Re Sir George Fleet: evidence of murder is still there.
"Lummy!" breathed Masters. "I've seen some scatty messages in my time, but this beats the lot." He squared himself, "Now I’ll just take each point, sir; This clock, to begin with."
Both of them, in the old room hung with hunting prints, surveyed the tall clock. Standing eater-cornered in its southeast angle, its gilt hands and numerals faintly shining, the glass dial conveyed an impression that the skull had its chin tilted up so that the skull could see better. Like Martin Drake, Masters experienced the illusion that the tick-tick of the mantelpiece clock issued out of that dead case. It made Masters uncomfortable, which in his staid soul he resented.
"Sir," he demanded, "what's wrong with that clock?"
"Nothin'," H.M. answered simply.,
"What's wrong with the skeleton?"
"Nothin'."
"Then why in lum's name do you want to bring it down here and stick it up in a bar-parlour?"
"Because, son, I can't do everything at once. I want to take that blighter out of his case—" H.M. pointed to the skeleton— "and put him on a table, and examine him thoroughly. I dunno who he is, son. But I can tell you who he's not. He's not Sir George Fleet"
"Oh, ah!" muttered Masters, with a sideways look. "So you thought of that?’