“Colonel Leach-Fletcher is a client of ours—certainly—I can say nothing as to the alleged recommendation. You can see the letter with the telegram.”
“I will. Anything else?”
“Not very much. The telegram reassured me—Mr. Daventry, my partner, came and had a look over here yesterday—and I had come with similar purpose this morning—only to find this trouble.”
“How did you know, Mr. Linnell?”—Goodall’s voice sounded very distinctly, almost as though he were launching an accusation—“that these three particular objects had been stolen? It seems to me——”
“I didn’t,” replied Linnell in an almost aggrieved manner. “I thought you understood that when I entered. I had no knowledge of it whatever. I only obeyed my instincts.”
“H’m,” grunted the Inspector. “Yes, Doctor?” This last remark was addressed to a gentleman who had come authoritatively down the room.
“The poor fellow’s quite dead, of course. Been dead, I should say, about eight hours when I examined him. Four particularly savage blows on the skull I think—part of the brain actually protruding—whoever did it—meant doing it.”
“Struck from behind, do you think, Doctor?” queried Goodall.
“Very probably—the parietal bone is badly smashed.”
Goodall turned to Day. “What time did this night-watchman come on duty, Mr. Day?”