“When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?”
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
“The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.”
Hurst turned to me.
“Did the girl hear anything?”
“As far as I know she heard nothing,” I said. “But you had better ask her.”
But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.
All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.
He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinate’s notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
“Everything’s been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,” he said.
“I’ve touched nothing,” said Haydock.
“No more have I,” I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
“Ah!” he said in a tone of triumph. “Here’s what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That’ll give us the time of the crime.