“No, we can’t do that. I will inform the magistrate that there is—er—a corpse in the wood. No doubt he will attend to it.”
“Yes, but I don’t wish to run away, you know,” Piers objected. “It is the most devilish, awkward situation, but of course I don’t dream of leaving you to—to explain it all to the magistrate. I shall have to say that it was I who found the body.”
Sir Richard, who knew that the affair was one of extreme delicacy, and who had been wondering for several minutes in what way it could be handled so as to spare the Brandons as much humiliation as possible, did not feel that the entry of Piers Luttrell into the proceedings would facilitate his task. He cast another of his searching looks over the young man, and said: “Your doing so would serve no useful purpose, I believe. You had better leave it to me.”
“You know something about it!”
“Yes, I do. I am on terms of—er—considerable intimacy with the Brandons, and I know a good deal about Beverley’s activities. There is likely to be a peculiarly distasteful scandal arising out of this murder.”
Piers nodded. “I was afraid of that. You know, sir, he was not at all the thing, and he knew some devilish odd people. A man came up to the house, enquiring for him only yesterday—a seedy sort of bully: I dare say you may be familiar with the type. Beverley did not like it above half, I could see.”
“Were you privileged to meet this man?”
“Well, I saw him: I didn’t exchange two words with him. The servant came to tell Beverley that a Captain Trimble had called to see him, and Beverley was so much put out that I—well, I fear I did rather wonder what was in the wind.”
“Ah!” said Sir Richard. “The fact that you have met Trimble may—or may not—prove useful. Yes, I think you had better go home, and say nothing about this. No doubt the news of Beverley’s death will be conveyed to you tomorrow morning.”
“But what shall I tell the constable, sir?”