“Exactly where did you find Patterson’s body?” Penfield asked, handing Barclay a photograph of the hall. “This photograph was taken this morning.”
Barclay studied it with interest. “I found Patterson right here,” indicating the spot, and Coroner Penfield marked it with his pencil.
“Ah, yes, right under the hall light,” he said. “You say you thought Patterson overcome by the smoke; did you find no trace of blood from the bullet wound in his back?”
“I have already explained that I could see but dimly in the smoke-filled hall,” answered Barclay impatiently. “And Dr. McLane can tell you that the wound bled superficially.”
The coroner turned again to consult the notes made by the deputy coroner. “You state that you found Patterson by stumbling over him. Did you thus accidentally change the position of his body?”
“I think not. Stumble was more a figure of speech. I regret that I stepped on his hand at first, and the feeling of soft flesh giving under my weight caused me to drop on my knees, and I found his body right in front of me.”
“Which way was his head lying?”
“Toward me.”
“Was Patterson holding anything in his hands?” asked Penfield.
“Not a thing.” And Barclay’s gaze did not shift before the coroner’s penetrating look.