“Haven’t you finished yet?” Mrs. Goodge pointed to Smythe’s plate. “You’ve been playing with that sausage for the past ten minutes. And you, Wiggins, are you goin’ to eat that egg or not?”
“What’s the ruddy ’urry?” Smythe replied. He wasn’t in the best of moods himself. Betsy was still acting like she had a poker up her spine and he hadn’t slept all that well for worrying about it. “We only just set down a few minutes ago.”
Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock. It had barely gone half-past seven. “We’ve plenty of time to enjoy our breakfast, Mrs. Goodge,” she said. “It’s still very early. The inspector won’t be wanting his breakfast for another half hour.”
Betsy reached for another piece of toast. “You’ve been rushin’ us ever since we come down,” she complained. “What’s got into you this morning? Your rheumatism actin’ up again?”
The cook put her hands on her ample hips and frowned. “There’s nothing wrong exceptin’ that I need to get this kitchen cleared. I’ve got my cousin Hilda’s boy comin’ by early and I want to have plenty of time to talk to the lad. He works as footman for a family that lives round the corner from Peter Hornsley.”
“What time is he due?” Mrs. Jeffries asked patiently.
“Half-past eight,” she replied, hurrying over to the oven and opening the door. “But I want to get some things done before he gets here. He’s not the only one coming by today.”
“I suppose all of us have a lot to do today,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she reached for the marmalade.
“I don’t,” Wiggins complained. “Me and Fred ’as got nuthin’ to do but ’ang about ’ere polishin’ the ruddy silver.”
“Not to worry, lad,” Smythe said kindly. “The rest will do you good. But mind you stay out of Mrs. Goodge’s way.”
“Luty said she was sendin’ Essie over with some books for you to read,” Betsy added. “That ought to help keep you occupied.”
“Yeah, but Essie’ll ’ang about for ages,” Wiggins groaned. “I’ll never get rid of ’er.”
“The lass likes ya,” Smythe teased.
Wiggins blushed. Essie was a girl that Luty had taken in after she’d lost her position as a maid. They’d met the girl when they were investigating one of their first cases. Oddly enough, Hatchet had taken the girl under his wing, taught her to read, and there was now talk of sending her off to school somewhere. But that didn’t make her any prettier, Wiggins thought peevishly. Truth to tell, she was homely. He winced guiltily, wondering if the others could see what he was thinking. He really should be ashamed of himself; Essie was a right nice girl. And smart, too, despite the fact that she had teeth that stuck out funny.
“As we’re all getting a fairly early start today,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “why don’t we meet back here at noon?”
Betsy frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that’ll give me enough time. I wanted to talk to the shopkeepers ’round the Hornsley neighborhood and then I wanted to have a go at making contact with someone from the household.”
“After I do the pubs,” Smythe added, “I wanted to talk to the cabbies in the area. You never know what you might stumble across if you get lucky. I’d not like to have to ’urry back just when I’ve got someone talkin’.”
Mrs. Jeffries gazed at them thoughtfully. She was really quite proud. They did take their detecting very seriously. “You’re right. I suppose it’s not a good idea to meet here so early. Why don’t we meet for an early tea before supper?”
“That would be easier on me,” the cook said quickly. “That way I wouldn’t have to worry about fixing a noon meal.”
“What are you goin’ to be doin’ today?” Wiggins asked Mrs. Jeffries. “Maybe I could ’elp you?”
“I’m sorry, Wiggins,” the housekeeper smiled sympathetically. “But I’m meeting Dr. Bosworth.”
“Oh, no,” Betsy cried. “You’re not!”
Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries stared at the maid. “Why shouldn’t I see Dr. Bosworth? With any luck, he’ll have done the postmortem on Hornsley. He might have some valuable information to tell us.”
“But you said we had to be careful,” Betsy argued. “What if Dr. Bosworth mentions you were snoopin’ about?”
“The lass ’as got a point,” Smythe interjected. “We’ve got to be right cautious on this case. It’s not even the inspector’s.”
Mrs. Jeffries frowned thoughtfully. They did have a point. “But I’ve used…” She broke off, appalled at herself for saying such a thing. “I mean,” she amended, “we’ve had help from Dr. Bosworth several times before. I’m sure he’s absolutely trustworthy. Besides, I’ll make sure and tell him to keep my inquiries confidential.”
“Hello, hello,” the voice of Lady Cannonberry came from the back hallway. “Anyone home?”
“We’re in here,” Mrs. Jeffries called.
“Oh, dear,” said Ruth Cannonberry, an attractive middle-aged woman, who blushed to the roots of her blonde hair when she saw she’d interrupted their breakfast. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in as I did.”
“Rest assured,” Mrs. Jeffries said politely, “you’re most welcome at any time. May we offer you some breakfast?”
“I’ve eaten, thank you.” Ruth took a seat beside Wiggins. She reached down and patted Fred on the head. “But I could do with a cup of tea.”
“I’ll get the cup,” Betsy said, getting up and going to the cupboard.
“I’ve missed seeing any of you about the gardens the last day or two. Thank you, Betsy,” she said as the maid set the cup in front of her. “So naturally I thought you must be investigating this dreadful murder.”
“What murder?” Mrs. Jeffries tried to keep her tone as neutral as possible. Blast. How on earth had she found out?
“Why, the one Wiggins told me about yesterday afternoon.” Ruth smiled at the footman. Wiggins’s round cheeks turned red and he slumped down in his seat as all eyes turned on him.
“Oh, that murder,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She shot the footman a glare that would have singed the blackening off an oven.
“I must say I think it’s dreadfully unfair of Scotland Yard to suspect Inspector Witherspoon,” Ruth continued.
“I suppose Wiggins told you that, too,” Betsy said.
“Inspector Witherspoon is not a suspect,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “But because the murderer used his name to get into the victim’s office, naturally, he can’t investigate the case.”
“Does that mean you’re not investigating it?” Ruth asked.
“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries would have straight out lied to her guest, but she was fairly sure she’d get caught. All anyone had to do was watch the household and they could see if they were on a case or not. “Actually, we are investigating this one.”
“Oh, goody,” Ruth clapped her hands together. “I’m so very glad. I was terrified you were going to pass this one up. Now, what can I do to help?”
Constable Barnes felt like a traitor. But duty was duty and he’d been temporarily assigned to assist Inspector Nivens. Translated, that meant the brass was afraid of a right old muck up and they wanted him on the scene to keep Nivens from doing too much damage.
“Do stand still, Constable,” Nivens snapped. “We’re here to ask questions, not to memorize the paintings on Mrs. Hornsley’s wall.”
“Sorry, sir,” Barnes apologized. He drew his gaze away from the pretty oil of a pastoral English meadow. What was he supposed to look at, he wondered, the furniture?
He glanced about the drawing room. There was a marble fireplace on one side, two wide double windows on the wall facing the garden, a thick red and gold fleur-de-lis patterned carpet, and a number of balloon-backed chairs and settees. It was a nice room, elegant and beautifully but unimaginatively decorated. There was cream-colored paint on the walls and bronze velvet drapes framing the windows, fringed shawls on the tables, and several nice pieces of china and silver knicknacks scattered about, but blimey, there wasn’t much to keep a man’s mind occupied.
Finished with his examination of the Hornsley drawing room, Barnes gave Nivens a quick frown. Not stare at paintings? Wasn’t that what they was there for? To be looked at? Nivens was a ruddy fool.
Nivens straightened as they heard footsteps coming down the hall. A tall, slender middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes swept into the room. She was dressed in heavy black mourning clothes that rustled softly as she came toward the two policemen.
Her face was pale, and her lips were bloodless, as though she’d recently been ill. She’d once been a handsome woman, but now there were deeply bracketed age lines etched around her eyes and mouth.
“Mrs. Hornsley,” Nivens stepped forward and gave a slight bow. “Do forgive us for intruding at a time like this, but, unfortunately, there are some questions that must be asked.”
“And you are?” Glynis Hornsley stared at him blankly.
“Inspector Nigel Nivens,” he clicked his heels together. “Scotland Yard. We’re here to ask you a few questions about your late husband.”
Barnes frowned. Inspector Witherspoon didn’t do them poncy little bows or that silly heel clickin’. Who did Nivens think he was—one of the Kaiser’s generals?
Glynis Hornsley nodded. “Yes, I thought you might be coming round. I just didn’t expect it so soon. Peter isn’t even buried yet.”
“We have to do the postmortem on your husband,” Barnes said gently. “That delays things a bit.”
Nivens frowned irritably at the constable. Then he looked pointedly at the settee, but as Mrs. Hornsley was still standing, he could hardly sit down himself. Barnes stifled a grin.
“Mrs. Hornsley,” Nivens began, “what time was your husband due to come home last night?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “He’d been very busy lately and had been working later and later hours.”
“So he didn’t tell you what time to expect him?”
“No, he merely asked for the cook to keep something hot for his dinner and that he’d be home sometime in the evening.”
“I see,” Nivens said.
Barnes couldn’t figure out what Nivens had seen; all they’d learned was that the man was a hard worker and had been puttin’ in a lot of long hours at his office. But as they’d already learned that same information from one of Hornsley’s partners, he didn’t see why Nivens was wasting time covering the same ground.
“Were you here all evening?” Nivens asked.
Good, thought Barnes, now he’s starting to ask some decent questions.
“Yes, I was. I rarely go out in the evenings.” She shrugged. “Peter isn’t very sociable. I’ve learned to entertain myself, Inspector. I read a great deal.”
“Did your husband have any enemies?” Nivens asked.
“Of course he did,” Mrs. Hornsley said. “He wasn’t a particularly agreeable man. There were people in London that loathed him.”
“Who?”
“I can’t give you names,” she said tartly. “Peter didn’t confide his business troubles to me. But I know that some of his competitors hated him.”
“Enough to murder him?” Nivens prodded.
Barnes felt like shaking the man. For God’s sake, there were a dozen or more things he should be askin’. What was wrong with the man? Why wasn’t he askin’ if someone could confirm her whereabouts last night? Why wasn’t he asking who was goin’ to benefit from Hornsley’s death? They already knew that Hornsley’s competitors hated him. They’d gotten that information this morning from his nervous Nellie of a partner, Grady Whitelaw.
“I don’t know about that.” Glynis Hornsley shrugged. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not being very helpful, but this has been a dreadful shock to me.”
“Yes, we can appreciate that,” Nivens said. “Had your husband received any threats to his life?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Hornsley?” Nivens pressed. “Perhaps a staff person he’d sacked, a business rival he’d angered? Anything like that.”
“Inspector, he’s received nothing that I know about in the way of threats,” she said tersely. “As for former staff members, Peter frequently sacked people. He rather enjoyed doing it. But none of them ever threatened him. My husband,” her mouth curled in a sneer as she spoke, “always took great pains to bully those who weren’t able or likely to fight back. He was quite good at picking his victims, you see. He’s been doing it all his life.”
“So you’ve no idea who would have wanted to harm your husband?” Nivens didn’t react at all to the woman’s tone or words. Barnes wondered if they had even registered on the man.
“All I can think is that it’s probably some business rival,” she answered.
Ask her about the note, Barnes silently screamed at Nivens. Ask her about the writing on the ruddy note. Ask her if she’s any idea what VENI might mean.
“Yes, that’s our view as well,” Nivens agreed. “Well, we shan’t bother you further.” He bowed again. “My deepest condolences for your loss.”
Barnes could have spit. How the bloomin’ blue blazes could Nivens have formed any kind of an opinion? He’d not asked enough questions to know anything, let alone that Hornsley was killed by a business rival.
There were plenty of businessmen in the City, and as far as Barnes knew, most of them didn’t get rid of their competition by chokin’ them to death. Furthermore, all you had to do was spend two minutes with the grieving widow and it was as plain as the nose on your face that she hated her husband and wasn’t terribly sorry he was dead.
“Is this the street, then?” Smythe asked.
“Hornsley’s house is the last one at the end,” Betsy replied. She pointed down the row of large Georgian homes on the quiet street. “But I think I’ll nip back up the High Street and see what I can get out of the shopkeepers.”
“No hansoms that I can see,” Smythe muttered. The neighborhood was quiet, elegant, and without the clamor of street traffic. “So maybe I’ll try that pub we passed on the corner. Uh, Betsy, what time you figurin’ on goin’ back?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, looking everywhere but directly at him. “When I get finished, I suppose.”
Smythe felt like he was talking to a stranger. All the way over here, Betsy had been so polite you’d have thought he was the ruddy prince of Wales. What did the girl want? He’d told her the truth, told her that Abigail was just an old friend. But she was actin’ like she’d caught him kissin’ a floozie under the stairs. Women! Who could understand ’em?
He gathered his courage and made one more stab at it. “Do you want me to ’ang about until you get through?” he asked, trying hard to keep his tone casual and matter-of-fact.
Betsy lifted her chin slightly. “I can find my own way home. You don’t have to wait for me. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, not on my account.”
“I know I don’t ’ave to do it,” he shot back, starting to get really narked by her attitude. “But I thought it would be polite to offer seein’ as ’ow we’re both ’ere.”
“Don’t bother.” She shrugged.
“All right, then,” he snapped. “I’ll be off to the pubs. See you this evenin’.”
“Fine.” She retorted, giving him a quick look. “I wouldn’t want to drag you away from the pubs. Maybe your ‘old friend’ will show up.”
With that, she turned and marched down the street, leaving Smythe to glare helplessly at her back.
Constable Barnes’s mood didn’t improve when he accompanied Inspector Nivens back to the offices of Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw. He’d not sat down all morning, his feet hurt, he wanted a cup of tea, and though he’d been taught to respect his superiors, he couldn’t stick Nivens.
The man had finished questioning Mrs. Hornsley and then hadn’t even asked to speak to the servants. How would they ever find out anything about Glynis Hornsley!
She claimed she’d been home during the time of the murder, but ruddy hell, Nivens hadn’t even had the brains to confirm that with the housekeeper. But when Barnes had gently suggested they question the staff to learn more about Mrs. Hornsley, Nivens had sneered at him. Told him that they already knew the killer was a man, and did Constable Barnes think that Mrs. Hornsley had put on a false mustache and gone out to strangle her husband?
Stupid fool. Nivens had been a copper long enough to know the basics. Hadn’t the man ever heard of murder for hire?
Inspector Witherspoon wouldn’t have made a mistake like that! He’d have questioned everyone.
It was that kind of attention to detail that made Witherspoon the genius he was at solving crimes. One little word spoken by a housemaid, one clue discovered by an unexpected question, and Bob’s your uncle. Inspector Witherspoon would find that last piece of the puzzle and before you could snap your fingers, the killer would be facing a judge and jury.
Barnes glanced at Nivens, who was pacing importantly up and down the room of the outer office, his chest puffed out and his hands thrust into his pockets. The constable snorted softly. Silly git. At the rate they were going, Barnes would be ready to retire before they found this killer.
The door to one of the inner offices opened and a clerk stepped out. “Mr. Frampton will see you now,” he said to Nivens.
Nivens and Barnes followed the clerk into the office. George Frampton, a middle-aged portly man with close-cropped blond hair, muttonchop whiskers, and spectacles, rose from behind a desk.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector,” he said. “Please sit down.” He gestured toward the one chair in front of the desk.
“Thank you.” Nivens sat. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Peter Hornsley’s death. We spoke with Mr. Whitelaw earlier today.”
“Have you made any progress in finding the murderer?” Frampton asked. He drummed his fingers on the top of an open ledger. “I must admit, the whole thing has affected me terribly. Dreadful business, absolutely dreadful.”
“Murder always is,” Nivens replied. “Mr. Frampton, Mrs. Hornsley seems to think the killer was probably a business rival of Hornsley’s.”
Frampton’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“You don’t think that’s possible?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Frampton said slowly. He picked up a pen and began twitching it from side to side. “But I don’t believe our firm has any more enemies than any other business. That’s hardly an acceptable way of dealing with one’s competitors.”
At least this one wasn’t a complete idiot, Barnes thought.
“But then again,” Frampton continued, “one never knows.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Mr. Hornsley dead?”
Frampton shrugged. “No.”
Barnes cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Nivens. “But I think I ought to question the clerks, with Mr. Frampton’s permission, of course.”
Nivens gave him a cold, fishlike stare, but as the constable was only doing his proper job, he couldn’t find any grounds for refusing the request. “All right, Barnes,” he looked at Frampton. The man nodded. “But mind you don’t upset the routine,” Nivens warned as Barnes escaped for the door.
Upset the routine, Barnes snorted again. There’d been a bloomin’ murder committed, wasn’t that enough to upset the routine! He wondered how Nivens had ever made it into the detective ranks.
The clerk who’d shown them into the office was sitting at the desk closest to Frampton’s door. “Excuse me,” Barnes said, “but I’d like to ask you a few questions. What’s your name?”
“Hammer, sir. Jonathan Hammer.” He pushed a stack of papers to one side. “But I don’t know what I can tell you. I’d already gone home when Mr. Hornsley was killed.”
“How long have you worked here?” Barnes asked.
“Five years, sir.”
“And on the day of the murder, what time did you leave?” Barnes noticed the other two clerks had given up all pretense of working and were openly eavesdropping.
“I left at half-past five, sir,” Hammer said. “With all the others. The only person left in the office was Mr. Hornsley.”
“Why was Mr. Hornsley working late?”
Hammer shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir. I expect it had something to do with work. But he weren’t one to explain his actions to a clerk.”
Barnes nodded. “Do you know if Mr. Hornsley had any enemies?” Ye Gods, he thought, as soon as the sentence had left his mouth. Now he was doing it. Of course Hornsley had enemies, someone had strangled him.
“Well,” Hammer glanced at Frampton’s door. “Some of our competitors didn’t like him all that much.”
“Tell him about Hilliard,” another clerk hissed. “Tell him what happened last week.”
“Hilliard,” Barnes prompted. “Who’s he?”
“He owns a rival firm,” Hammer explained, his voice rising in excitement. “And he come here last week and accused Mr. Hornsley of trying to run him out of business. Claimed Mr. Hornsley had bribed one of his clerks for information and undercut his rate.”
“Had Mr. Hornsley done that?”
Hammer glanced uneasily toward Frampton’s closed door. “I don’t rightly know. But I think it’s likely.”
“Is that all?” Barnes prompted.
“Tell him about the set-to here in the office,” the other clerk encouraged. “Go on, tell him.”
Barnes waited. Hammer gave the closed door another worried glance and then leaned toward the constable. “Mr. Hilliard come in here last week. He and Mr. Frampton went into Mr. Hornsley’s office. They started out all nice and polite, at least from what we could hear. But before long, Mr. Hilliard was screamin’ like a madman and threatening all sorts of things.”
“What exactly did he threaten?” Barnes asked. He hoped that Nivens was getting this same information out of Frampton, but he doubted it.
“He was goin’ to call his solicitors and sue, then he was goin’ to tell everyone what a blackguard Mr. Hornsley was, finally,” the clerk’s voice dropped, “as he was leaving, he yelled that Mr. Hornsley had better watch his back.”
Mrs. Jeffries took a seat at the table and looked around the crowded tea room. There was no one she recognized and more importantly, no one who would know who she was. She smiled at the waiter and ordered tea for two. A moment later, the door opened and in stepped Dr. Bosworth, an attractive young man of about thirty, with dark red hair and a fair complexion.
He spotted her quickly and threaded his way to her table. “Good day, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, giving her a smile.
“Good day, Dr. Bosworth.” She gestured at a chair. “Won’t you sit down? I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea.”
“Thank you,” he sat down. “I haven’t much time but as your note said it was a matter of some urgency, I decided to see you.”
“I think you know why I asked you to come,” she said. She’d decided not to beat about the bush. Dr. Bosworth had helped them with several other cases and his opinions had proved invaluable.
“Indeed I do,” he replied. He broke off as the waiter brought them tea and cakes. Mrs. Jeffries poured. “You want to ask me what I know about the Hornsley murder.”
“Right. I was hoping you might have done the postmortem.” She picked up her own cup and took a sip.
“No such luck,” Dr. Bosworth sighed. “Potter did that one.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries was disappointed. Dr. Potter was a plodding, unimaginative, and rather stupid man who could barely distinguish a bullet hole from a stab wound. “How unfortunate.”
“How tactful you are.” Bosworth laughed. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jeffries. As soon as I heard the circumstances of the killing, I nipped over to the morgue and had a look-see for myself.”
She brightened immediately. “And what did you conclude?”
“Actually,” Bosworth said slowly, “I concluded the same thing that Potter had. The victim was struck on the back of the head and then strangled with a house tie.”
“A house tie?”
“Yes.” Bosworth reached for a fairy cake. “Knowing how very interested you are in getting all the details straight, when I got a good look at the actual murder weapon, I realized it was a school tie. Then I got curious so I made a few discreet inquiries on my own. Voilà, it wasn’t just a school tie, but a house tie.”
“Bravo, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries beamed approvingly. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
He laughed again. “I daresay, it was probably because of my acquaintance with you that got me started in this whole business. I am, after all, just a doctor. But I must admit, your little adventures and my small part in them does seem to have had some influence on me. Anyway, as I was saying, I made some inquiries when I saw the murder weapon. Curious object for a killer to use.”
“What did you find out?” she asked eagerly.
“The tie is from a public school near Oxford,” he explained. “One of those especially hideous places where we send our male children to be systematically tortured between the ages of seven and eighteen.”
Surprised at the vehemence in his voice, she stared at him. “Why, Dr. Bosworth, am I to take that to mean that you don’t approve of our education system?”
“I think it’s barbaric,” he said with feeling. “Stupid, ridiculous, and utterly absurd. Having been a victim of a particularly loathsome school myself, I know what I’m talking about.” Shaking his head in disgust, he leaned back in his chair. “If I ever have children, I’ll never send them away to school. I’ll keep them at home and let them go to a good day school, like the Americans do. You know I spent quite a bit of time in America?”
She did know. It was because of his time in San Francisco and the proliferation of violent deaths in that city that had given them a valuable clue in the first case he’d helped them on. “Yes, I remember you mentioned that.”
“I know everyone likes to think the Americans are uneducated barbarians, but it’s not true. The Americans don’t send their children off to school to be tortured the way we do in this country. Not that they’re perfect, of course, but they aren’t quite the country bumpkins we like to think they are. And I didn’t notice that their young men were any stupider for having been deprived of the fagging system. As far as I could tell, they were perfectly able to read and write and think.”
“I’m quite sure you’re right.”
“But that’s beside the point.” He waved a hand dismissively. “As I was saying, the tie is from a public school. Packards.”
“Do you know what house?” she asked hopefully.
“It took a bit of doing, but I managed,” he grinned. “It’s from Langley House.”
“Goodness, Doctor, you are resourceful.”
“Thank you.” He reached for a cake. “I do try.”
“Was there anything else you learned about the victim that might be important?”
Bosworth chewed thoughtfully. “There are virtually no signs of a struggle. Once the poor fellow was coshed, the killer had a clear field. Hornsley didn’t struggle with his murderer. There are no bruises on the hands, and the ligature around the neck is absolutely straight.”
“I suppose then that the killer probably thought he’d killed Hornsley with the blow to his head and when he realized he hadn’t, he must have used the tie at that point,” she mused. Her expression was thoughtful. “Apparently our killer is a very careful man. He brought along a second weapon in case the first didn’t work.”
“I suspect the murderer didn’t plan on the blow doing anything except what it actually did,” Bosworth replied. “The blow wasn’t hard enough to kill, only to stun.”
“Then why not just strangle the victim in the first place?” Mrs. Jeffries queried.
“Because Hornsley was a good-sized man,” Bosworth explained. “Unless the murderer were very lucky, very tall, or very strong, he had to stun him with something. Even with a tie choking your windpipe, a man could still defend himself. Besides,” he waved a hand in the air. “Head wounds bleed something awful. That’s fairly common knowledge. If he’d kept bashing the man’s head in, the killer would have been covered with blood.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Apparently our killer thought it out most carefully.”
“And you must admit, an old tie is a perfectly marvelous way to kill someone,” Bosworth continued. “It’s one of those things that no one even misses from a household. Why, I’ve no idea where my old school ties have gone. Into the rubbish bin, I hope.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry. It sounds as though your school days were terrible.”
“They were hideous,” he agreed. “Do you know, I still loathe one of the boys who used to bully me. I ran into the chap a while back, he’d grown into a rabbity sort of fellow. Came up and tried to shake my hand. I could barely bring myself to be polite to the man.”
“Sometimes the things of childhood are the most difficult to let go of,” she suggested gently. “I suppose it’s because as children we have so little power or control over our lives.”
“You’re helpless when you’re a child,” Bosworth said slowly, his expression troubled. “I was quite ashamed of my reaction to Pomfret. I’m sure he’d no idea why I was so rude. But I couldn’t help myself.” He suddenly straightened and smiled ruefully. “But I survived. It’s a wretched system, though. Can’t think why we still have it.”
“I rather agree with you,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Do you have any idea what the killer used to strike the blow?”
Bosworth dropped his gaze and stared at the half-eaten cake on his plate. “I’m not really sure,” he mumbled. “I mean, it’s almost impossible to tell…”
She knew he was hiding something. Dr. Bosworth was very intelligent, very observant, and not in the least afraid of educated guesses.
“But surely you’ve some idea,” she pressed. “The wound must have been a certain size, a certain shape, a…”
He sighed. “Mrs. Jeffries, you know that many physicians don’t believe you can tell much by examining wounds.”
“I also know that you’re not one of them,” she argued. “You identified the kind of weapon that was used to kill that American last year merely by examining the bullet wound.”
“Yes, but that was just a guess and my statement wouldn’t have stood up in a court of law.”
“Nevertheless, you were right,” she said firmly. “So please, tell me what you think could have been used.”
He hesitated for a moment, then came to a decision. Squaring his shoulders he looked her straight in the eye. “The blow didn’t actually crack the victim’s skull, but it was hard enough to leave a strong indention.”
“And that means you know the general shape of the object that made the wound,” she said. “Correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. But remember, there are a variety of objects of the same shape and size and weight that could cause the kind of indention that I observed.”
Mrs. Jeffries thought he was hedging. “I understand that. As you said, Doctor, you’re not in the witness box. All I want is an educated guess.”
“The wound was rounded and approximately two and a half inches in diameter.”
She waited.
He took a deep breath. “It could well have been done by a police truncheon. As a matter of fact, I borrowed one from one of the constables and placed it against the victim’s skull. It was a perfect fit.”