll bet thatâs MacGregor,â the sergeant exclaimed, snapping his fingers.
âYe-es. Could be,â the inspector admitted reluctantly.âBut they werenât on the revolver. And you would think any man using a revolver to kill someone would have the sense enough to wear gloves, surely.â
âI donât know,â the sergeant observed. âAn unbalanced fellow like this MacGregor, deranged after the death of his child, he wouldnât think of that.â
âWell, we ought to get a description of MacGregor through from Norwich soon,â the inspector said.
The sergeant settled himself on the footstool. âItâs a sad story, whichever way you look at it,â he suggested. âA man, his wife but lately dead, and his only child killed by furious driving.â
âIf thereâd been what you call furious driving,â the inspector corrected him impatiently, âRichard Warwick would have got a sentence for manslaughter, or at any rate for the driving offence. In point of fact, his licence wasnât even endorsed.â He reached down to his briefcase, and took out the murder weapon.
âThere is some fearful lying goes on sometimes,â Sergeant Cadwallader muttered darkly. ââLord, Lord, how this world is given to lying.â Thatâs Shakespeare.â
His superior officer merely rose from the desk and looked at him. After a moment, the sergeant pulled himself together and rose to his feet. âA manâs hand flat on the table,â murmured the inspector as he went across to the table, taking the gun with him, and looking down at the table-top. âI wonder.â
âPerhaps that could have been a guest in the house,â Sergeant Cadwallader suggested helpfully.
âPerhaps,â the inspector agreed. âBut I understand from Mrs Warwick that there were no visitors to the house yesterday. That manservantâAngellâmight be able to tell us more. Go and fetch him, would you?â
âYes, sir,â said Cadwallader as he went out. Left alone, the inspector spread out his own left hand on the table, and bent over the chair as if looking down at an invisible occupant. Then he went to the window and stepped outside, glancing both to left and right. He examined the lock of the french windows, and was turning back into the room when the sergeant returned, bringing with him Richard Warwickâs valet-attendant, Angell, who was wearing a grey alpaca jacket, white shirt, dark tie and striped trousers.
âYouâre Henry Angell?â the inspector asked him.
âYes, sir,â Angell replied.
âSit down there, will you?â said the inspector.
Angell moved to sit on the sofa. âNow then,â the inspector continued, âyouâve been nurse-attendant and valet to Mr Richard Warwickâfor how long?â
âFor three and a half years, sir,â replied Angell. His manner was correct, but there was a shifty look in his eyes.
âDid you like the job?â
âI found it quite satisfactory, sir,â was Angellâs reply.
âWhat was Mr Warwick like to work for?â the inspector asked him.
âWell, he was difficult.â
âBut there were advantages, were there?â
âYes, sir,â Angell admitted. âI was extremely well paid.â
âAnd that made up for the other disadvantages, did it?â the inspector persisted.
âYes, sir. I am trying to accumulate a little nest-egg.â
The inspector seated himself in the armchair, placing the gun on the table beside him. âWhat were you doing before you came to Mr Warwick?â he asked Angell.
âThe same sort of job, sir. I can show you my references,â the valet replied. âIâve always given satisfaction, I hope. Iâve had some rather difficult employersâor patients, really. Sir James Walliston, for example. He is