“That’s easy. Who told you about the tree beavers?”
There was a flurry of movement. A shout, a crash, and the sound of a shot.
“It is far from clear,” said Mr. Calder, “whether Miss Martin intended to shoot the rector or me. In fact Rasselas knocked her over and she shot herself. As soon as they realized they had been fooled, the village closed its ranks. They concocted a story that Miss Martin, who was nervous of burglars, was known to possess a revolver, a relic of the last war. She must have been carrying it in her handbag, and the supposition was that, in pulling it out to show it to someone, the gun went off and killed her. It was the thinnest story you ever heard, and the Coroner was suspicious as a cat. But he couldn’t shake them. And after all, it was difficult to cast doubt on the evidence of the entire Parochial Church Council supported by their rector.
“The verdict was accidental death.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “It would have been hard to prove anything. In spite of your tree beavers. How did the rector take it?”
“Very well indeed. I had to stay for the inquest and made a point of attending Evensong on the following Sunday. The church was so full that it was difficult to find a seat. The rector preached an excellent sermon on the text, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ ”
“A dangerous opponent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “On the whole, I cannot feel sorry that the authorities should have decided to close Snettisham Manor.”