“Perhaps. And yet there was nothing of it in his father. Or in his cousin Herbert.”
“Cousin Herbert. Yes. What about Cousin Herbert?”
Dr. Newton laughed. “Frankly, Mr. Fortune, you baffle me. Because there is nothing about Herbert. A very worthy young man, no doubt, but colourless, quite colourless.” Reggie nodded. “No.” Dr. Newton pursued his own train of thought. “In my own speculations on the affair—this most deplorable affair—I find myself continually confronted by an unknown quantity, a mysterious entity, Geoffrey’s Italian wife.”
“Ah, there you have it,” said the divisional surgeon heartily.
Reggie looked at them, nodded, and without more talk led the way to the body. It did not occupy him long. Two wounds had sufficed to make an end of Stephenson Charlecote. One in the throat, which had pierced the carotid artery; one in the chest, which had reached the heart.
Superintendent Bell, in attendance from Scotland Yard, produced the weapon found by the body—a long, thin dagger or stiletto, obviously capable of causing the wounds, obviously Italian in origin.
Reggie finished his examination and turned to the two doctors, who were waiting on him reverently. “Anything in particular occur to you, gentlemen?”
“Quite straightforward, I think.” The divisional surgeon shrugged. “Technically speaking, a very neat bit of work.”
“I would go even further,” said Dr. Newton. “The crime seems to have been committed with remarkable skill and determination.”
“The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin,” Reggie murmured. “Yes. Touched the spot every time.”