“Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.”
“I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have stabbed a dead man?”
“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence, and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.”
“But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.”
“Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.”
“What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?”
“No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.”
“And, apart from that, what was he like?”
“I got on well with him; but there were many who did not. A tough customer, hard in business and not ready in making friends.”
“What terms was he on with his family—with Mr. George Brooklyn, for instance?”