Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 4. Whole No. 215, October 1961

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Meet Colonel Thornton — an English colonel to end all (literary) English colonels.

This one’s chief occupation was to shoot finches in the early morning.

The old lady lay on the four-poster bed very still, very fragile, her hands folded across her breast. A black morning dress was buttoned close up to her throat and held by a large cameo brooch. She still had her shoes on, black, elastic-sided affairs with a brilliant polish on the patent-leather toes. On the pillow to one side of her was a round, hand-knitted cap, topped by a large greeny-yellow tassel. She has iron-gray hair, very neat and tidy.

The police doctor straightened up from beside the bed and said precisely, “Not more than four hours ago. Death was instantaneous. Probably a .22 slug. Not close range — no burns on the skin. Not close enough for suicide, anyway. Entered just in front of the left ear and upwards to the brain.”

He moved away from the bed and began to tidy things into his bag.

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