The true enormity of the embarrassed half-accusation hit Joe and, for a moment, sent his mind reeling.
Gathering himself, he began to speak slowly and carefully. “No trace of an interloper, as far as it goes, but you have a considerable amount of evidence of my passage through. I have a firm alibi for the seven o’clock shot but, as you say, death did indeed not occur until after that time. A mischief-maker—no, let’s say simply a scrupulous reader of the notes—might conclude that the second shot it was that did for him. Seven forty. The pathologist may well conclude that later time to be the actual time of death. I couldn’t fault him. Though I would expect the usual umbrella statement of ‘at a time between six and nine.’ I claim to have been the target of that shot myself but where’s the evidence of that? It went skying into the trees. I take off back to the Hall where I am observed to arrive by one or two witnesses, covered in blood and hurrying to change my clothes. Suitably clad for church, I return to the scene of the crime an hour later to check on the progress of the detective I have myself alerted. How am I doing?”
Hunnyton nodded. He had the grace, Joe noted, to look rather sickened by the interview.
“I have the skill, the ruthlessness and the opportunity. I deny none of that. But motive, Superintendent? Why the hell should I put my neck on the line for a man unknown to me before yesterday? For that villain? Why would I want him dead?” Suddenly understanding, Joe pointed to his face and laughed. “A log-chucking contest in the woods goes badly for me and I decide to wreak revenge? I so envy his carefree bucolic existence I decide to challenge him for the priesthood? Oh, come on!”
“No, it’s not that, sir. What sort of a plodding idiot do you take me for?” Gravely, Hunnyton took Goodfellow’s letter from his pocketbook and handed it to Joe. “The victim names you, sir.”
“What are you talking about?” Joe looked again at the folded note addressed to “Sandilands.”
Reciting from memory of the text, Hunnyton said quietly, “Your Lord and Master, he says—Truelove we’re assuming—got his London lawyer to evict me … Even sent one of his tame police bully-boys to make sure I go quietly. At least I merited an Assistant Commissioner from the Yard!” Not exactly quietly perhaps. His final departure was accompanied by the blast of a shotgun heard for miles around.”
“Truelove’s tame police bully-boy?” Joe’s anger was rising. “Is that how you would characterise me?”
“Not me, sir. Those are the dead man’s words. I’ve only observed you doing Sir James’s shopping for him. A judge might want to enquire into any previous association you might have had with the gentleman. He might go so far as to check the log book of your encounters at Scotland Yard. How many was it? Two? In the days before the murder … Oh, dear. Your secretary was present at the time? No? Pity …”
Joe’s mouth was too dry to form the words to express his thoughts even if his shocked brain had been able to come up with some. He maintained his rigid stance, unable to contemplate the alternative of knocking Hunnyton to the ground.
“Sir! Sir! Calm down!” Hunnyton urged, sensing a coming explosion. “Always better to look the truth in the face, I reckon. We’re professionals. We know how this works. We’ve both seen things turn very nasty in court. Some young terrier of a prosecuting council trying to make his name is all it takes. The Press love a touch of hubris as much as they hate Scotland Yard. A combination will have them salivating into their mild and bitters. A top man, war hero and one-time debs’ delight being hanged by the rope he’s knotted himself—they’d love it! There’s a way through. Clear and obvious as a turnpike. Just slip that letter I’ve given you in your pocket and bugger off. I never saw it. Leave me to finish here.”
He fixed Joe at last with unclouded eyes. Angry eyes. “Listen! This piece of shit flushed himself out of our lives. Not right that he should take anybody down the pan with him. Not anybody! I won’t allow it. Got that? I’m telling you formally, Assistant Commissioner, that I’m scaling down the inquiry. I’ll turn the men round sharpish when they get here. A few photos and signed statements from the lads—I’m not risking any charge of collusion—should do it.”
He drew himself up, every inch the officer reporting to his superior. “False alarm, sir. Sorry you’ve been bothered. This is a suicide we’re looking at. No one else is being sought in connection with the death.”
Joe took his leave of Hunnyton, murmuring the official formulae. He even caught himself muttering, “Carry on, Superintendent.”