“Water.”
“No whisky?”
“No”
“And no prussic acid?”
“Not a trace.”
I glanced at the reporters again and saw that they were writing their hardest. The trained newspaper man is never at fault when it comes to selecting evidence. He seems to know by instinct what is crucial. The longest report of any case does not represent more than a twentieth part of the evidence actually given, but the points are all there always. And the reporters knew quite well that the absence of poison from the bottle and siphon might make all the difference between suicide and murder. Had the whisky been poisoned Sir Philip Clevedon might have put it there himself. There was, of course, the fact that the apparent absence of any medium through which the poison could have been administered added to the puzzle, and the press dearly loves a mystery—at least its readers do, and newspapers that live by their readers wisely enough live for them also.
The next witness was John Tulmin, a little, thin man, not more than about five feet three in height and correspondingly meagre in build, who had been the late baronet’s personal servant, possessed, apparently, of sufficient education occasionally to do secretarial work for him. At all events he opened Sir Philip’s letters and typed the replies dictated by his employer. But he also acted as valet and was apparently as clever with clothes brush and razor as he was with the typewriter. He gave his evidence clearly and without hesitation, and seemed quite unaware of any reason why he should be an object of considerable interest to Police, Press and Public.
“At what time did you last see Sir Philip Clevedon alive?” the coroner asked him.
“At thirty-three minutes past eleven.”
“You are very precise.”