“A little further along it narrows and is less steep,” said Marsland, who had been listening intently to Crewe’s remarks. “Come, and I will show you.”
He led the way round the next bend of the road, and pointed out a spot where the branches of the trees which formed the wind screen hung down over the slope, which was much less steep. It was a comparatively easy matter to scramble up the bank at this point, and pull oneself up on to the downs by the aid of the overhanging branches.
Crewe made the experiment, and reached the top, without difficulty; so did Gillett. Marsland and Sergeant Westaway remained standing in the road below, watching the proceedings.
The downs from the top of the bank swept gradually upwards to the highest point of that part of the coast: a landmark known as the Giants’ Knoll, a lofty hill surrounded by a ring of dark fir trees, which gave the bald summit the appearance of a monk’s tonsure. This hill commanded an extensive view of the Channel and the surrounding country-side on a clear day. But Detective Gillett was not interested in the Giant’s Knoll. He was busily engaged examining the brushwood and dwarf trees forming the wind screen at the point where they had scrambled up. Suddenly he turned and beckoned to Crewe with an air of some excitement.
“Look here!” he said, as Crewe approached. “This seems to bear out your theory.” He pointed to the branch of a stunted beechtree, which had been torn away from the parent trunk, but still hung to it, withered and lifeless, attached by a strip of bark.
“If Brett shot Lumsden as he was scrambling up the bank, Lumsden might easily have torn this branch off in his dying struggle—the instinct to clutch at something—as he fell back into the road.”
“It’s possible, but it’s not a very convincing clue by itself,” returned Crewe. “It might just as easily have been torn off by the violence of the storm. The thing is to follow it up. If Lumsden was shot at this point the bullet which went through him may have lodged in one of the trees.”
Gillett had begun to search among the scattered trees at the top of the bank very much like an intelligent pointer hunting for game. He examined each tree closely from the bole upwards. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
“Look here, Crewe.”
He had come to a standstill at a tree which stood a few yards on the downs away from the wind screen—a small stunted oak with low and twisted branches. Fair in the centre of its gnarled trunk was a small hole, which Gillett was hacking at with a small penknife. As Crewe reached his side, he triumphantly extracted a bullet which had been partly flattened by contact with the tree.