“Why?” demanded Hemingway. “How did he know Warrenby would be sitting in the garden? On what we've heard about his habits, it wasn't likely.”
The Inspector thought for a moment. “That's so. But there must be an answer, because one of the few things we know about this murder is that the shot was fired from where we're standing. We've got proof of that, so an answer there's got to be. I think I've got it, too. It's safe to assume that the murderer was proceeding pretty cautiously, isn't it? He didn't know where Warrenby would be, but he did know that all the sitting-room windows in the house look out this way. I don't see him walking along outside that low hedge to get to the gate, and running the risk of being seen by Warrenby. Once he saw there was no one in the lane, I should think he pretty well stalked the house, if you get my meaning. Probably kept down under cover of the hedge. He could have seen Warrenby like that, but he'd have had to stand up to get a shot at him. He'd want to take careful aim too, and it's not to be supposed Warrenby would have sat still to let him do it. My idea is that he did see him, and doubled back to the stile. In fact, the long range was forced on him just because Warrenby was in the garden.”
“You may be right,” Hemingway said.
“I can tell you don't think so, though.”
“I don't know, Horace. It sounds reasonable enough. I've just got a feeling there was more to it than that. Come on! We'll take a look at Biggleswade's favourite seat.”
They walked in a north-easterly direction, to where some silver-birch trees stood. Beyond them, the ground began to fall away more steeply, and a little way down the slope a wooden seat had been placed, commanding a good view over the common. It was not unoccupied. After one keen look, Hemingway said: “If it isn't old granddad himself! You'd better mind your p's and q's, Horace: he's inclined to be testy. Good-afternoon, Mr. Biggleswade! Taking the air?”
Mr. Biggleswade looked him over with scant favour. “And why shouldn't I be?” he demanded. “Tell me that!”
“I can't. What's eating you today, grandfather?”
“If I was your granddad you'd 'ave more sense nor wot you 'ave,” said the old gentleman severely. “I'm disappointed in you, that's wot. You're gormless. If you'd paid attention to wot I says to you, you'd 've 'ad the bracelets on young Reg Ditchling last night.”
“Don't you worry about him!” said Hemingway. “I've got my eye on him all right.”
“A fat lot of use that is!” said Mr. Biggleswade. “You 'aving your eye on 'im don't stop 'im coming up to my place, calling me out of me name—ah, an' fetching 'is as along of 'im, and that pair of screeching Jezebels, Gert and Edie, besides. Painted 'ussies, that's wot they are, and don't you let anyone tell you different! Oo's this you got with you?”
A rheumy gaze was bent upon Inspector Harbottle; a note of disparagement sounded in the aged voice. Hemingway said promptly: “You don't have to bother about him: he's just my assistant.”
“Six foot of misery, that's wot 'e looks like to me,” said Mr. Biggleswade, not mincing matters. “You don't want to let 'im get near the milk-cans. Wot's more, if you'd done wot I told you, you wouldn't need no assistant. Plain as I 'ear you now I 'eard that shot, Saturday!”
“You tell me some more about this shot,” invited Hemingway, sitting down beside him. “How was it you only heard one shot?”
“Becos that's all there wos to 'ear.”
“But young Reg tells me he fired a whole lot of shots.”
“'E'd tell you anything, young Reg would. Ah! and you'd swaller it!”
“Now, now! He was firing at targets, you know, in the Squire's gravel-pit.”
“Oh, “e wos, was 'e? If 'e'd told you 'e was firing at a 'erd of rhinorcerusses which 'e 'appened to find in Squire's gravel-pit, you'd swaller that too! Pleecemen! I never 'ad no opinion of 'em, and I ain't got none now, and I never will 'ave. Young Reg never fired no shot in Squire's gravel-pit. “Cos why? 'Cos if 'e 'ad, no one wouldn't 'ear it this far off. Ah! and 'e couldn't 'ave got 'isself on to this 'ere path so soon as wot 'e did do. And I'll tell you another thing, my lad! I won't 'ave you taking my character away like you're trying to!”
“I shouldn't think you've much to take away,” said Hemingway frankly. “Still, I wouldn't think of taking away what you've got left of it.”
“Oh, yes, you would!” said Mr. Biggleswade fiercely. “And don't you give me no sauce! I'll 'ave you know there ain't any man in Thornden wot knows more about guns than wot I do, and I won't 'ave you spreading it about I don't know where a shot's being fired from! Over there's where Reg fired Vicar's rifle!” A trembling and gouty finger pointed in the direction of Fox Lane.
“All right,” said Hemingway soothingly. “So what did you do?”
“I says to meself, Someone's larking about in Mr. “Aswell's spinney, I says. There, or thereabouts,” replied Mr. Biggleswade, nodding wisely.
“That's some way off, grandfather,” Hemingway suggested.
“It 'ud 'ave 'ad to 'ave been a sight further off for me not to 'ear it,” said Mr. Biggleswade, with a senile chuckle. “Very sharp ears I've got! A lot of people 'ave wished I didn't 'ear so quick when I was in me prime.”
“I'll bet they did. You're a wonder, that's what you are, grandfather. It can't have made much of a noise, either, at this distance.”
“No one never said it did. If you'd 'eard it, you wouldn't 'ardly 'ave noticed it, I dessay. And as for that walking tombstone o' yours, “e'd 'ave thought it was a motor-car back-firing up on the 'Awks'ead-road as like as not.”
“Oh, no, I would not!” said Harbottle, stung into a retort.
“Shut up, Horace! Don't you pay any heed to him, grandfather! What happened after the shot? Did you see anyone besides Reg Ditchling?”
“No, I didn't. I wasn't going to go poking my nose into wot wasn't none of my business. I ain't a nasty, nosy pleeceman! I set off down this 'ere path, like I told 'Obkirk, and I 'adn't gorn so very far when I 'eard someone be'ind me, same like you'd 'ear one of them game-keepers when 'e was trying to creep on you. And I looked round, quick-like, and I see young Reg 'iding be'ind one of the bushes.”
“Down the other end of the path that was, wasn't it?”
“Right down the other end,” corroborated Mr. Biggleswade.
“How long after you heard the shot would that have been?”
“Not more'n ten minutes or so. I don't get about so fast as wot I useter,” said Mr. Biggleswade, flattered to find himself with an attentive audience at last. “And there was young Reg! If you'd 'ave paid more 'eed to wot I told you yesterday, you'd 'ave 'ad 'im safe under lock and key by this time.”
“Well, I might,” said Hemingway, getting up. “That is, if I knew what he was doing, hanging about the scene of the crime, instead of making his getaway.”
“Ah! That's telling,” said Mr. Biggleswade darkly.
“It is, isn't it? I shall have to be getting along now, grandfather. Don't you go sitting it the Red Lion till that daughter of yours has to come and drag you out! Nice goings-on at your time of life!”
The ancient reprobate seemed pleased with this sally, and cackled asthmatically. Hemingway waved to him, and began to walk away.
“'Ere!” Mr. Biggleswade called after him. “Will I 'ave me pitcher in the papers?”
“That's telling too!” replied Hemingway over his shoulder.
“Rogues' gallery, I should think!” said Harbottle, falling into step beside him. “What on earth made you encourage him to hand you all that lip?”
“I don't mind his lip. I reckon he's entitled to cheek the police, when they haven't been able to catch up with him in ninety years. He's a very remarkable old boy, and a lot sharper than the silly fools who say he's getting soft in the head. I wanted to hear some more about that shot of his.”