“I did not.” Observing the look of surprise on their faces, he added, “The servants are women. I did not wish to terrify them with this sight,” and he waved his hand in the direction of the dead man.
Penfield reflected a moment, and in the brief interval Ferguson took mental note of Major Richards’ fine physique and strongly molded features. He did not look the man to lose his head in an emergency; on the contrary, his self-possession and poise made a favorable impression on both the men watching him so intently. Richards was about to speak again when Penfield held up his hand.
“Just a moment,” he cautioned. “Let me get this straight. You reached this house about twenty minutes after one this morning; Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are still at the French Embassy reception, leaving at home Mr. Hale, ill in bed, your wife, and the female servants. An unidentified man enters the house in your absence and upon your return you find him dead in the library. Did you hear voices or retreating footsteps when you came in the front door?”
“No.”
“Did you meet any one when on your way to your wife’s room?”
“No.” Richards’ eyes did not falter in their direct gaze at the coroner. He confined his replies to monosyllables.
“Strange!” Penfield walked back and stood looking down at the dead man. “Very strange. I have made only a superficial examination, Major Richards, but I’ll stake my reputation that that wound was not self-inflicted. The man was stabbed”—he paused and his voice deepened—“murdered.”
The lines in Richards’ face showed more plainly as he set his square jaw at a determined angle. “The killing of a burglar is generally considered justifiable homicide,” he said sternly. “It is one’s right to protect one’s property from midnight marauders.”
“Who protected Mr. Hale’s home in this instance?” demanded Ferguson.
“I cannot tell you that,” responded Richards. “But, Mr. Coroner, until you know further details of how this man came to his death, you cannot proclaim it a murder committed by an inmate of this household.”