“No, sir!” Boyd shook his head with vigour. “It’s no good looking in the house. Take it from me.”
“I will, Boyd; for the present anyhow.” Anthony rose and stretched himself. “Can I see the study?”
Boyd jumped up with alacrity. “You can, sir. We’ve been in there a lot, taking photos, etcetera; but it’s untouched—just as it was when they found the body.”
IV
Study
Once across the threshold of the dead minister’s study, Anthony experienced a change of feeling, of mental attitude. Until now he had looked at the whole business in his usual detached and semi-satirical way; the reasons for his presence at Abbotshall had been two only—affection for Spencer Hastings and desire to satisfy that insistent craving for some definite and difficult task to perform. He had even felt, at intervals throughout the morning, a wish to laugh.
But, now, fairly in the room, this aloofness failed him. It was not that he felt any sudden surge of personal regret. It was rather that, for him at least, despite the sunlight which blazed incongruously in every corner, some cold, dark beastliness brooded everywhere.
The big room was gay with chintz and as yet unfaded flowers of the day before; the solid furniture was of some beauty—in fact, a charming room. Yet Anthony shivered even before he had seen the thing lying grotesque upon the hearth. When he did see it, somehow the sight shook him out of the nightmare of dark fancy. He stepped forward to look more closely.
Came the sound of a commotion from the hall. With a muttered excuse, Boyd went quickly from the room. Anthony knelt to examine the body.
It sprawled upon the hearthrug, legs towards the window in the opposite wall. The red-tiled edge of the open grate forced up the neck. The almost hairless head was dreadfully battered; crossed and recrossed by five or six gaping gashes, each nearly half an inch wide and an inch or so deep. Of the scalp little remained but islands and peninsulas of skin and bone streaked with the dark brown of dried blood, among it ribbons of gray film where the brain had oozed from the wounds.
The body was untouched, though the clothes were rumpled and twisted. The right arm was outstretched, the rigid fingers of the hand resting among the pots of fern which filled the fireplace. The left arm was doubled under the body.
Anthony, having gazed his fill, rose to his feet. As he did so, Boyd reentered. He looked flushed and not a little annoyed.
Anthony turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
“Only a bit more trouble with some of these newspaper fellows, sir. But thank the Lord, I’ve got rid of ’em now. Told ’em I’d give ’em a statement tonight. What they’d say if they knew you were here—and why—God knows. There’ll be a row after the case is over, but there you are. Miss Hoode’s agreeable to you, and I don’t blame her, but she won’t hear of any of the others being let in. I don’t blame her for that either.” He nodded towards the body. “What d’you make of it, sir?”
“Shocking messy kill,” Anthony said.
“You’re right, sir, But what about—things in general, so to speak?”
Anthony looked round the room. It bore traces of disturbance. Two light chairs had been overturned. Books and papers from the desk strewed the floor. The grandfather clock, which should have stood sentinel on the left of the door as one entered it, had fallen, though not completely. It lay face-downwards at an angle of some forty-five degrees with the floor, the upper half of its casing supported by the back of a large sofa.
“Struggle?” said Anthony.
“Yes,” said Boyd.
“Queer struggle,” said Anthony. He sauntered off on a tour of the room.
Boyd watched him curiously as he halted before the sofa, dropped on one knee, and peered up at the face of the reclining clock.
He looked up at Boyd. “Stopped at ten-forty-five. That make the murder fit in with the times the people in the house have told you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When are you going to have the room tidied?”
“Any time now. We’ve got the photos.”
“Right.” Anthony got to his feet. “Let us, Boyd, unite our strength and put granddad on his feet.”
Between them they raised the clock. Anthony opened the case and set the pendulum swinging. A steady tick-tock began at once.
Anthony looked at his watch. “Stopped exactly twelve hours ago, did grandfather,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to be damaged, though.”
“No, sir. It takes a lot to put those old clocks out of order.”
Anthony went back to the front of the sofa and stood looking down at the carpet.
“No fingerprints, you said?”
“Except on the wood-rasp, absolutely none but those of the deceased, sir. I’ve dusted nearly every inch of the room with white or black. All I got for my pains were four good prints of the deceased’s thumb and forefinger. They’re easy enough to tell—very queer-shaped fingers and a long scar on the ball of his right thumb.”
Anthony changed the subject. “What time did you get here, Boyd?”
“About four this morning. We came by car. I made some preliminary inquiries, questioned some of the people, and went down to the village at about eight.”
“Who’s that great red hulk of a sergeant?” said Anthony, flitting to yet another subject. “You ought to watch him, Boyd. When I came along he was indulging in a little
