“No,” he said at last. “I don't see much use in that. The body's lying quite naturally, isn't it?”
“It looks like it; but one never knows.”
Sir Clinton's fingers went mechanically to his waistcoat pocket.
“No chalk, you said, inspector?”
“No, I haven't any.”
“Ah, and yet some people tell you that playing pool is a waste of time; and that the habit of chalking your cue and then pocketing the chalk is reprehensible. We now confound them.”
He produced a cube of billiard-chalk as he spoke and, taking out a penknife, trimmed the paper away.
“Just chalk around the outline of the body, please, inspector. This paved path will show the marks excellently. If we need the marks later on, we can always lay some boards over them to keep the rain off.”
While the inspector, obviously much against the grain, was chalking his lines, Sir Clinton turned to the constable.
“Perhaps you could give us some help, constable. Did you know Peter Hay?”