Reggie Fortune rose. “I had better see her,” he said sadly. “A wearing world, Lomas. Come on. My car’s outside.”
Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigour of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle—remark the stained, scorched flesh—must have been held close to her face when the shot was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. “Yes, yes. All very clear, isn’t it? A straight case.” He drew the sheet over the body and paid compliments to the doctor as they went out.
Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. “There’s nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.”
“No sort of doubt?” said Lomas.
“You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You’ll get nothing else.”
And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, thank God!” said Mr. Fortune as the little town ran by.
Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?” he said.
“There are also other little questions,” Reggie murmured. “Why did she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try to murder the child?”
Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you know she did?” he said in a low voice. “You’re making very sure.”
“Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard isn’t brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the murders? Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found that out yet?”