"Where were you staying with this lady?" asked the sergeant, in exceedingly businesslike tones. "In Westover?"
"Oh, no. She has — had, I mean — oh dear! — a cottage. Briars, it's called. Just outside Medley."
"'Bout a mile and a half inland," supplemented Potticary, as the sergeant, who was not a native, looked a question.
"Were you alone, or is there a staff there?"
"There's just a woman from the village — Mrs. Pitts — who comes in and cooks."
"I see."
There was a slight pause.
"All right, boys." The sergeant nodded to the ambulance men, and they bent to their work with the stretcher. The young man drew in his breath sharply and once more covered his face with his hands.
"To the mortuary, Sergeant?"
"Yes."