H.M. groaned.
"Let's sew it up," suggested Masters. "The 'little ledge' Puckston talks about is a stone coping, just six inches high, which runs round the whole roof. You agree nobody could have hidden there? Or, if we accept the witnesses, attacked a big powerful man without some kind of struggle?"
"Uh-huh. I'm afraid I got to agree.’’
"You admit the fact that the roof was as bare as a biscuit-tin.”
"Well..”
"Sir George's injuries, for instance.’' Masters remained affable and bland, if anything more affable. "They were to the head, the arms, and one shoulder. That's not unusual, when somebody pitches from a comparatively low height There wasn't another fracture or another mark on him. Not even," Masters lingered on the word, "a bruise.’’
H.M. made fussed motions.'
"Don't leer. Masters. I hate leerin’. What's on your mind?"
"You were going to ask, weren't you, whether there was a bruise? Whether something might have been thrown or fired at him? Eh?"
H.M. only grunted.