She led the way, grumbling under her breath, to the top of the basement stairs. Hannasyde nodded to the Sergeant, and himself remained on the doorstep, keeping a strategic eye on the area.
No reply was made to the landlady's imperative knock on the door of the basement room, nor was any sound audible.
"Funny. He don't generally go to bed early," remarked the landlady, renewing her assault upon the door. "I daresay he's gone out again. Well, I hope you're satisfied, that's all."
Just a moment, sister!" said the Sergeant, pushing her aside. "No objection to my having a look round, have you?"
He turned the handle as he spoke. The door opened, and he groped for the light-switch. "Looks as though you're right," he remarked, stepping into the room.
But the landlady was not right. Charlie Carpenter had not gone out. He was lying fully dressed across the bed that was pushed against the wall opposite the door, and he was, as the Sergeant saw at a glance, dead.
The landlady, peeping over the Sergeant's shoulder, gave a piercing shriek, and cowered away from the door into the gloom of the passage.
"Shut up!" said the Sergeant curtly. He walked across the room, and bent over the tumbled body, feeling its hands. They were quite warm.
Hannasyde's voice sounded on the stairs. "Anything wrong, Hemingway?" he called.
The Sergeant went to the door. "We're just a bit too late, Chief, that's what's wrong," he said. "You come and see."