“Well, it’s not very important,” said Parker.
“Wait a bit. Look at this. Somebody’s been making marks on it.”
Wimsey held out the cover for inspection. A thick pencil-mark had been drawn under the first two words of the title.
“Do you think it’s some sort of message? Perhaps the book was on the seat, and she contrived to make the marks unnoticed and shove it away here before they transferred her to the other car.”
“Ingenious,” said Sir Charles, “but what does it mean? The Black. It makes no sense.”
“Perhaps the long-toed gentleman was a nigger,” suggested Parker. “Nigger taste runs rather to boots and hair-oil. Or possibly a Hindu or Parsee of sorts.”
“God bless my soul,” said Sir Charles, horrified, “an English girl in the hands of a nigger. How abominable!”
“Well, we’ll hope it isn’t so. Shall we follow the road out or wait for the doctor to arrive?”
“Better go back to the body, I think,” said Parker. “They’ve got a long start of us, and half an hour more or less in following them up won’t make much odds.”
They turned from the translucent cool greenness of the little wood back on to the downs. The streamlet clacked merrily away over the pebbles, running out to the southwest on its way to the river and the sea.
“It’s all very well your chattering,” said Wimsey to the water. “Why can’t you say what you’ve seen?”
XXI
By What Means?
“Death hath so many doors to let out life.”
Beaumont and Fletcher: Custom of the Country
The doctor turned out to be a plumpish, fussy man—and what Wimsey impatiently called a “Tutster.” He tutted over the mangled head of poor Vera Findlater as though it was an attack of measles after a party or a self-provoked fit of the gout.
“Tst, tst, tst. A terrible blow. How did we come by that, I wonder? Tst, tst. Life extinct? Oh, for several days, you know. Tst, tst—which makes it so much more painful, of course. Dear me, how shocking for her poor parents. And her sisters. They are very agreeable girls; you know them, of course, Sir Charles. Yes. Tst, tst.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose,” said Parker, “that it is Miss Findlater.”
“None whatever,” said Sir Charles.
“Well, as you can identify her, it may be possible to spare the relatives the shock of seeing her like this. Just a moment, doctor—the photographer wants to record the position of the body before you move anything. Now, Mr.—Andrews?—yes—have you ever done any photographs of this kind before? No?—well, you mustn’t be upset by it! I know it’s rather unpleasant. One from here, please, to show the position of the body—now from the top of the bank—that’s right—now one of the wound itself—a closeup view, please. Yes. Thank you. Now, doctor, you can turn her over, please—I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews—I know exactly how you are feeling, but these things have to be done. Hullo! look how her arms are all scratched about. Looks as if she’d put up a bit of a fight. The right wrist and left elbow—as though someone had been trying to hold her down. We must have a photograph of the marks, Mr. Andrews—they may be important. I say, doctor, what do you make of this on the face?”
The doctor looked as though he would have preferred not to make so much as an examination of the face. However, with many tuts he worked himself up to giving an opinion.
“As far as one can tell, with all these postmortem changes,” he ventured, “it looks as though the face had been roughened or burnt about the nose and lips. Yet there is no appearance of the kind on the bridge of the nose, neck or forehead. Tst, tst—otherwise I should have put it down to severe sunburn.”
“How about chloroform burns?” suggested Parker.
“Tst, tst,” said the doctor, annoyed at not having thought of this himself—“I wish you gentlemen of the police force would not be quite so abrupt. You want everything decided in too great a hurry. I was about to remark—if you had not anticipated me—that since I could not put the appearance down to sunburn, there remains some such possibility as you suggest. I can’t possibly say that it is the result of chloroform—medical pronouncements of that kind cannot be hastily made without cautious investigation—but I was about to remark that it might be.”
“In that case,” put in Wimsey, “could she have died from the effects of the chloroform? Supposing she was given too much or that her heart was weak?”
“My good sir,” said the doctor, deeply offended this time, “look at that blow upon the head, and ask yourself whether it is necessary to suggest any other cause of death. Moreover, if she had died of the chloroform, where would be the necessity for the blow?”
“That is exactly what I was wondering,” said Wimsey.
“I suppose,” went on the doctor, “you will hardly dispute my medical knowledge?”
“Certainly not,” said Wimsey, “but as you say, it is unwise to make any medical pronouncement without cautious investigation.”
“And this is not the place for it,” put in Parker, hastily. “I think we have done all there is to do here. Will you go with the body to the mortuary, doctor. Mr. Andrews, I shall be obliged if you will come and take a few photographs of some footmarks and so on up in the wood. The light is bad, I’m afraid, but we must do our best.”
He took Wimsey by the arm.
“The man is a fool, of course,” he said, “but we can get a second opinion. In the meantime, we had better let it be supposed that we accept the surface explanation of all this.”
“What is the difficulty?” asked Sir Charles, curiously.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Parker. “All the appearances are in favour of the girls having
