Lenox like several hours — applying snuff to the inside of one nostril and inhaling it, then repeating the procedure on the other side. “Yes. Weston. Sadly I saw nothing of what occurred on the green. I would have been abed for an hour or two, at least, by the time I hear it must have happened.”
This was a disappointment. “But you saw something?”
“Two things, in fact. I am of a rather stout build, you may see, Mr. Lenox, and I find a walk after supper a eupeptic diversion — most salubrious, in fact. Yesterday evening I was dining with a friend, Mr. Hugo Fish.”
Oates, whose sherry had vanished, and Fripp, whose sherry was untouched, both nodded to indicate that they knew the gentleman in question. “Go on,” said Lenox.
“Consequently my evening constitutional began much later than usual. I took the path to Epping Forest, a quarter of a mile east of here—”
“At what time of evening?” said Lenox.
“It must have been past ten thirty.”
“What did you see?”
“I go by there rather often, two or three times a week, and I have never seen what I saw then — to be precise, two horses hitched up against a tree together, chewing from oatbags. Quite alone.”
“You didn’t recognize the horses?”
“No.”
“Were they well saddled?”
“It was dark, you understand, but they appeared to be decently turned out.”
“Were you close to the path, or off it?”
“Oh, I know these woods quite well, Mr. Lenox. I couldn’t possibly get lost in them. And then it was rather a fullish moon. I was off the path.”
So whoever had left the horses there had at least tried to conceal them. It was obvious why, if they had business with Weston, they hadn’t wanted to come to town on the evening coach. It was not a busy route. A coachman upon his reguler route would have remembered two strange faces.
Why had they come so early, if they hadn’t met Weston until well after midnight? What had they been doing away from their horses in the interim?
“You say you saw two things?”
“Yes.”
“And the second?”
“Upon my return, I saw Captain Musgrave, stalking across the green with that great animal of his.”
“Did he see you?”
“No.”
“Was this before or after the pubs had let out?”
“I walked for an hour, or thereabouts.”
“After, then. Did he seem agitated? Was he walking quickly, slowly?”
“There was nothing remarkable about his conduct, as far as I could ascertain,” said Carmody. “He walked as men will walk.”
“Did you see Weston?”
“I did not.”
“Did you look to the corner of the green, next to the church, where he lived?”
“It’s a small green, Mr. Lenox. I would have seen him. Ah, I see you find the sherry to your taste, now.” Lenox had taken another sip, distractedly. “Esmeralda!”
“No, you’re too kind, but I’m afraid we have urgent— Thank you, Mr. Carmody.”
“Would you leave in such haste? Esmeralda! Please, I entreat you, sit, Mr. Lenox,” said Carmody, “for one more glass.”
“I apologize,” said Lenox. “I must be on my way. Oates? Fripp?”
Both touched their caps to Carmody. When they were on his steps, Oates a ways ahead of them, Fripp whispered, “Wanted to tell Mr. Fish he had two glasses of sherry with you, I reckon. More social, less official, like. Does that help?”
“Enormously,” said Lenox. “Thank you. Mr. Oates, which way is it to Dr. Eastwood’s, from here? The light is going and I should still like to see both him and Captain Musgrave.”
“Musgrave, this late in the day?”
“Yes. I should especially like to see him,” said Lenox.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dr. Eastwood, whom Lenox’s cousin had mentioned was one of the leading men in Plumbley, practiced out of a small, well-situated cottage along a brook close to the edge of town. The maid who admitted Lenox and Oates was quiet and respectful; they were in a gentleman’s house. For many years physicians had fought hard against the old reputation of their profession — some grand doctors refused to tap a patient’s chest or use a stethoscope because to do so would have brushed too closely against manual labor, a prejudice that had doubtless resulted in many deaths — and Eastwood was, perhaps, the beneficiary of this fight.
Unfortunately, according to Frederick, Eastwood was not entirely at home in Plumbley, having bought a practice here in the hopes that it might lead him to a happy life. He had found relatively few friends and, though unmarried, had no special favorite among the local women. It was surprising; when he greeted them, shaking hands, Lenox saw that he was a tall, handsome, chestnut-haired man, still at the tail end of youth.
He led them into his surgery. “The body is laid out here,” he said in a soft voice. “It offers, sadly, little information.”
“The time of death, perhaps?”
“I cannot say with any great specificity. Not after two in the morning, probably, because the hardening of the tissues was complete by the time I saw the body. Any time up until then, however. I fear that may not help much.”
“Were there any wounds about the hands or arms?”
Eastwood shook his head. “I checked, having some acquaintance with the literature of police medicine, but no. He was taken quite unawares. Perhaps only turned away for a moment.”
“What was the instrument that killed him?”
“There I can give you slightly more information. It was a knife with a blade of five inches, say, or six. There were no serrations in the wound, so I imagine the blade was smooth. Any kitchen knife might have done it. Then again it could have been a more … a more professional sort of object, too, a fold-down.”
“And in his effects?” said Lenox. “You sent word—”
Here he was brought up short, because they had come to Weston’s dead body, bare-chested, cleansed of blood but not of the muscles’ terrible, wrenched contortion. The body’s intense pain, so unmistakable from Weston’s expression and position, was like a rupture in this cheerful work space — the table upon which he lay no doubt the same one where women with pleurisy and children with croup consulted the doctor every afternoon, the glass cabinets above, with their tidy rows of physic, mementoes of a less violent world.
Eastwood paused for a suitable moment, and then said, “Yes. His pockets had been emptied — or were empty when he came to the green, I suppose.”
“I didn’t see any money or keys in his rooms, did you, Oates?” said Lenox.
“Then he was robbed?”
“I feared as much,” said Eastwood. “But they must have missed the ticket pocket in the dark.”
This was the small pocket in the waistcoat just above the bigger, regular pocket, found only on the right side and just large enough for a rail ticket. “What was in it?” Lenox asked.
“This piece of paper,” he said, and handed it to Lenox.
It was folded over three times. On the outside it read, constable oates. Lenox offered it to Oates, who took it and read aloud. “Eye on swell’s basement. Come if you can.”
“Once more?” Lenox said.
