“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Put it back as near as you can. Ready with that flashlight, Thompson?”
Constable Dickenson did not care much for the task allotted him, but he went up at once to the body and raised it to the original position, and carefully laid one arm across the stiffening legs. The Inspector watched him in silence, and, when he stepped back at last, made a sign to the photographer.
By the time the photographer had finished his work the police ambulance had arrived, and a light was turned on in one of the windows of an adjacent cottage. The Inspector cast a shrewd glance up at the window and said curtly: “Right. You can take him out now. Careful how you touch that bar! We may get a finger-print.”
The bar of the stocks was raised, the body lifted out and carried to the ambulance, just as the lighted window was thrown up and a tousled head poked out. A ghoulishly expectant voice called out: “What's the matter? Has there been an accident? Anybody hurt?”
“Just a bit of an accident, Mrs Duke,” replied Constable Dickenson. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
The head was withdrawn, but the voice could be heard adjuring one Horace to get up quick, because the police were outside with an ambulance and all.
“What I know of this village, we'll have a whole pack of busybodies here inside of ten minutes,” said the Inspector, with a grim little smile. “All right, you men: mortuary. Now then, Dickenson , lets here what you can tell us. When did you discover the body?”
“By my reckoning, sir, it would be about ten minutes to two. It was just on two when I rung up the Station, me having been out on patrol.”
“You didn't see anyone here? No car? Didn't hear anything?”