"Last night at Pentecost," Masters interrupted, "she was stabbed through the heart and (hurrum!) pretty badly mutilated. What's more, for a fair-to middling certainty, she was killed with that dagger your crowd found in the condemned cell."
For some time nobody spoke.
To Martin, Enid Puckston was only a name, not even a person to be visualized. Yet the ugliness and brutality struck through. At this ppint, too, he became aware that Masters was speaking not for information, but for effect; that the corner of Masters's eye had caught Ruth and Stannard over there by the billiard-room. Martin shook his head to clear it
"Stabbed and mutilated," he repeated. Then he looked up. "Was she—r?’
Masters now spoke almost blandly.
"No, sir. She wasn't violated, if that's what you mean. Or any attempt like it Might have been anybody's crime. Might have been—" here Martin could have sworn the Chief Inspector was about to say 'man or woman,' but checked himself—"might have been anybody who'd got what they call a strong sadistic nature. With their flummy talk nowadays," he added.
"Where was she found?"
"Ah! As to that, now!"
Straightening up, with an air of surprise and grave welcome, Masters turned round in the direction of Ruth and Stannard.
"Evening, miss! Evening, sir!" he intoned, as though he had just seen them. "Didn't notice you in the dark. I'd be glad to have a bit of a chat with both of you, if it's convenient"