“Dear, dear! Well, the girl’s well out of it. Hullo! there’s the ’phone. Who on earth—? Some damned thing at the Yard, I suppose. At three ack emma! Who’d be a policeman?—Yes?—Oh!—right, I’ll come round. The case has gone west, Peter.”
“How?”
“Suicide. Strangled herself with a sheet. I’d better go round, I suppose.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“An evil woman, if ever there was one,” said Parker, softly, as they looked at the rigid body, with its swollen face and the deeper, red ring about the throat.
Wimsey said nothing. He felt cold and sick. While Parker and the Governor of the prison made the necessary arrangements and discussed the case, he sat hunched unhappily upon his chair. Their voices went on and on interminably. Six o’clock had struck some time before they rose to go. It reminded him of the eight strokes of the clock which announce the running-up of the black and hideous flag.
As the gate clanged open to let them out, they stepped into a wan and awful darkness. The June day had risen long ago, but only a pale and yellowish gleam lit the half-deserted streets. And it was bitterly cold and raining.
“What is the matter with the day?” said Wimsey. “Is the world coming to an end?”
“No,” said Parker, “it is the eclipse.”