“Nice little garden, this,” Sir Clinton remarked, casting his eyes round the tiny enclosure. “A bit on the shady side, perhaps, with all these trees about. Did you ever come up here to visit Peter Hay, constable?”
“Often and often, sir. Many’s the time we’ve sat on that seat over there when I’ve been off duty; or else in the house if it got too cold for my rheumatism.”
“Suffer from rheumatism, constable? That’s hard lines. One of my friends has some stuff he uses for it; he swears by the thing. I’ll write down the name for you and perhaps it’ll do you some good.”
Sir Clinton tore a leaf out of his pocketbook, jotted a name on it, and handed the paper over to the constable, who seemed overwhelmed by the attention. Decidedly this superior of his was a “real good sort.”
“Peter Hay was getting on in life,” Sir Clinton went on, with a glance at the silvering hair of the body before him. “I suppose he had his troubles too. Rheumatism, or something like that?”
“No, sir. Nothing of the kind. Barring these strokes of his, he was sound as a bell. Used to go about in all weathers and never minded the rain. Never seemed to feel the cold the way I do. Kept his jacket for the church, they used to say about here. Often in the evenings we’d be sitting here and I’d say to him: ‘Here, Peter, shirtsleeves must keep you warmer than my coat keeps me, but it’s time to be moving inside.’ And then in we’d go and he’d begin fussing about with that squirrel of his.”
“What sort of a man was he?” Sir Clinton asked. “Stiff with strangers, or anything like that? Suppose I’d come wandering in here, would he have been grumpy when he came to turn me out?”
“Grumpy, sir? That’s the last thing you’d have called him. Or stiff. He was always smiling and had a kind word for everyone, sir. One of the decentest men you could ask for, sir. Very polite to gentlefolk, always; and a nice kindly manner with everyone.”
“Not the sort of man to have a bad enemy, then?”
“No, indeed, sir.”
Inspector Armadale had finished his work with the chalk and was now standing by, evidently impatient to get on with the task in hand. His face betrayed only too plainly that he thought Sir Clinton was wasting time.
“Finished?” the chief constable inquired.
“Quite,” Armadale replied, in a tone which hinted strongly that there was much more to be done.
“In that case, we can turn the body over.” Sir Clinton said, stepping forward as he spoke and beckoning to the constable.
Handling him gently, they turned the dead man on his back; and, before rising, Sir Clinton ran his hand over the front of the body. As he stood up, he motioned to Armadale to follow his example.
“His waistcoat and trousers are a bit damp,” the inspector said, after he had felt them. “Is that what you mean?”
Sir Clinton nodded in confirmation. An expression of comprehension flitted across the inspector’s face.
“So that was why you asked about the dew last night?” he observed. “I wondered what you were after, sir.”
“Something of the sort was in my mind,” the chief constable admitted. “Now have a look at the face, inspector. Has there been any bleeding at the nose? Or do you see anything else of any interest?”
Armadale bent down and inspected the dead man’s face closely.
“Nothing out of the common that I can see,” he reported. “Of course, the face is congested a bit. That might be the stroke, I suppose.”
“Or else the settling of the blood by gravity after death,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Well, I hadn’t expected to find any nose-bleeding. If he’d bled at the nose it might have saved him from apoplexy.”
Armadale looked up inquiringly.
“You think it’s merely apoplexy, sir?”
“I’m afraid this is a ‘place’ within the meaning of the Act, inspector; otherwise I’d be quite ready to bet you a considerable sum that if Dr. Rafford carries out a post mortem, he’ll report that death was due to congestion of the brain.”
The inspector seemed to read some hidden meaning into Sir Clinton’s words, for he nodded sagely without making any vocal comment.
“What next, sir?” he asked. “Shall we take the body into the cottage and go over it there?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Not yet. There’s just one thing I’d like to be sure about; and it may not be easy to see. There’s a better light out here. Turn up the trousers from the ankle, inspector, and have a good look for marks—probably on the front of the shins. It’s a long shot, but I’ve a notion you’ll find something there.”
Armadale did as he was bidden.
“You’re right, sir. There’s a very faint mark—far fainter than the ones on the wrists—on the front of each shin, just as you said. It’s more like a very faint bruise than a mark made by stumbling against anything. The skin’s not broken. Of course it shows up after death, otherwise I’d hardly have seen it.”
Sir Clinton nodded without making any comment. He was stooping over the dead man’s face, examining it closely. After a moment or two, he signed to Wendover to come to his side.
“Smell anything peculiar, squire?”
Wendover sniffed sagaciously once or twice; his face lighted up; and then a look of perplexity came over his features.
“I know that smell, Clinton. I recognise it well enough; but I can’t put a name to it somehow.”
“Think again,” the chief constable advised. “Go back to your early days and you’ll probably recall it.”
Wendover sniffed several times, but remained baffled. A look of interest passed over Sapcote’s face. He came forward, bent down, and sniffed in his turn.
“I know what
