“No finger-prints, you said?”
“Except on the wood-rasp, absolutely none but those of the deceased, sir. I’ve dusted nearly every inch of the room with white or black. All I got for my pains were four good prints of the deceased’s thumb and forefinger. They’re easy enough to tell—very queer-shaped fingers and a long scar on the ball of his right thumb.”
Anthony changed the subject. “What time did you get here, Boyd?”
“About four this morning. We came by car. I made some preliminary inquiries, questioned some of the people, and went down to the village at about eight.”
“Who’s that great red hulk of a sergeant?” said Anthony, flitting to yet another subject. “You ought to watch him, Boyd. When I came along he was indulging in a little third degree.”
“I heard it, sir. That’s why I came in.”
“Good. Who was the timid little ferret?”
“Belford—Robert Belford, sir. He’s a sort of assistant to Poole and was valet to the deceased.”
“How did he answer when you questioned him?”
“Very confused he was. But his story’s all right—very reasonable. I don’t consider him, so to speak. He hasn’t got the nerve, or the strength.”