Across the bottom of the table face downwards, the right arm hanging limply over the side, lay Gerry Prescott. He lay partly on his right shoulder, and it was easy to see how he had met his death. A dagger had been driven fast into the base of his neck, at the top of the spinal cord.
The shock hit us all hard, and the chatter of the girls, querulous and interrogative, although just outside the door, seemed vaguely distant.
Marshall, the maid, who had given the alarm, stood shaking against the wall, her affrighted eyes staring at the body of poor Prescott.
“Get back to your room, Marshall,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll see you again later.” His ordinary pomposity of manner seemed to have deserted him.
“What can we do, sir?” said Arkwright.
“He’s past all earthly help,” muttered Anthony.—“Been dead, I should say, some hours.”
“Terrible, terrible, in my house too,” went on the old man. “I shall never....”
“May I suggest, sir, that perhaps Jack and Arkwright should get a doctor and the police here, as quickly as possible?” said Bathurst.
“Yes, yes, my boys, excellent!”
“And of course we must touch nothing. Look!” He pointed round the room. Then went and whispered in Sir Charles’s ear.