“Nothing complicated about it,” he began, before Markham had a chance to speak. “Our sporty friend was killed by an arrow with a mighty sharp point entering his heart through the fourth intercostal space. Lot of force behind it. Plenty of hemorrhage inside and out. He’s been dead about two hours, I should say, making the time of his death around half past eleven. That’s only guesswork, however. No signs of a struggle—no marks on his clothes or abrasions on his hands. Death supervened most likely without his knowing what it was all about. He got a nasty bump, though, where his head hit the rough cement when he fell. . . .”
“Now, that’s very interestin’.” Vance’s drawling voice cut in on the Medical Examiner’s staccato report. “How serious a ‘bump’ was it, Doctor?”
Doremus blinked and eyed Vance with some astonishment.
“Bad enough to fracture the skull. I couldn’t feel it, of course; but there was a large hæmatoma over the occipital region, dried blood in the nostrils and the ears, and unequal pupils, indicating a fracture of the vault. I’ll know more about it after the autopsy.” He turned back to the District Attorney. “Anything else?”
“I think not, Doctor. Only let us have your post-mortem report as soon as possible.”
“You’ll have it to-night. The Sergeant’s already phoned for the wagon.” And shaking hands with all of us, he hurried away.
Heath had stood glowering in the background.
“Well, that don’t get us anywheres, sir,” he complained, chewing viciously on his cigar.
“Don’t be downhearted, Sergeant,” Vance chided him. “That blow on the back of the head is worthy of your profoundest consideration. I’m of the opinion it wasn’t entirely due to the fall, don’t y’ know.”
The Sergeant was unimpressed by this observation.