“That does seem very logical, Mr Purbright,” agreed the chief constable, “but what was to prevent a person lurking in the grounds—a scoundrel such as what’s-his-name, Tudor—from taking a shot at his victim, his ‘contract’—was that the word?—as soon as poor Hatch came in and put the light on?”
“Frosted glass, sir,” said Purbright.
They resumed their way to their separate cars. Mr Chubb drove away in his at once. The inspector’s took some time to start. It usually did.