Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly.
“Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked.
“No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That brass bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water caraffe were the only articles on the table.”
Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the bed did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.
Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy had also been removed.
The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply grateful. Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of Bruce Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on the bed just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the figure.
“The razor lay there,” she announced positively.
“Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one more question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what time yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?”
“To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.”
“And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?”