He turned toward the door; Miss Wickham stopped him.
“Will Mr. Ashton’s body be brought here—tonight?” she asked.
“No,” replied Drillford. “It will be taken to the mortuary. If you’ll leave everything to me, I’ll see that you are spared as much as possible. Of course, there’ll have to be an inquest—but you’ll hear all about that tomorrow. Leave things to us and to Mr. Ashton’s solicitors.”
He moved towards the door, and Viner, until then a silent spectator, looked at Miss Wickham, something impelling him to address her instead of Mrs. Killenhall.
“I live close by you,” he said. “If there is anything that I can do, or that my aunt Miss Penkridge, who lives with me, can do? Perhaps you will let me call in the morning.”
The girl looked at him steadily and frankly.
“Thank you, Mr. Viner,” she said. “It would be very kind if you would. We’ve no men folk—yes, please do.”
“After breakfast, then,” answered Viner, and went away to join the Inspector, who had walked into the hall.
“What do you think of this matter?” he asked, when they had got outside the house.
“Oh, a very clear and ordinary case enough, Mr. Viner,” replied Drillford. “No mystery about it at all. Here’s this Mr. Ashton been living here some weeks—some fellow, the man, of course, whom you saw running away, has noticed that he was a very rich man and wore expensive jewellery, has watched him, probably knew that he used that passage as a shortcut, and has laid in wait for him and murdered him for what he’d got on him. It wouldn’t take two minutes to do the whole thing. Rings, now! They spoke of diamond rings, in there. Well, I didn’t see any diamond rings on his hands when I looked at his body, and I particularly noticed his hands, to see if there were signs of any struggle. No sir—it’s just a plain case of what used to be called highway robbery and murder. But come round with me to the police-station, Mr. Viner—they’ll have taken him to the mortuary by now, and I should like to hear what our divisional surgeon has to say, and what our people actually found on the body.”
As Viner and the Inspector walked into the police-station, Dr. Cortelyon came out. Drillford stopped him.
“Found out anything more, Doctor?” he asked.
“Nothing beyond what I said at first,” replied Cortelyon. “The man has been stabbed through the heart, from behind, in one particularly well-delivered blow. I should say the murderer had waited for him in that passage, probably knowing his habits. That passage, now—you know it really will have to be seen to! That wretched old lamp in the middle gives no light at all. The wonder is that something of this sort hasn’t occurred before.”
Drillford muttered something about local authorities and property-owners and went forward into an office, motioning Viner to follow. The divisional surgeon was there in conversation with the sergeant whom Drillford had left in charge of the body. “That is something on which I’d stake my professional reputation,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
“What’s that, Doctor?” asked Drillford. “Something to do with this affair?”
“I was saying that whoever stabbed this unfortunate man had some knowledge of anatomy,” remarked the doctor. “He was killed by one swift blow from a particularly keen-edged, thin-bladed weapon which was driven through his back at the exact spot. You ought to make a minute search behind the walls on either side of that passage—the probability is that the murderer threw his weapon away.”
“We’ll do all that, Doctor,” said Drillford. “As to your suggestion—don’t you forget that there are a good many criminals here in London who are regular experts in the use of the knife—I’ve seen plenty of instances of that myself. Now,” he went on, turning to the sergeant, “about that search? What did you find on him?”
The sergeant lifted the lid of a desk and pointed to a sheet of foolscap paper whereon lay certain small articles at which Viner gazed with a sense of strange fascination. A penknife, a small gold matchbox, a gold-mounted pencil-case, some silver coins, a handkerchief, and conspicuous among the rest, a farthing.
“That’s the lot,” said the sergeant, “except another handkerchief, and a pair of gloves in the overcoat, where I’ve left them. Nothing else—no watch, chain, purse or pocketbook. And no rings—but it’s very plain from his fingers that he wore two rings one on each hand, third finger in each case.”
“There you are!” said Drillford with a glance at Viner. “Murdered and robbed—clear case! Now, Mr. Viner, give us as accurate a description as possible of the fellow who ran out of that passage.”
Viner did his best. His recollections were of a young man of about his own age, about his own height and build, somewhat above the medium; it was his impression, he said, that the man was dressed, if not shabbily, at least poorly; he had an impression, too, that the clean-shaven face which he had seen for a brief moment was thin and worn.
“Got any recollection of his exact look?” inquired the Inspector. “That’s a lot to go by.”
“I’m trying to think,” said Viner. “Yes—I should say he looked to be pretty hard-up. There was a sort of desperate gleam in his eye. And—”
“Take your time,” remarked Drillford. “Anything you can suggest, you know—”
“Well,” replied Viner. “I’d an idea at the moment, and I’ve had it since, that I’d seen this man before. Something in his face was familiar. The only thing I can think of is this: I potter round old bookshops and curiosity-shops a good deal—I may have seen this young fellow on some occasion of that sort.”
“Anyway,” suggested Drillford, glancing over the particulars which he had written down, “you’d know him again if you saw him?”
“Oh, certainly!” asserted
