“I must thank you for your assistance,” Sir Clinton pursued. “You understand, of course, that there are one or two formalities which need to be gone through. The body will have to be removed for a post mortem examination, I'm afraid; and Inspector Flamborough will need to go through your nephew's papers to see if anything in them throws light on this affair. He can do that now, if you have no objections.”
Old Hassendean seemed rather taken back by this.
“Is that necessary?”
“I'm afraid so.”
The old man's face bore all the marks of uneasiness at this decision.
“I'd rather avoid it if possible,” he grumbled. “It's not for use in Court, is it? I shouldn't like that, not by any means. To tell you the truth, sir,” he continued in a burst of frankness, “we didn't get on well, he and I; and it's quite on the cards that he may have said—written, I mean—a lot of things about me that I shouldn't care to have printed in the newspapers. He was a miserable young creature, and I never concealed my opinion about him. Under his father's will, he had to live in my house till he was twenty-five, and a pretty life he led me, sir. I suspect that he may have slandered me in that diary he used to keep.”
“You'd better make a note about that diary, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested in a tone which seemed to indicate that Flamborough must be discreet. “You needn't trouble yourself too much about it, Mr. Hassendean. Nothing in it will come out in public unless it bears directly on this case; I can assure you of that.”
The drysalter recognised that this was final; but he could hardly be described as giving in with a good grace.
“Have it your own way,” he grunted crossly.
Sir Clinton ignored this recrudescence of temper.