Giles shook his head. By this time the body had been taken out on a stretcher, and Superintendent Hannasyde, having got rid of the Inspector, was looking thoughtfully at the desk. He turned after a moment and said briskly: “Well, what about it - Mr Holmes? I'm not going to waste any time commiserating with you on the death of your cousin, because I know enough of your family by now to be sure not one of you will feel the slightest regret. What do you make of this?”
“Obviously suicide,” drawled Giles.
“Hmm! I don't think much of you as a detective. Nothing strike you as being a little unusual?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Or does it, and are you hoping it doesn't strike me?”
Giles smiled. “Three things - at first glance.”
“Three?” Hannasyde looked round the room. “Now, I only spotted two. This is interesting. There is first the glass of whisky-and-soda on the desk. I can readily imagine Roger Vereker drinking that prior to shooting himself. What I can't imagine is him pouring it out and leaving it untouched. Secondly — though I don't know that it signifies much - is his position. It struck me so forcibly that I had that photograph taken. He was turned away from his desk. Take a look at the angle of the chair. Why had he shifted it? If he sat at his desk, presumably he had been writing. But he could not have written at it seated almost sideways.”
“That's right,” agreed the Sergeant. “You mean he pulled the chair round a bit to talk to someone else in the room?”
“I think he might have done so.” Hannasyde took out his handkerchief, and with it opened the leather blotter on the desk. A sheet of notepaper lay in it. He picked it up, read it, and handed it to Giles. “Well?” he said.
The letter, written in Roger's untidy scrawl, was dated the day before, and was unfinished.
“Dear Sirs,” it began. “Enclosed please find cheque for £15 6s 3d in payment of your account herewith. I should be glad if you would send me -”
There the brief note ended.