“I didn’t touch her, except to feel her face, just as you did. I knew then that she was dead.”
He could hear the scratching of the Constable’s pencil as he made his notes.
“You’re sure she was dead then?”
“I don’t think there was the faintest doubt. If I’d had the smallest suspicion she was alive I should have tried to do something for her, but I was so sure she was dead that I went straight for Gunnet. The blood on the blotter was almost dry then.”
“What time was this, Mr. Leslie?”
“Just about eight. The clock in the kitchen struck while I was in here.”
The Sergeant, a tall, lean man with a shrewd, typical North-country face, scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“You live here alone, I think?” he asked.
Leslie nodded.
“Mrs. Grey, the carter’s wife, does for me. She comes in the morning and leaves about two.”