occurred to me, as I pursued my sordid investigations, that the lot of coroners’ officers, policemen, doctors and detectives was much more disagreeable than sensational fiction would lead one to suppose. I soon had enough of the yard and came in again.
After that—the bedroom, I supposed. And whiskey, of course. Pain and exhaustion would call for spirits. Well, I knew where I had found the whiskey and the tumbler. Then more sickness—by that time he had been too bad to move. Then—I did not like the look of the broken bedstead. How did one die of fungus-poisoning? Not peacefully, I supposed. There was no peace in that twisted body and face. How long had the agony of delirium and convulsion lasted? It must be a damnable thing to die in so much pain, absolutely alone.
I did not like these ideas. I took a sheet from the other bed, and laid it gently over Harrison’s body, being careful to disturb nothing. Then I went back and sat by the fire.
At about half-past two, I heard voices outside, and opened the door to Lathom, a police-sergeant, and a man who was introduced as Dr. Hughes of Bovey Tracey. He was a brisk and confident middle-aged man, and brought an atmosphere of reassurance along with him.
“Oh dear, yes,” he said, “I’m afraid he’s quite dead. Been dead for seven or eight hours, if not more. How very unfortunate!” He drew a pair of forceps from his pocket and rolled up the dead eyelids delicately. “Mmm! The pupils are slightly contracted—looks as if your diagnosis might be correct, Mr. Lathom. Poisoning of some kind seems indicated. No tablets? Glasses? Anything of that sort?”
I produced the tumbler from under the bedclothes, and explained about the whiskey-bottle.
“Oh, yes. Here, Sergeant—you’d better take charge of these.”