The body was untouched, though the clothes were rumpled and twisted. The right arm was outstretched, the rigid fingers of the hand resting among the pots of fern which filled the fireplace. The left arm was doubled under the body.
Anthony, having gazed his fill, rose to his feet. As he did so, Boyd re-entered. He looked flushed and not a little annoyed.
Anthony turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
“Only a bit more trouble with some of these newspaper fellows, sir. But thank the Lord, I’ve got rid of ’em now. Told ’em I’d give ’em a statement to-night. What they’d say if they knew you were here—and why—God knows. There’ll be a row after the case is over, but there you are. Miss Hoode’s agreeable to you, and I don’t blame her, but she won’t hear of any of the others being let in. I don’t blame her for that either.” He nodded towards the body. “What d’you make of it, sir?”
“Shocking messy kill,” Anthony said.
“You’re right, sir, But what about—things in general, so to speak?”
Anthony looked round the room. It bore traces of disturbance. Two light chairs had been over-turned. Books and papers from the desk strewed the floor. The grandfather clock, which should have stood sentinel on the left of the door as one entered it, had fallen, though not completely. It lay face-downwards at an angle of some forty-five degrees with the floor, the upper half of its casing supported by the back of a large sofa.
“Struggle?” said Anthony.
“Yes,” said Boyd.
“Queer struggle,” said Anthony. He sauntered off on a tour of the room.