A Murder is Announced by Agatha Christie

say?”
    “No, no. He just loosed off, as I say, blindly. And that's what brought him to himself. The bullet hit someone - actually it was only a graze, but he didn't know that. He comes to himself with a bang. All this - this make-believe he's been indulging in - is real. He's shot at someone - perhaps killed someone... It's all up with him. And so in blind panic he turns the revolver on himself.”
    Colonel Easterbrook paused, cleared his throat appreciatively and said in a satisfied voice, “Plain as a pikestaff, that's what it is, plain as a pikestaff.”
    “It really is wonderful,” said Mrs. Easterbrook, “the way you know exactly what happened, Archie.”
    Her voice was warm with admiration.
    Inspector Craddock thought it was wonderful, too, but he was not quite so warmly appreciative.
    “Exactly where were you in the room, Colonel Easterbrook, when the actual shooting business took place?”
    “I was standing with my wife - near a centre table with some flowers on it.”
    “I caught hold of your arm, didn't I, Archie, when it happened? I was simply scared to death. I just had to hold on to you.”
    “Poor little kitten,” said the Colonel playfully.

A Murder is Announces
    V
    The Inspector ran Miss Hinchliffe to earth by a pigsty.
    “Nice creatures, pigs,” said Miss Hinchliffe, scratching a wrinkled pink back. “Coming on well, isn't he? Good bacon round about Christmas time. Well, what do you want to see me about? I told your people last night I hadn't the least idea who the man was. Never seen him anywhere in the neighbourhood snooping about or anything of that sort. Our Mrs. Mopp says he came from one of the big hotels in Medenham Wells. Why didn't he hold up someone there if he wanted to? Get a much better haul.”
    That was undeniable - Craddock proceeded with his inquiries.
    “Where were you exactly when the incident took place?”
    “Incident! Reminds me of my A.R.P. days. Saw some incidents then, I can tell you. Where was I when the shooting started? That what you want to know?”
    “Yes.”
    “Leaning up against the mantelpiece hoping to God someone would offer me a drink soon,” replied Miss Hinchliffe promptly.
    “Do you think that the shots were fired blindly, or aimed carefully at one particular person?”
    “You mean aimed at Letty Blacklog? How the devil should I know? Damned hard to sort out what your impressions really were or what really happened after it's all over. All I know is the lights went out, and that torch went whirling round dazzling us all, and then the shots were fired and I thought to myself, 'If that damned young fool Patrick Simmons is playing his jokes with a loaded revolver somebody will get hurt.'”
    “You thought it was Patrick Simmons?”
    “Well, it seemed likely. Edmund Swettenham is intellectual and writes books and doesn't care for horseplay, and old Colonel Easterbrook wouldn't think that sort of thing funny. But Patrick's a wild boy. However, I apologise to him for the idea.”
    “Did your friend think it might be Patrick Simmons?”
    “Murgatroyd? You'd better talk to her yourself. Not that you'll get any sense out of her. She's down the orchard. I'll yell for her if you like.”
    Miss Hinchliffe raised her stentorian voice in a powerful bellow:
    “Hi - you, Murgatroyd...”
    “Coming...” floated back a thin cry.
    “Hurry up - Polieece,” bellowed Miss Hinchliffe.
    Miss Murgatroyd arrived at a brisk trot very much out of breath. Her skirt was down at the hem and her hair was escaping from an inadequate hair net. Her round, good-natured face beamed.
    “Is it Scotland Yard?” she asked breathlessly. “I'd no idea. Or I wouldn't have left the house.”
    “We haven't called in Scotland Yard yet, Miss Murgatroyd. I'm Inspector Craddock from Milchester.”
    “Well, that's very nice, I'm sure,” said Miss Murgatroyd vaguely. “Have you found any clues?”
    “Where were you at the time of the crime, that's what he wants to know,