“This fellow was searched, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Nothing on him but the pistol, and we took that away.”
Sir Clinton turned back to Costock.
“You can go now; but you’ll have to stay in the village for a day or two. You’ll be wanted at the inquest. I may as well tell you that you’ll be watched, so it’s no use trying to bolt.”
He dismissed the Ex-I.D.B. with scant ceremony; handed his dog over to the care of the constable with orders to take it to the Grange; and then went down the steps to Wendover’s car.
Chapter VI.
The Toxicologist
“The next port of call, Squire, will be Dr. Ardsley’s,” Sir Clinton informed his companion as they seated themselves in the car. “And you can put a bit of hurry into it, if you like.”
Wendover’s appearance had earned him the kindly nickname which the Chief Constable used. He was one of those red-faced, hearty country gentlemen who, on first acquaintance, give an entirely erroneous impression of themselves. Met casually, he might quite easily have appeared to be a slightly fussy person of very limited intellect and even more restricted interests; but behind that façade lived a fairly acute brain which took a certain sly delight in exaggerating the misleading mannerisms. Wendover was anything but a fool, though he liked to pose as one.
“All right,” he said, as the pace of the car increased. “It won’t take long to get there. But what do you know about Ardsley? Never mentioned him to you, so far as I can remember.”
“Well, don’t put off any longer. Tell me something about him now,” suggested Sir Clinton. “All I know is that he’s an expert in poisons or something of that sort.”