Armadale apparently realised that Rafford was not the sort of person who could be bluffed easily. He tried a fresh line.
“When do you think the death took place?”
The doctor considered for a moment.
“It's no good giving you a definite hour,” he said. “You know as well as I do how much the symptoms vary from case to case. I think it's quite on the cards that he died some time about the middle of the night or a little earlier. But you couldn't get me to swear to that in the box, I warn you.”
“I've often heard it said,” the inspector commented in a disconsolate tone, “that you scientific people make the worst witnesses. You never will say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ plainly like ordinary people. You're always hedging and qualifying.”
“Had a training in accuracy, I expect,” Rafford replied. “We don't feel inclined to swear to things until we're convinced about them ourselves.”
Armadale evidently decided not to pursue the subject further.
“What about the body?” he asked.
“I sent Sapcote up to look after it—the village constable. He's up at Foxhills now. If it was to be left for your examination somebody had to be there to see it wasn't disturbed.”
The inspector nodded approvingly.