“Quite dead!” said Mr Girtle.
“Yes. Rigor mortis has set in.”
“Suicide?”
“Suicide, sir? Oh, bless my soul, no.”
“But that weapon?”
“Yes, some one had an awful cut with that, I should say,” continued the doctor, and the constable mentally drew a line from the kukri to the open window, out on to the leads, and down into the mews.
“What has caused his death?”
“I cannot tell you yet,” said the doctor. “Hold the light here, closer, please. Hah, that is the mark of a blow on the arm. There is this wound on the chin, and on the neck. Hah! Yes, this seems more likely. There has been a tremendous blow dealt here on the head—but no fracture, I think—sort of blow a life-preserver would give; but, really, I cannot account so far for his death. Unless—What is this peculiar odour?”
“I told you,” said Capel, pointing to the bed.
“No, I don’t mean that,” said the doctor quickly. “I mean this about here. Can you see any bottle?”