Purbright let the retort go by. “You were acquainted, I believe, doctor, with the late Mr Gwill?”
“I was.”
“And with the late Mr Carobleat, who lived next door to him?”
“I have been acquainted in my time with many citizens now deceased, inspector. As a doctor, I doubt if I am unique in that respect.”
“I don’t suppose you are. But it is possible that your special knowledge might help us to dispose of some rather odd coincidences and the sort of rumours that always follow them and hamper us in our work.”
Dr Hillyard spread out his hands and smiled wryly.
“You attended Mr Carobleat—we might as well proceed in chronological order—and signed a death certificate in respect of pneumonia and heart failure. That is so, doctor?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
“The illness was quite short?”
“Short—but conclusive.”
“And you have no reason, looking back now, to doubt the accuracy of your findings?”
“None whatever. Why should I?”
“What is your opinion, doctor, concerning the death of Mr Gwill?”
Hillyard shook his head. “I have no knowledge of that. I’m sure your own police surgeon could give you more help than I can.”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. After all, you were in Mr Gwill’s company until very shortly before he died.”
Hillyard regarded Purbright narrowly for a few seconds. Then he said: “I suppose you are indebted— posthumously”—he glanced at the sheeted form in the centre of the room—“to Gloss for that information?”
“You were present that night, then?”
“It was a social occasion, simply. Of the sequel, if whatever happened to Gwill can be called a sequel to a little informal conversation and a drink or two, I know nothing. Gloss will have told you that Gwill received a telephone call from someone or other and left the house. We did not see him again.”
“You did not gather who made the call?”
“No.”
“What did you and Gloss do when Gwill failed to return, doctor?”
“We waited perhaps half an hour and then went home.”
“Was no one else there at the house?”
“No, I think not. The housekeeper was away for the night.”
“But, doctor”—Purbright leaned forward—“Gloss told me that Mr Bradlaw was there also. He arrived in his van, surely. And all three of you came back to town in it together. That is so, isn’t it?” He watched for the effect of the guess.
“Of course,” said Hillyard, blandly. “That’s what I told you myself not half a minute ago.”
The inspector stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir. Bradlaw wasn’t mentioned until...”
“Nonsense, man; ye’re bletherin’.”
Mr Chubb had been watching the interchange between Purbright and the doctor in a dumbly pivotal manner. He found the drift of question and answer to be going further and further, in his opinion, from the immediate problem of the solicitor’s killing, and decided to bring the inquisition back firmly to the here and now.
“Had Mr Gloss any enemies, doctor?” he asked.
“He may well have had.”
“Really?” Mr Chubb was temporarily disconcerted. “Why do you say that?”
“He was a solicitor. The profession does not attract draughts of the milk of human kindness.”
“I see. But do you know of anyone specifically who wished him harm?”
“I can think of no one in particular.”
The Chief Constable was about to put another question when there was the sound of a vehicle drawing to a stop outside the house. Love hurried to the door and returned to announce the arrival of an ambulance, Dr Hooper, the police surgeon, and a photographer. Soon the room seemed more indecently over-crowded than ever. The Chief Constable managed to draw Purbright aside, asked him somewhat superfluously if he could ‘manage’, and escaped.
Half an hour later, Dr Hillyard having been dismissed with a polite injunction to be ready for further unavoidable demands upon his patience, Purbright and his sergeant were left in an empty house by the departure of corpse, police surgeon and photographer. Mrs Gloss had been collected much earlier by a shocked but comforting brother-in-law with a car.
Purbright, deservedly resting in the depths of an armchair, looked at Love and sighed. “The doctor?” he asked.
Love gave the slight grunt that he used to acknowledge axiomatic situations. “No one’s going to tell me,” he said, “that he wouldn’t know what his own pal’s assailant looked like—if there really was an assailant. There’s a street lamp almost directly outside, and that’s where Gloss was knifed. Incidentally, you’d think that whoever
