"There be the Bungalow.
Do yee want to see t'Inspector?"
"What Inspector?" asked Poirot sharply; "what do you mean?"
"Haven't yee heard about t'murder, then?
A shocking business t'was seemingly.
Pools of blood, they do say."
"Mon Dieu!" murmured Poirot. "This Inspector of yours, I must see him at once."
Five minutes later we were closeted with Inspector Meadows.
The Inspector was inclined to be stiff at first, but at the magic name of Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, he unbent.
"Yes, sir; murdered this morning.
A shocking business.
They 'phoned to Moreton, and I came out at once.
Looked a mysterious thing to begin with.
The old man - he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his glass, from all I hear - was lying on the floor of the living-room.
There was a bruise on his head and his throat was cut from ear to ear.
Blood all over the place, as you can understand.
The woman who cooks for him, Betsy Andrews, she told us that her master had several little Chinese jade figures, that he'd told her were very valuable, and these had disappeared.
That, of course, looked like assault and robbery; but there were all sorts of difficulties in the way of that solution.
The old fellow had two people in the house; Betsy Andrews, who is a Hoppaton woman, and a rough kind of manservant, Robert Grant.
Grant had gone to the farm to fetch the milk, which he does every day, and Betsy had stepped out to have a chat with a neighbour.
She was only away twenty minutes - between ten and half-past - and the crime must have been done then.
Grant returned to the house first.
He went in by the back door, which was open - no one locks up doors round here - not in broad daylight, at all events - put the milk in the larder, and went into his own room to read the paper and have a smoke.
Had no idea anything unusual had occurred - at least, that's what he says.
Then Betsy comes in, goes into the living-room, sees what's happened, and lets out a screech to wake the dead.
That's all fair and square.
Some one got in whilst those two were out, and did the poor old man in.
But it struck me at once that he must be a pretty cool customer.
He'd have to come right up the village street, or creep through some one's back yard.
Granite Bungalow has got houses all round it, as you can see.
How was it that no one had seen him?"
The Inspector paused with a flourish.
"Aha, I perceive your point," said Poirot.
"To continue?" "Well, sir, fishy, I said to myself - fishy.
And I began to look about me.
Those jade figures, now.
Would a common tramp ever suspect that they were valuable?
Anyway, it was madness to try such a thing in broad daylight.
Suppose the old man had yelled for help?"
"I suppose, Inspector," said Mr. Ingles, "that the bruise on the head was inflicted before death?"
"Quite right, sir.
First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then cut his throat.
That's clear enough.
But how the dickens did he come or go?
They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this.
It came to me all at once - nobody did come.
I took a good look round.
It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough going in and out of the kitchen.
In the living-room there were two sets of footprints only (Betsy Andrews' stopped at the door) - Mr. Whalley's (he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man's.
The other man had stepped in the blood-stains, and I traced his bloody footprints - I beg your pardon, sir."