Flamborough examined them and reported that all the catches were on. Then he gazed up and down the room inquisitively.
“Looking for bullet-holes?” Sir Clinton questioned. “Quite right. But you won't find any.”
“I like to be certain about things, sir.”
“So do I, Inspector. So does Dr. Ringwood, if you remember. Well, you can be certain of one thing. If two shots had been fired in here this evening, and if all the windows had been left closed as they are now, then I'd have smelt the tang of the powder in the air when we came in. I didn't. Ergo, no shots were fired in this room. Whence it follows that it's no use hunting for bullet-holes. Does that chain of reasoning satisfy you, Inspector?”
Flamborough made a gesture of vexation.
“That's true enough,” he confessed. “I ought to have thought of it.”
“I think we've got the main points, now, so far as this room itself goes,” Sir Clinton observed, without paying any heed to the Inspector's annoyance. “Would you mind examining the body, doctor, just to confirm your view that he was shot in the lung?”
Dr. Ringwood assented and, crossing over, he subjected young Hassendean's body to a careful scrutiny. A few minutes sufficed to prove that the only wounds were those in the chest; and when the doctor had satisfied himself that his earlier diagnosis was correct, he turned to the Chief Constable.
“There's no certainty without a P.M., of course, but from the way the bullets have gone in, it's pretty obvious that the shots took effect on the left lung. There's very little external bleeding, apparently; and that rather looks as if one of the intercostal arteries may be involved. He must have bled a lot internally, I suspect. Probably the P.M. will confirm that.”
Sir Clinton accepted the verdict without demur.