“Who found this man?” he asked quickly.
The ploughman came forward, with evident distaste.
“I did, sir!” he answered. “James Hobbs—work at Mr. Marrow’s.”
“When—and how?” asked the Chief Constable.
“About an hour ago, sir—maybe a bit more,” replied Hobbs. “I come this way to my work every morning. I caught sight of him as I was passing the top there, and I came down to take a look at him. Then I saw he was dead, so I covered him up with my coat and ran along to the village to tell the policeman there.”
“He was dead when you found him?” asked the Chief Constable.
“Made out he was dead enough, sir! I touched his hand and his face—stone cold they was, both of ’em.”
The Chief Constable turned to the police-surgeon, who went forward and removed the cloak. He stooped down and made a hasty examination; then rose and spoke with decision.
“He’s been dead from, I should say, two to three hours—perhaps a little longer,” he said. “Shot dead—a revolver, presumably.”
“Found anything of that sort?” asked the Chief Constable of the policeman.