Ascending the servants’ staircase, Sir Clinton made his way to the valet’s room. The door was locked; but when Sir Clinton tapped gently, a constable opened it and looked out. At the sight of the Chief Constable, he stood aside.
“He’s been murdered, sir,” the man explained in a whisper.
“I guessed it might be that,” Sir Clinton returned.
“Whoever did it must have chloroformed him first,” the constable went on. “There was a pad of cotton-wool over his face; and his throat’s cut.”
The Chief Constable nodded in comprehension.
“That would prevent any sounds,” he said. “Brackley was a first-class planner, there’s no doubt.”
The constable continued his explanation.
“We came up here as you told us, sir; and when we heard your whistle we slipped into the room, expecting to arrest him according to your orders. But he was dead by that time. It was quite clear that he’d been murdered only a short time before. Your orders didn’t cover the case, so we thought the best thing to do was to lock the door and wait till you came back. You’d said we were to keep him here till your return, anyhow; so that seemed to be the best course.”
“Quite correct,” Sir Clinton commended them. “You couldn’t have done better. Now you’ll need to wait here till morning. Keep the door locked, and don’t let any word of this affair get abroad. I’ll see about removing the body in due course. Until then, I don’t want any alarm on the subject.”
He stepped across the room, examined the body on the bed, and then, with a nod to the constables, he went downstairs once more.