Godfrey Palliser drummed on the chair arm with his fingers. “There will be an inquest, and as I am, most unfortunately in this case, a magistrate, Sergeant Stitt thought it fit to consult with me. He has suspicions that there has been foul play.”
“Stitt is a meddlesome idiot,” said Tony. “It seemed quite evident to me that Davidson struck his head when he fell off the bridge.”
The elder man made a gesture of negation. “Unfortunately he left his gun behind him. There was a dent on one barrel, and Stitt fancied that the grass round the spot where he found it had been trampled. That, and the condition of Davidson’s clothing, points to a scuffle.”
Tony gasped, for he had not expected this. “There is not a man in the neighborhood who would have injured Davidson,” he said.
Godfrey Palliser flashed a quick glance at him. “Do you know when Bernard left the hall the night before it happened?”
Tony braced himself with an effort. “I don’t quite remember, sir.”
“Then I can tell you. It was a few minutes after eleven, and he took the path to the footbridge. When he came back his clothes were muddy.”
Tony sat still a moment, horribly conscious that Godfrey Palliser was watching him. Then he broke out: “It’s wholly impossible, sir, unutterably absurd! Nobody would kill a man without the least motive.”
Godfrey Palliser’s face grew a trifle grimmer. “There may have been a motive. Lucy Davidson was pretty, and, I understand, vain and flighty, while she disappeared, I think, a little too suddenly. You will remember when Bernard was last here.”
Tony stood up, with a dampness on his face and his hands trembling. “Good Lord, sir, you can’t believe that!” he said. “Bernard never had any failings of the kind. It must”—and Tony gasped and stared round the room—“have been poachers. You will remember Evans said Davidson had gone out to look for somebody who had been laying snares.”