“Of course,” the inspector assented. “We phoned to the house at once, and I gather she was informed of the death, not of course of the cause, by a relative who was there—a Mr. Collyer, a clergyman. I shall go round to see her when I have finished here. I hear that she collapsed altogether on hearing of her loss.”
“Poor thing! Poor thing!” the doctor murmured. “Well, inspector, I shall hold myself at your disposal.”
Left alone, the inspector looked over his notes once more and then sounded the electric bell twice. One of his subordinates opened the door at once.
“Tell Moore and Carter to take the names and addresses of all the clients. Verify them on the phone and then allow them to go home. If any of them are not capable of verification, have them shadowed. Now send John Walls to me.”
The clerk did not keep Inspector Furnival waiting. He came in hesitatingly, dragging his feet like a man who has had a stroke. His face was colourless, his eyes were dark with fear.
“You sent for me, inspector?” he said, his teeth chattering as if with ague.
“Naturally!” the inspector assented, glancing at him keenly. “I want to hear all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death. But, first, has Amos Thompson returned?”
“N—o!” quavered Walls.
“Can you account for his absence in any way?” the inspector questioned shortly.
“No, I have no idea where he is,” Walls answered, gathering up his courage. “But then he is the managing clerk. I am not. I very seldom know anything of his work.”