“He’s—he’s been dreadfully injured—part of his head....”
She stopped and shuddered. Dr. Mount pushed quietly past her to the door.
“I think I’d better go down alone. Your husband and the men are down there—I can get all the information I want from them.”
Jenny came forward to the fire and flopped into the chair Doris had left. Her clothes were wet and her boots muddy—it must be raining hard.
“I’d better tell you what happened,” she said brokenly—“The men—some from here and some from Starvecrow—found Peter lying on the Tillingham marshes about half a mile below the Mocksteeple. His dog was watching beside him, and he’d been shot through the head.”
“Murdered,” gasped Doris.
“No—I don’t think so for a moment.”
“It was an accident, of course,” said Mary.
“I wish I could think that. But the men seemed to think—my husband too—that it was his own doing.”
“His own doing! Suicide!” cried Doris—“How could they imagine such a thing?”