he had to reach twice to grip the chair so he could steady himself.
“I am glad you have come, gentlemen.” His voice was hoarse. “I am ashamed to say that being alone here has not been an experience I have found easy. He is in the bedroom, where I found him.” He took a deep breath. “Beyond ascertaining that he is dead—a fact of which there is little doubt—I have touched nothing.”
Lambert looked at him for only an instant, then walked past and opened the bedroom door. He stopped with an involuntary gasp.
Pitt strode over. Paterson was hanging from the hook which should have supported the small, ugly chandelier now lying skewed sideways on the floor. He was held by a rope, an ordinary piece of hemp about twelve or fourteen feet long, such as any carter would use, except there was a running noose in one end. His body was stiff; his face, when Pitt moved around to see, was purplish, eyes protruding, tongue thick between his open lips.
Lambert stood motionless, swaying a little as if he might faint.
Pitt took him by the arm, having to pull hard to force him from the spot.
“Come,” he ordered sharply. “You can’t do anything for him. Mr. Livesey!”
Livesey suddenly realized he could help and started forward, taking Lambert’s other arm and guiding him to the chair.
“Sit down,” he said grimly. “Get your breath. Nasty shock for you, when you knew the poor man. Sorry I don’t carry brandy, and I doubt Paterson would have had any.”
Lambert shook his head and opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came.
Pitt left them and went back into the bedroom. All the same questions that had teemed in Lambert’s mind were in his now, but before he addressed any of them, he must see what facts he could observe.
He touched Paterson’s hand. The body swung very slightly. The flesh was cold, the arm rigid. He had been dead several hours. He was dressed in plain dark uniform trousers and tunic, which was torn, his sergeant’s insignia ripped off. He still wore his boots. It was nearly midday now. Presumably it was what he had worn when he came home from the last duty of the day before. If he had slept here, risen in the morning and dressed ready to go out, the body would still have some warmth left, and be limp. He must have died sometime late yesterday evening, or during the night. It would almost certainly be the evening. Why should he be wearing his street clothes all night?
The hook was in the middle of the ceiling, about ten or eleven feet high, where one would expect to find a chandelier. There was no furniture near enough to it for him to have climbed on. It had taken a strong man to lift Paterson up and then let him fall from that height. He must have used the rope as a pulley over the hook. There was no conceivable way Paterson could have done it himself, even supposing he had some cause to, or believed he had.
Pitt glanced around, simply as a matter of course, to see if there were any letter, although he knew it had to be murder. Physically, suicide was impossible.
There was nothing. It was a plain, tidy, characterless bedroom. A bed with a wooden headboard occupied the far end. A sash window looked out over a narrow alley with a few sheds and what appeared to be a stable.
There was a wardrobe to the right, and some four or five feet from it a chest of drawers. There were three chairs, one padded, the other two hard seated and straight backed. All of them were upright and against the wall. Had Paterson used them to stand on they would have been under the chandelier, and probably fallen over.
He went over to the chairs and examined them one by one. He could see no mark on any of them. But then if the man had taken off his shoes, there would be none.
He heard Livesey’s footsteps at the door and looked around.
“Have you learned anything?” Livesey said very quietly.
“Not a great deal,” Pitt replied, straightening up and glancing around the room again. Its impersonalness hurt him, as if Paterson had lived and died leaving no mark. And yet had he seen books, photographs, letters, handmade articles chosen with meaning and care, perhaps it would have hurt more. Except that there was a sense of futility, a loneliness as if someone had slipped away unnoticed, his loss seen only when it was too late. He could not have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three. He had barely begun. And now there was nothing.
Lambert’s question rang in his head. Why? Who could have done this, and why now?
“I think he was dead a long time before I got here,” Livesey said quietly. “I wish to God I had come when I got his note last night! I could have saved him.”
“He sent you a letter?” Pitt said in amazement, then immediately felt ridiculous. He should have asked Livesey what he was doing here. Appeal court justices did not normally visit police constables in their lodging houses. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I was going to ask you why you were here.”
“He sent me a note yesterday.” Livesey’s voice was still husky, as if his mouth were dry. “He said he had learned something which troubled him deeply, and he wanted to tell me about it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He passed it over to Pitt.
Pitt read in scribbled writing which even in its haste and emotion showed the form of its copperplate letters.
My lord,
Forgive me writing you like this, but I have learned something terrible which I have to tell you, or I cannot rest with myself a night longer. I know you are a very busy man, but this is more important than anything, I swear it. I dare tell no one else.
Please answer me when I can speak to you about it,
Your humble servant,
D. Paterson, P.C.
“And you don’t know what it was that troubled him so much, or why he wouldn’t simply tell Inspector Lambert?” Pitt asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Livesey replied, lowering his voice still further so Lambert would not hear him in the next room. “But the suggestion implicit is not a pleasant one. I must say, poor Lambert does look very shaken. I
