“I think you’re injudicious, Mr. Chacewater,” he said in a tone which he was evidently striving not to make threatening. “I know you didn’t arrive by the first train this morning, though you told us you did. Your position’s rather an awkward one, if you think about it.”
“You can’t bluff me, Inspector,” Cecil returned. “Make your charge, and I’ll know how to answer it. If you won’t make a charge, I don’t propose to help you with a fishing inquiry.”
The Inspector glanced at Sir Clinton’s face, and on it he read quite plainly the Chief Constable’s disapproval of his proceedings. He decided to go no further for the moment. Sir Clinton intervened to make the situation less strained.
“Would you mind looking at him, Cecil, and formally identifying him?”
Cecil came forward rather reluctantly, knelt down beside his brother’s body, examined the clothes, and finally, removing the handkerchief, gazed for a moment or two at the shattered face. The shot had entered the right side of the head and had done enough damage to show that it had been fired almost in contact with the skin.
Cecil replaced the handkerchief and rose to his feet. For a few moments he stood looking down at the body. Then he turned away.
“That’s my brother, undoubtedly.”
Then, as if speaking to himself, he added in a regretful tone:
“Poor old Chuchundra!”
To the Inspector’s amazement Sir Clinton started a little at the word.