‘Heart failure?’ he said, in a tone that was on the verge of being cheerful. ‘A little unwonted excitement, perhaps – a slightly heavier meal – anything might do it. Most distressing – most distressing. Visitors in the house too.’
He was striding up and down as he spoke, at every turn edging a little nearer the bed.
‘Now let me see,’ he said suddenly. ‘Just as a matter of form, of course . . .’ On the last word, moving with incredible swiftness, he reached the bedside and flicked the sheet from the dead man’s face.
The effect was instantaneous. Whitby caught his arm and dragged him back from the bed, and from the shadows a figure that Abbershaw had not noticed before came out silently. The next moment he recognized Dawlish, the man who looked like Beethoven. His face was still expressionless, but there was no mistaking the menace in his attitude as he came forward, and the young scientist realized with a little thrill of excitement that the veneer was off and that he was up against an antagonistic force.
The moment passed, however, and in the next instant he had the situation in hand again, with added advantage of knowing exactly where he stood. He turned a mildly apologetic face to Whitby.
‘Just as a matter of form,’ he repeated. ‘I like to make a point of seeing the body. Some of us are a little too lax, I feel, in a matter like this. After all, cremation is cremation. I’m not one of those men who insist on a thorough examination, but I just like to make sure that a corpse is a corpse, don’t you know.’
He laughed as he spoke, and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the face of the man on the bed. The momentary tension in the room died down. The heavy-faced Dawlish returned to his corner, Gideon became suave again, and the doctor stood by Abbershaw a little less apprehensively.
‘Death actually took place up here, I suppose?’ Abbershaw remarked conversationally, and shot a quick sidelong glance at Whitby. The man was ready for it, however.
‘Yes, just after we carried him in.’
‘I see.’ Abbershaw glanced round the room. ‘You brought him up in his chair, I suppose? How wonderfully convenient those things are.’ He paused as if lost in thought, and Dawlish muttered impatiently.