“There's a Bible in the bedroom, Sir Clinton,” Armadale confirmed.
“An uneventful life, apparently,” the chief constable commented, not unkindly. “Now I want to hear something about what sort of man he was. Polite in his manners, you said?”
“Very polite,” Sapcote insisted. “I remembered hearing some visitor once saying that Peter was a natural gentleman, sir.”
“They do exist, here and there, even nowadays,” Sir Clinton admitted. “Now let's come down to dots, constable. I want to get a picture of him in my mind and you seem to have known him well enough to help. Let's see, now. Suppose I'd met him somewhere and offered to come and see him—or that he'd asked me here. What would happen? I suppose I'd knock at the door and he'd come and let me in. Which chair would he give me?”
“Whichever you liked best, sir. They're much the same. If there'd been any difference he'd have given you the best one.”
“Quite so. I'm beginning to see him better. Now go on, constable. He'd have been easy and natural, too, if I can gauge him. He'd just have met me in his shirt-sleeves as he used to meet you? No fuss?”
“He'd have made no fuss, sir. But he'd have put on his jacket for you, you being a strange gentleman coming to his house on a special visit; and perhaps he'd have offered you a cup of tea if the time was right for it.”
“And if it was later in the evening? Some whiskey, if he had any?”
“No, sir. Peter was a strong teetotaller.”
Sir Clinton glanced over the dresser on which all the dishes were neatly stacked.