“Strangled!” exclaimed Bent.
“Aye, without doubt,” replied Garthwaite. “There’s a bit of rope round his neck that tight that I couldn’t put my little finger between it and him! But you’ll see for yourselves—it’s not far up the Shawl. You never heard anything, Mr. Cotherstone?”
“No, we heard naught,” answered Cotherstone. “If it’s as you say, there’d be naught to hear.”
He had led them out of his grounds by a side-gate, and they were now in the thick of the firs and pines which grew along the steep, somewhat rugged slope of the Shawl. He put the lantern into Garthwaite’s hand.
“Here—you show the way,” he said. “I don’t know where it is, of course.”
“You were going straight to it,” remarked Garthwaite. He turned to Brereton, who was walking at his side. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?” he asked. “I heard that Mr. Bent had a lawyer friend stopping with him just now—we hear all the bits of news in a little place like Highmarket. Well—you’ll understand, likely—it hadn’t been long done!”
“You noticed that?” said Brereton.
“I touched him,” replied Garthwaite. “His hand and cheek were—just warm. He couldn’t have been dead so very long—as I judged matters. And—here he is!”
He twisted sharply round the corner of one of the great masses of limestone which cropped out amongst the trees, and turned the light of the lantern on the dead man.
“There!” he said in a hushed voice. “There!”
The four men came to a halt, each gazing steadily at the sight they had come to see. It needed no more than a glance to assure each that he was looking on death: there was that in Kitely’s attitude which forbade any other possibility.
“He’s just as I found him,” whispered Garthwaite. “I came round this rock from there, d’ye see, and my foot knocked against his shoulder. But, you know, he’s been dragged here! Look at that!”
Brereton, after a glance at the body, had looked round at its surroundings. The wood thereabouts was carpeted—thickly carpeted—with pine needles; they lay several inches thick beneath the trunks of the trees; they stretched right up to the edge of the rock. And now, as Garthwaite turned the lantern, they saw that on this soft carpet there was a great slur—the murderer had evidently dragged his victim some yards across the pine needles before depositing him behind the rock. And at the end of this mark there were plain traces of a struggle—the soft, easily yielding stuff was disturbed, kicked about, upheaved, but as Brereton at once recognized, it was impossible to trace footprints in it.
“That’s where it must have been,” said Garthwaite. “You see there’s a bit of a path there. The old man must have been walking along that path, and whoever did it must have sprung out on him there—where all those marks are—and when he’d strangled him dragged him here. That’s how I figure it, Mr. Cotherstone.”
Lights were coming up through the wood beneath them, glancing from point to point amongst the trees. Then followed a murmur of voices, and three or four men came into view—policemen, carrying their lamps, the man whom Garthwaite had sent into the town, and a medical man who acted as police surgeon.
“Here!” said Bent, as the newcomers advanced and halted irresolutely. “This way, doctor—there’s work for you here—of a sort, anyway. Of course, he’s dead?”
The doctor had gone forward as soon as he caught sight of the body, and he dropped on his knees at its side while the others gathered round. In the added light everybody now saw things more clearly. Kitely lay in a heap—just as a man would lie who had been unceremoniously thrown down. But Brereton’s sharp eyes saw at once that after he had been flung at the foot of the mass of rock some hand had disarranged his clothing. His overcoat and under coat had been torn open, hastily, if not with absolute violence; the lining of one trousers pocket was pulled out; there were evidences that his waistcoat had been unbuttoned and its inside searched: everything seemed to indicate that the murderer had also been a robber.
“He’s not been dead very long,” said the doctor, looking up. “Certainly not more than three-quarters of an hour. Strangled? Yes!—and by somebody who has more than ordinary knowledge of how quickly a man may be killed in that way! Look how this cord is tied—no amateur did that.”
He turned back the neckcloth from the dead man’s throat, and showed the others how the cord had been slipped round the neck in a running-knot and fastened tightly with a cunning twist.
“Whoever did this had done the same thing before—probably more than once,” he continued. “No man with that cord round his neck, tightly knotted like that, would have a chance—however free his hands might be. He’d be dead before he could struggle. Does no one know anything about this? No more than that?” he went on, when he had heard what Garthwaite could tell. “Well, this is murder, anyway! Are there no signs of anything about here?”
“Don’t you think his clothing looks as if he had been robbed?” said Brereton, pointing to the obvious signs. “That should be noted before he’s moved.”
“I’ve noted that, sir,” said the police-sergeant, who had bent over the body while the doctor was examining it. “There’s one of his pockets turned inside out, and all his clothing’s been torn open. Robbery, of course—that’s what it’s been—murder for the sake of robbery!”
One of the policemen, having satisfied his curiosity stepped back and began to search the surroundings with the aid of his lamp. He suddenly uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Here’s something!” he said, stooping to the foot of a pine-tree and picking up a dark object. “An old pocketbook—nothing in it, though.”
“That was his,” remarked Cotherstone. “I’ve seen it
