He paused, as if to give the inspector the chance of putting a question; but, as none came, he went on with his story.
“The impression I got—of course, I may be wrong—was that marks of that sort might be important. Certainly, after seeing them, I didn’t care to assert that poor old Hay’s death was due entirely to natural causes. He’d died of congestion, all right. I’m dead sure that a P.M. will confirm that. But congestion doesn’t make marks on a man’s wrists. It seemed to me worth ringing you up. If it’s a mare’s nest, then it’s a mare’s nest, and I’ll be sorry to have troubled you. But I believe in having things done shipshape; and I’d rather trouble you than get into hot water myself, if there’s anything fishy about the affair.”
Inspector Armadale seemed rather dubious about how he should take the matter. To Wendover it almost looked as though he was regretting the haste with which he had brought Sir Clinton into the business. If the whole thing turned out to be a mare’s nest, quite evidently Armadale expected to feel the flick of his superior’s sarcasm. And obviously a couple of marks on a dead man’s wrists did not necessarily spell foul play, since the man had clearly died of cerebral congestion, according to the doctor’s own account.
At last the Inspector decided to ask a question or two.
“You don’t know of anyone with a grudge against Hay?”
Rafford made no attempt to restrain a smile.
“Hay?” he said. “No one could possibly have a grudge against Peter. He was one of the decentest old chaps you could find anywhere—always ready to do a good turn to anyone.”
“And yet you assert that he was murdered?” demanded the inspector.
“No, I don’t,” the doctor retorted sharply. “All I say is that I don’t feel justified in signing a death certificate. That ends my part. After that, it’s your move.”
Armadale apparently realised that Rafford was not the sort of person who could be bluffed easily. He tried a fresh line.
“When do you think the death took place?”
The doctor considered for a moment.
“It’s no good giving you a definite hour,” he said. “You know as well as I do how much the symptoms vary from case to case. I think it’s quite on the cards that he died some time about the middle of the night or a little earlier. But you couldn’t get me to swear to that in the box, I warn you.”
“I’ve often heard it said,” the inspector commented in a disconsolate tone, “that you scientific people make the worst witnesses. You never will say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ plainly like ordinary people. You’re always hedging and qualifying.”
“Had a training in accuracy, I expect,” Rafford replied. “We don’t feel inclined to swear to things until we’re convinced about them ourselves.”
Armadale evidently decided not to pursue the subject further.
“What about the body?” he asked.
“I sent Sapcote up to look after it—the village constable. He’s up at Foxhills now. If it was to be left for your examination somebody had to be there to see it wasn’t disturbed.”
The inspector nodded approvingly.
“Quite right. And I suppose I can get hold of this youngster—Colby’s his name, isn’t it?—any time I need him?”
Rafford gave him the boy’s address, which he took down in his notebook.
“Anything else you can think of that might be useful?” he inquired, putting the book back into his pocket.
The doctor shook his head.
“Nix. I suppose the coroner will want a look in?”
“I expect so,” Armadale replied.
He glanced at Wendover and Sir Clinton to indicate that he now left the field to them. Wendover took advantage of the tacit permission.
“You didn’t see anything that suggested poison, did you?” he asked the doctor.
Rafford’s faint smile put an edge on his reply:
“I believe I said that if it hadn’t been for the marks on the wrists, I’d have certified congestion of the brain. I don’t think poison marks the wrists.”
Wendover, feeling that he had hardly shone by his interposition, refrained from further questions and glanced at Sir Clinton. The chief constable appeared to think that further inquiries could be allowed to stand over for a time.
“I think we’d better be moving on,” he suggested. “Thanks for your help, Dr. Rafford. Once we’ve seen the body, perhaps something fresh may turn up, and we may have to trouble you again. By the way,” he added, “did you notice if there was a heavy dew last night? I was playing bridge at the hotel and didn’t go out after dinner; but perhaps you were out and can tell me.”
“The dew did come down fairly heavy,” Rafford said, after a pause for recollection. “I happened to be out at a case, and I noticed it. Are you thinking about the possibility of Hay’s death being due to exposure?”
“Not exactly,” Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly ironical smile. “As you would say, doctor, exposure doesn’t mark a man’s wrist—at least not so quick as all that.”
Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and accompanied them to the garden gate as they went out.
“I hope I haven’t started you on a wild-goose chase, inspector,” he said on parting. “But I suppose that sort of thing’s all in your day’s work, anyhow.”
Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun along towards Foxhills; then at last he uttered his views in a single sentence:
“That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly jaunty.”
And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately silent until they had reached their destination.
“This is the place, I think,” Sir Clinton said a few minutes later, pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue at a point where a side-road led off towards a little cottage among some trees. “I can see the constable in
