“Quite right. And I suppose I can get hold of this youngster—Colby's his name, isn't it?—any time I need him?”
Rafford gave him the boy's address, which he took down in his note-book.
“Anything else you can think of that might be useful?” he inquired, putting the book back into his pocket.
The doctor shook his head.
“Nix. I suppose the coroner will want a look in?”
“I expect so,” Armadale replied.
He glanced at Wendover and Sir Clinton to indicate that he now left the field to them. Wendover took advantage of the tacit permission.
“You didn't see anything that suggested poison, did you?” he asked the doctor.
Rafford's faint smile put an edge on his reply:
“I believe I said that if it hadn't been for the marks on the wrists, I'd have certified congestion of the brain. I don't think poison marks the wrists.”