"If it hit him hard enough to knock him over the edge," Masters pointed but "it must have left a mark or a bruise. But it didn't Finally, there's the evidence of the post-mortem."
Reaching with infinite effort into his hip pocket H.M. fished out a case of his vile cigars and lighted one with relish. He seemed to have little relish for anything else.
"There was a possibility, just a bare possibility," Masters goaded him, "that somebody might have given him a drug— poison, event — to make his head swim so he fell But there was no drug, no poison, nothing."
"As I understand it Masters, the post-mortem was performed by old Dr. Laurier. The family friend So! Was there anybody assistin’ him at the post-mortem? To sort of look on?"
Masters grinned.
"As a matter of fact, there was. A doctor from Newbury. I forget his name, but it's in the record. He confirmed the finding."
"O tempore," said H.M. "O mores. Oh, hell!"
Masters rubbed his hands together.
"Here's your victim," he explained, "on a concrete floor with no person or thing within fifty feet of him. He wasn't pushed. He had nothing thrown at him. He wasn't drugged in any way. What happened to him?"
"Son, I just don't know."