“Good evening, Dr. Ringwood,” the Chief Constable greeted him. “I think we've managed to get here at the time I promised, though it was a difficult business with all this fog about.”
He turned to introduce his companion.
“This is Inspector Flamborough, doctor. He's in charge of the case. I'm merely here as an onlooker. I've given him the facts, so far as I know them from you; but I expect that he may wish further information if you have any.”
At Sir Clinton's words, the mouth under Inspector Flamborough's tooth-brush moustache curved in a smile, half-friendly and half-inscrutable. Simultaneously, he seemed to be establishing good relations with the doctor and appreciating some obscure joke in the Chief Constable's remarks.
“It's very lucky you're a medical man, sir. Death's all in the day's work with you and me; neither of us is likely to be put off our balance by it. Most witnesses in cases of this sort get so confused by the shock that it's difficult to squeeze any clear story out of them. A doctor's different.”
Dr. Ringwood was not particularly susceptible to flattery, but he recognised that the Inspector probably was voicing his real sentiments. All three of them were experts in death, and among them there was no need to waste time in polite lamentations. None of them had ever set eyes on the victim before that night, and there was no object in becoming sentimental over him.
“Sit down, doctor,” Sir Clinton broke in, after a glance at the medical man's face. “You look as if you were about tired out. This 'flu epidemic must be taking it out of you.”
Dr. Ringwood did not wait to be asked twice. Sir Clinton followed his example, but the Inspector, pulling a notebook from his pocket, prepared to open his investigation.
“Let's see, now, doctor,” he began pleasantly. “I'd like to start from the beginning. You might tell us just how you happened to come into the business; and if you can give us some definite times, it'll be a great help.”
Dr. Ringwood nodded, but seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying: