"What was Miss Puckston's body lying on, sir? On the floor, or on anything else, like?"
"She was lying," Stannard pressed his hands over his eyes, "on a fairly large travelling-robe or lap-robe, plaid in colour, with each corner rather twisted up. As though…"
"Ah! As though somebody'd twisted the ends together like a parcel, and carried her there?"
"I can't be expected to answer that"
"Just so. Still—!" Honey flowed in Masters's heavy voice. "Didn't you investigate any blood-spots in the mortuary?"
Stannard stared straight ahead.
There was a door in the mortuary," he replied, "which led out into a big fan-shaped garden, with a prison wing on each side and a spiked wall at the end. It was on the side of the condemned cell. There was a white moving mist. The garden had gone to ruin, but it was overrun with flowers. Red, blue, yellow; I don't know their names.
"Yes, yes, I went out there! In a square patch of grass there was a scuffed space where the travelling-rug may have been placed. That was the way Hessler must have gone."
"Who's this 'Hessler' you keep mentioning?"
"A mutilating murderer."