"Oh, my son! It was the very first wild and wool-gatherin' notion I did have, for no reason at all But it won't work. Now the overall height of that clock, includin' platform and fancy top, is six feet And the late lamented?"
"Six feet one inch tall," grunted Masters, with the heaviness of one who has studied much; "and with big bones."
"Right Whereas the chap who's watchin' us," H.M. indicated the clock again, "was a little feller. Five feet five, about Well-proportioned, small bones. Masters, I'll tell you what it is. That's an ordinary medical-school skeleton: varnished, articulated…"
"Meaning strung together with wire?"
"With fine cat-gut, usually. Besides, you couldn’t possibly conceal the injuries to Fleet's head. Who'd want to?"
"Ah, and that's just it What about the skeleton?" exploded Masters. "In all this record-" he brought his hand down slowly on the brief-case—"there's not a word to do with any skeleton in a clock. What's it supposed to mean?"
"I dunno. But an anonymous letter, postmarked Brayle, tells you to examine it Five days later Our Sophie, on instructions from Cicely Fleet waddles up to London to buy it for Dr. Laurier: son of clock's former owner. Don't you find that rather fetchin' and interesting?"
Masters took several paces up and down. The ticking of the clock seemed to trouble him.
"If we had one bit of evidence that this was murder—!"
"Oh, Masters. It was murder. Tell me something about George Fleet"