“Yes, sir. The constable happened to recognise Whalley from what he could see of him—I told you he was pretty well known to our men—and knowing that I'd been making inquiries about the fellow, they called me up, and I went down at once.”
“Yes?”
“When I got there, sir,” the Inspector continued, “it didn't take long to see what was what. It was a case of the tourniquet again. Whalley had been strangled, just like the maid at Heatherfield. Quite obvious symptoms: face swollen and congested; tongue swollen, too; eyes wide open and injected a bit, with dilated pupils; some blood on the mouth and nostrils. And when I had a chance of looking for it, there was the mark of the tourniquet on his neck sure enough.”
Flamborough paused, as though to draw attention to his next point.
“I hunted about in the ditch, of course. And there, lying quite openly, was the tourniquet itself. Quite a complicated affair this time; he's evidently improved his technique.”
“Well, what about it?” Sir Clinton demanded rather testily, as though impatient of the Inspector's comments.
“Here it is, sir.”
Flamborough produced the lethal instrument with something of a flourish.
“You see, sir, it's made out of a banjo-string threaded through a bit of rubber tubing. The handles are just bits of wood cut from a tree-branch, the same as before; but the banjo-string and the rubber tube are a vast improvement on the bit of twine he used last time, at Heatherfield. There'd be no chance of the banjo-string breaking under the strain; and the rubber tube would distribute the pressure and prevent the wire cutting into the flesh as it would have done if it had been used bare.”
Sir Clinton picked up the tourniquet and examined it with obvious interest.