The Cat’s Eye E-Book

R. Austin Freeman

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Narrated by Robert Anstey, who is acting as Thorndyke’s counsel as Jervis is away in America. He walks right into a murder scene, attracted by the screams of a beautiful young woman. The dead man is a harmless old bachelor who collects objects of arcane appeal. Several pieces of inscribed jewelry are missing. It’s a strange sort of burglary perpetrated by clumsy amateurs – who nonetheless got clean away. Dr. Thorndyke takes on the case and enlists Anstey as his sidekick. Anstey makes a perfect foil for the great forensics expert, since he misses the significance of everything. There is murder, love, and a form of code to be deciphered to prove an inheritance. The plot, which is ingenious and complex, includes a contested inheritance with a fascinating history. And the reader is treated to plenty of scientific and analytic exploits by Dr. Thorndyke. We watch him test for poison; take impressions of fingerprints, handprints and footprints; detect secret chambers; and interpret coded messages.

Leseprobe

Contents

PREFACE

I. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

II. SIR LAWRENCE DECLARES A VENDETTA

III. THORNDYKE TAKES UP THE INQUIRY

IV. THE LADY OF SHALOTT

V. MR HALLIBURTON’S MASCOT

VI. INTRODUCES AN ANT-EATER AND A DETECTIVE

VII. THE VANISHED HEIRLOOM

VIII. A JACOBITE ROMANCE

IX. EXIT MOAKEY

X. A TIMELY WARNING

XI. THE BLUE HAIR

XII. FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH

XIII. THORNDYKE STATES HIS POSITION

XIV. BEAUCHAMP BLAKE

XV. THE SQUIRE AND THE SLEUTH-HOUND

XVI. MR BRODRIBB’S EMBASSY

XVII. THE SECRET CHAMBER

XVIII. THE CAT’S EYE

XIX. A RELIC OF THE ‘45

XX. QED

PREFACE

By one of those coincidences which are quite inadmissible in fiction, but of frequent occurrence in real life, an incident in the story of The Cat’s Eye has found an almost exact duplicate in an actual case which has been reported in the Press.

The real case was concerned with a most alarming misadventure which befell a distinguished police official of high rank. The fictitious incident occurs in Chapter Ten of this book; and the reading of that chapter will inevitably convey the impression that I have appropriated the real case and incorporated it in my story; a proceeding that the reader might properly consider to be in questionable taste.

It seems, therefore, desirable to explain that Chapter Ten was written some months before the real tragedy occurred. Indeed, by that time, the book was so nearly completed that it was impracticable to eliminate the incident, which was an integral part of the plot.

The coincidence is to be regretted; but worse things might easily have happened. But for the circumstance that I had to lay this book aside to complete some other work, The Cat’s Eye would have been in print when the crime was committed; and it might then have been difficult for any one–even for the author–to believe that the fictitious crime had not furnished the suggestion for the real one.

RAF Gravesend, 19th June 1923.

“The Cat’s Eye,” Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1937 reprint

I. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

I am not a superstitious man. Indeed superstition, which is inseparably bound up with ignorance or disregard of evidence, would ill accord with the silken gown of a King’s Counsel. And still less am I tainted with that particular form of superstition in which the fetishism of barbarous and primitive man is incongruously revived in a population of, at least nominally, educated persons, by the use of charms, amulets, mascots and the like.

Had it been otherwise; had I been the subject of this curious atavistic tendency, I should surely have been led to believe that from the simple gem whose name I have used to give a title to this chronicle, some subtle influence exhaled whereby the whole course of my life was directed into new channels. But I do not believe anything of the kind; and therefore, though it did actually happen that the appearance of the Cat’s Eye was coincident with a radical change in the course and manner of my life, and even, as it seemed, with my very personality; and though with the Cat’s Eye the unfolding of the new life seemed constantly associated; still I would have it understood that I use the name merely as a label to docket together a succession of events that form a consistent and natural group.

The particular train of events with which this history deals began on a certain evening near the end of the long vacation. It was a cloudy evening, I remember, and very dark, for it was past eight o’clock and the days were drawing in rapidly. I was returning across Hampstead Heath towards my lodgings in the village, and was crossing the broken, gorse-covered and wooded hollow to the west of the Spaniards Road, when I heard the footsteps of someone running, and running swiftly, as I could judge by the rapid rhythm of the footfalls and the sound of scattering gravel. I halted to listen, noting that the rhythm of the footsteps was slightly irregular, like the ticking of an ill-adjusted clock; and even as I halted, I saw the runner. But only for a moment, and then but dimly. The vague shape of a man came out of the gloom, passed swiftly across my field of vision, and was gone. I could not see what he was like. The dim shape appeared and vanished into the darkness, leaving me standing motionless, listening with vague suspicion to the now faint footfalls and wondering what I ought to do.

Suddenly the silence was rent by a piercing cry, the cry of a woman calling for help. And, strangely enough, it came from the opposite direction to that towards which the fugitive was running. In an instant I turned and raced across the rugged hollow towards the spot from whence the sound seemed to come, and as I scrambled up a gravelly hillock I saw, faintly silhouetted on the murky skyline of some rising ground ahead, the figures of a man and a woman struggling together; and I had just noted that the man seemed to be trying to escape when I saw him deal the woman a blow, on which she uttered a shriek and fell, while the man, having wrenched himself free, darted down the farther slope and vanished into the encompassing darkness.

When I reached the woman she was sitting up with her right hand pressed to her side, and as I approached she called out sharply:

‘Follow him! Follow that man! Never mind me!’

I stood for a moment irresolute, for on the hand that was pressed to her side I had noticed a smear of blood. But as I hesitated, she repeated: ‘Follow him! Don’t let him escape! He has just committed a dreadful murder!’

On this I ran down the slope in the direction that the man had taken and stumbled on over the rugged, gravelly hillocks and hollows, among the furze bushes and the birches and other small trees. But it was a hopeless pursuit. The man had vanished utterly, and from the dark heath not a sound came to give a hint as to the direction in which he had gone. There was no definite path, nor was it likely that he would have followed one; and as I ran forward, tripping over roots and sandy hummocks, the futility of the pursuit became every moment more obvious, while I felt a growing uneasiness as to the condition of the woman I had left sitting on the ground and apparently bleeding from a wound. At length I gave up the chase and began to retrace my steps, now full of anxiety lest I should be unable to find the spot where I had left her, and speculating on the possibility that the victim of the murder of which she had spoken might yet be alive and in urgent need of help.

I returned as quickly as I could, watching the direction anxiously and trying vainly to pick up landmarks. But the uneven, gorse-covered ground was a mere formless expanse intersected in all directions by indistinct tracks, confused by the numbers of birch-trees and stunted oaks, and shut in on all sides by a wall of darkness. Presently I halted with a despairing conviction that I had lost my way hopelessly, and at that moment I discerned dimly through the gloom the shape of a piece of rising ground lying away to the right. Instantly I hurried towards it, and as I climbed the slope, I thought I recognised it as the place from which I had started. A moment later, the identity of the place was confirmed beyond all doubt, for I perceived lying on the ground a shawl or scarf which I now remembered to have seen lying near the woman as she sat with her hand pressed to her side, urging me to follow her assailant.

But the woman herself had disappeared. I picked up the shawl, and throwing it over my arm, stood for a few moments, peering about me and listening intently. Not a sound could I distinguish, however, nor could I perceive any trace of the vanished woman. Then I noticed, a few yards away, a defined path leading towards a patch of deeper darkness that looked like a copse or plantation, and following this, I presently came upon her, standing by a fence and clinging to it for support.

‘The man has got away,’ said I. ‘There is no sign of him. But what about you? Are you hurt much?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she answered faintly. ‘The wretch tried to stab me, but I don’t think–’ Here her voice faded away, as she fell forward against the fence and seemed about to collapse. I caught her, and lifting her bodily, carried her along the path, which appeared to lead to a house. Presently I came to an open gate, and entering the enclosed grounds, saw before me an old-fashioned house, the door of which stood ajar, showing a faint light from within. As I approached the door, a telephone bell rang and a woman’s voice, harsh and terrified, smote my ear:

‘Are you there? This is Rowan Lodge. Send to the police immediately! Mr Drayton has been robbed and murdered! Yes, Mr Drayton. He is lying dead in his room. I am his housekeeper. Send the police and a doctor!’

At this moment I pushed open the door and entered; and at my appearance, with the insensible woman in my arms, the housekeeper shrieked aloud, and dropping the receiver, started back with a gesture of wild terror.

‘My God!’ she exclaimed, ‘What is this? Not another!’

‘I hope not,’ I replied, not, however, without misgivings. ‘This lady tried to hold the man as he was escaping and the villain stabbed her. Where can I lay her down?’

The whimpering housekeeper flung open a door, and snatching a match-box from the hall table, struck a match and preceded me into a room where, by the light of the match that flickered in her shaking hand, I made out a sofa and laid my burden on it, rolling up the shawl and placing it under her head. Then the housekeeper lit the gas and came and stood by the sofa, wringing her hands and gazing down with horrified pity at the corpse-like figure.

‘Poor dear!’ she sobbed. ‘Such a pretty creature, too, and quite a lady! God help us! What can we do for her? She may be bleeding to death!’

The same thought was in my mind, and the same question, but as I answered that we could do nothing until the doctor arrived, the woman–or rather girl, for she was not more than twenty-six–opened her eyes and asked in a faint voice: ‘Is Mr Drayton dead?’

The housekeeper sobbed an indistinct affirmative and then added:

‘But try not to think about it, my dear. Just keep yourself quite quiet until the doctor comes.’

‘Are you sure he is dead?’ I asked in a low voice.

‘I wish I were not,’ she sobbed. Then, with an earnest look at the young lady–who seemed now to be reviving somewhat–she added:

‘Come with me and see; and do you lie quite still until I come back, my dear.’

With this she led me out of the room, and turning from the hall into a short corridor, passed quickly along it and stopped at a door. ‘He is in there,’ she said in a shaky voice that was half a sob. She opened the door softly, peered in, and then, with a shuddering cry, turned and ran back to the room that we had just left.

When she had gone I entered the room half-reluctantly, for the atmosphere of tragedy and horror was affecting me most profoundly. It was a smallish room, almost unfurnished save for a range of cabinets such as insect collectors use; and opposite one of these a man lay motionless on the floor, looking, with his set, marble-white face and fixed, staring eyes, like some horrible waxwork figure. I stooped over him to see if there were any sign of life. But even to a layman’s eye the fixity, the utter immobility was unmistakable. The man was dead beyond all doubt. I listened with my ear at his mouth and laid my finger on the chilly wrist. But the first glance had told me all. The man was dead.

As I stood up, still with my eyes riveted on the face, set in that ghastly stare, I became conscious of a certain dim sense of recognition. It was a strong, resolute face, and even in death, the fixed expression spoke rather of anger than of fear. Where had I seen that face? And then in a flash I recalled the name that the housekeeper had called through the telephone–Mr Drayton. Of course. This was the brother of my neighbour in the Temple, Sir Lawrence Drayton, the famous Chancery lawyer. He had spoken to me of a brother who lived at Hampstead, and there could be no doubt that this was he. The likeness was unmistakable.

But, as I realised this, I realised also the certainty that this crime would become my professional concern. Sir Lawrence would undoubtedly put the case in the hands of my friend John Thorndyke–the highest medico-legal authority and the greatest criminal lawyer of our time–and my association with Thorndyke would make me a party to the investigation. And that being so, it behoved me to gather what data I could before the police arrived and took possession.

The mechanism of the crime was obvious enough, though there were one or two mysterious features. Of the cabinet opposite which the body lay, one drawer was pulled out, and its loose glass cover had been removed and lay shattered on the floor beside the corpse. The contents of this drawer explained the motive of the crime, for they consisted of specimens of jewellery, all more or less antique, and many of them quite simple and rustic in character, but still jewels. A number had evidently been taken, to judge by the empty trays, but the greater part of the contents of the drawer remained intact.

The rifled drawer was the second from the top. Having turned up the gas and lit a second burner, I drew out the top drawer. The contents of this were untouched, though the drawer appeared to have been opened, for the cover-glass was marked by a number of rather conspicuous fingerprints. Of course these were not necessarily the prints of the robber’s fingers, but they probably were, for their extreme distinctness suggested a dirty and sweaty hand such as would naturally appertain to a professional thief in a state of some bodily fear. Moreover the reason why this drawer should have been passed over was quite obvious. Its contents were of no intrinsic value, consisting chiefly of Buckinghamshire lace bobbins with carved inscriptions and similar simple objects.

I next drew out the third drawer, which I found quite untouched, and the absence of any fingerprints on the cover-glass confirmed the probable identity of those on the glass of the top drawer. By way of further settling this question, I picked up the fragments of the broken glass and looked them over carefully; and when I found several of them marked with similar distinct fingerprints, the probability that they were those of the murderer became so great as nearly to amount to certainty.

I did not suppose that these fingerprints would be of much interest to Thorndyke. They were rather the concern of the police and the Habitual Criminals Registry. But still I knew that if he had been in my place he would have secured specimens, on the chance of their being of use hereafter, and I could do no less than take the opportunity that offered. Looking over the broken fragments again, I selected two pieces, each about four inches square, both of which bore several fingerprints. I placed them carefully face to face in a large envelope from my pocket, having first wrapped their corners in paper to prevent the surfaces from touching.

I had just bestowed the envelope in my letter-case and slipped the latter into my pocket when I heard a man’s voice in the hall. I opened the door, and walking along the corridor, found a police inspector and a sergeant in earnest conversation with the housekeeper, while an elderly man, whom I judged to be the doctor, stood behind, listening attentively.

‘Well,’ said the inspector ‘we’d better see to the lady. Will you have a look at her, doctor, and when you’ve attended to her, perhaps you will let us know whether she is in a fit state to answer questions. But you might just take a look at the body first.’ Here he observed me and inquired: ‘Let me see, who is this gentleman?’

I explained briefly my connection with the case as we walked down the corridor, and the inspector made no comment at the moment. We all entered the room, and the doctor stooped over the body and made a rapid inspection.

‘Yes,’ he said, rising and shaking his head, ‘there’s no doubt that he is dead, poor fellow. A shocking affair. But I had better go and see to this poor lady before I make any detailed examination.’

With this he bustled away, and the inspector and the sergeant knelt down beside the corpse but refrained from touching it.

‘Knife wound, apparently,’ said the inspector, nodding gloomily at a small pool of blood that appeared between the outstretched right arm and the side. ‘Seems to have been a left-handed man, too, unless he struck from behind, which he pretty evidently did not.’ He stood up, and once more looking at me, somewhat inquisitively, said: ‘I had better have your name and address, sir.’

‘My name is Anstey–Robert Anstey, KC, and my address is 8A Kings Bench Walk, Inner Temple.’

‘Oh, I know you, sir,’ said the inspector with a sudden change of manner. ‘You are Dr. Thorndyke’s leading counsel. Well, well. What an odd thing that you should happen to come upon this affair by mere chance. It’s quite in your own line.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said I. ‘It looks to me rather more in yours. If they have got these fingerprints in the files at Scotland Yard you won’t have much trouble in finding your man or getting a conviction.’

As I spoke, I drew his attention to the fingerprints on the broken glass, saying nothing, however, about those on the upper drawer.

The two officers examined the incriminating marks with deep interest, and the inspector proceeded carefully and skilfully to pack several of the fragments for subsequent examination, remarking, as he laid them tenderly on the top of a cabinet: ‘This looks like a regular windfall, but it’s almost too good to be true. The professional crook, nowadays, knows too much to go dabbing his trade-marks about in this fashion. These prints and the knife rather suggest a casual or amateur of some kind. The fellow not only didn’t wear gloves, he didn’t even trouble to wipe his hands. And they wanted wiping pretty badly. Are all these cabinets full of jewellery?’

‘I really don’t know what they contain, but they are pretty insecure if their contents are valuable.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘A single locked batten to each cabinet. One wrench of a jemmy and the whole cabinet is open. Well, we’d better have a few words with the housekeeper before we go over the room in detail. And she won’t want to talk to us in here.’

With this he led the way back to the hall, and I could not but admire the diplomatic way in which he managed to get me away from the scene of his intended investigation.

As we entered the hall, we met the doctor, who was repacking his emergency bag at the door of the room.

‘I think,’ said he, ‘my patient is well enough to give you a few necessary particulars. But don’t tire her with needless questions.’

‘She is not seriously hurt, then?’ said I, with considerable relief.

‘No. But she has had a mighty narrow escape. The brute must have aimed badly, for he struck viciously enough, but the point of the knife glanced off a rib and came out farther back, just transfixing a fold of skin and muscle. It is a nasty wound, but quite superficial and not at all dangerous.’

‘Well, I’m glad it’s no worse than that,’ said the inspector, and with this he pushed open the door of the room and we all entered, though I noticed that the sergeant regarded me with a somewhat dubious eye. And now, for the first time, I observed the injured lady with some attention, which I was able to do at my leisure while the examination was proceeding. And a very remarkable-looking girl she was. Whether she would have been considered beautiful by the majority of persons I cannot say; she certainly appeared so to me. But I have always felt a great admiration of the pictures of Burne-Jones and of the peculiar type of womanhood that he loved to paint; and this girl, with her soft aureole of reddish-gold hair, her earnest grey eyes, her clear, blonde skin–now pale as marble–the characteristic mouth and cast of features, might have been the model whose presentment gave those pictures, to me, their peculiar charm. She seemed not of the common, everyday world, but like some visitor from the regions of legend and romance. And the distinction of her appearance was supported by her speech–by a singularly sweet voice, an accent of notable refinement, and a manner at once gentle, grave, and dignified.

‘Do you feel able to tell us what you know of this terrible affair, Madam?’ the inspector asked.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘I am quite recovered now.’

‘Was Mr Drayton a friend of yours?’

‘No. I never met him until this evening. But perhaps I had better tell you how I came to be here and exactly what happened.’

‘Yes,’ the inspector agreed, ‘that will be the shortest way.’

‘Mr Drayton,’ she began, ‘was, as you probably know, the owner of a collection of what he called “inscribed objects”–jewels, ornaments, and small personal effects bearing inscriptions connecting them with some person or event or period. I saw a description of the collection in the Connoisseur a short time ago, and as I am greatly interested in inscribed jewels, I wrote to Mr Drayton asking if I could be allowed to see the collection; and I asked, since I am occupied all day, if he could make it convenient to show me the collection one evening. I also asked him some questions about the specimens of jewellery. In reply he wrote me a most kind letter–I have it in my pocket if you would like to see it–answering my questions and not only inviting me most cordially to come and look at his treasures, but offering to meet me at the station and show me the way to the house. Of course I accepted his very kind offer and gave him a few particulars of my appearance so that he should be able to identify me, and this evening he met me at the station and we walked up here together. There was no one in the house when we arrived–at least he thought there was not, for he mentioned to me that his housekeeper had gone out for an hour or so. He let himself in with a key and showed me into this room. Then he went away, leaving the door ajar. I heard him walk down the corridor and I heard a door open. Almost at the same moment, he called out loudly and angrily. Then I heard the report of a pistol, followed immediately by a heavy fall.’

‘A pistol!’ exclaimed the inspector ‘I thought it was a knife wound. But I mustn’t interrupt you.’

‘When I heard the report I ran out into the hall and down the corridor. As I went, I heard a sound as of a scuffle, and when I reached the door of the museum, which was wide open, I saw Mr Drayton lying on the floor, quite still, and a man climbing out of the window. I ran to the window to try to stop him, but before I could get there he was gone. I waited an instant to look at Mr Drayton, and noticed that he seemed to be already dead and that the room was full of the reek from the pistol, then I ran back to the hall and out through the garden and along the fence to where I supposed the window to be. But for a few moments I could not see any one. Then, suddenly, a man sprang over the fence and dropped quite near me, and before he could recover his balance, I had run to him and seized him by both wrists. He struggled violently, though he did not seem very strong, but he dragged me quite a long way before he got free.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’ the inspector asked.

‘Yes. He used most horrible language, and more than once he said:

“Let go, you fool. The man who did it has got away.”

‘That might possibly be true,’ I interposed, ‘for, just before I heard this lady call for help, a man passed me at a little distance, running so hard that I was half inclined to follow him.’

‘Did you see what he was like?’ the inspector demanded eagerly.

‘No. I hardly saw him at all. He passed me at a distance of about thirty yards and was gone in an instant. Then I heard this lady call out and, of course, ran towards her.’

‘Yes,’ said the inspector,’ naturally. But it’s a pity you didn’t see what the man was like. ‘Then, once more addressing the lady, he asked:

‘Did this man stab you without warning, Miss–’

‘Blake is my name,’ she replied. ‘No. He threatened several times to “knife” me if I didn’t let go. At last he managed to get his left hand free. I think he was holding something in it, but he must have dropped it, whatever it was, for the next moment I saw him draw a knife from under his coat. Then I got hold of his arm again, and that is probably the reason that he wounded me so slightly. But when he stabbed me I suddenly went quite faint and fell down, and then he escaped.’

‘He held the knife in his left hand, then?’ the inspector asked. ‘You are sure of that?’

‘Quite sure. Of course it happened to be the free hand, but-‘

‘But if he had been a right-handed man he would probably have got his right hand free. Did you see which side he carried his knife?’

‘Yes. He drew it from under his coat on the left side.’

‘Can you give us any description of the man?’

‘I am afraid I can’t. I am sure I should recognise him if I were to see him again, but I can’t describe him. It was all very confused, and, of course, it was very dark. I should say that he was a smallish man, rather slightly built. He wore a cloth cap and his hair seemed rather short but bushy. He had a thin face, with a very peculiar expression–but, of course, he was extremely excited and furious–and large, staring eyes, and a rather pronounced, curved nose.’

‘Oh, come,’ said the inspector approvingly, ‘that isn’t such a bad description. Can you say whether he was dark or fair, clean shaved or bearded?’

‘He was clean shaved, and I should say decidedly dark.’

‘And how was he dressed?’

‘He wore a cloth cap, and, I think, a tweed suit. Oh, and he wore gloves–thin, smooth gloves–very thin kid, I should say–’

‘Gloves!’ exclaimed the inspector. ‘Then the fingerprints must be the other man’s. Are you sure he had gloves on both hands?’

‘Yes, perfectly sure. I saw them and felt them.’

‘Well,’ said the inspector,’ this is a facer. It looks as if the other man had really done the job while this fellow kept watch outside. It’s a mysterious affair altogether. There’s the extraordinary time they chose to break into the house. Eight o’clock in the evening. It would almost seem as if they had known about Mr Drayton’s movements.’

‘They must have done,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Mr Drayton went out regularly every evening a little after seven. He went down to the village to play chess at the club, and he usually came back between half-past nine and ten. And I generally sat and worked in the kitchen on the other side of the house from the museum.’

‘And did he take no sort of precautions against robbery?’

‘He used to lock the museum when he went out. That was all. He was not at all a nervous man, and he used to say that there was no danger of robbery because the things in the museum were not the kind of things that burglars go for. They wouldn’t be of any value to melt or sell.’

‘We must just look over the museum presently and see what the collection consists of,’ said the inspector. ‘And we must see how they got in and what they have taken. I suppose there is a catalogue?’

‘No, there isn’t,’ replied the housekeeper. ‘I did suggest to Mr Drayton that he ought to draw up a list of the things, but he said it was not a public collection, and as he knew all the specimens himself, there was no need to number them or keep a catalogue.’

That is unfortunate,’ said the inspector. ‘We shan’t be able to find out what is missing or circulate any descriptions unless you can remember what was in the cabinets. By the way, did Mr Drayton ever show his collection to visitors other than his personal friends?’

‘Occasionally. After the Connoisseur article that Miss Blake was speaking of, two or three strangers wrote to Mr Drayton asking to be allowed to see the jewellery, and he invited them to come and showed them everything.’

‘Did Mr Drayton keep a visitors’ book, or record of any kind?’

‘No. I don’t remember any of the visitors, excepting a Mr Halliburton, who wrote from the Baltic Hotel in the Marylebone Road. I remember him because Mr Drayton was so annoyed about him. He put himself to great inconvenience to meet Mr Halliburton and show him the jewellery that he had asked to see, and then, he told me, when he came, it was quite obvious that he didn’t know anything at all about jewellery, either ancient or modern. He must have come just from idle curiosity.’

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said the inspector. ‘Looks a bit suspicious. We shall have to make some inquiries at the Baltic. And now we had better go and have a look at the museum, and perhaps, doctor, you would like to make a preliminary examination of the body before it is moved.’

On this we all rose, and the inspector was just moving towards the hall when there came a sharp sound of knocking at the outer door, followed by a loud peal of the bell.