“Suppose—while a man was looking into that hole—with the stone propped up—he should accidentally knock the prop away?” He was still whispering.
“A stone so light that he could prop it up wouldn’t be heavy enough to kill him,” I objected.
“No.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Not to kill him—to paralyze him—if it struck the spine in a certain way. To render him helpless, but not unconscious. The post mortem would disclose that, through the bruises on the body.”
The policeman and the detective had adjusted the knots to their satisfaction. They were bickering now as to the details of the descent.
“Would that cause death?” I whispered.
“You must remember that the housekeeper was absent for two days. In two days, even that pressure——” He stared at me hard, to make sure that I understood——“with the head down——”
Again the policeman interrupted:
“I’ll stand at the well, if you gentlemen will grab the rope behind me. It won’t be much of a pull. I’ll take the brunt of it.”
We let the little man down, with the electric torch strapped to his waist, and some sort of implement—a trowel or a small spade—in his hand. It seemed a long time before his voice, curiously hollow, directed us to stop. The hole must have been deep.
We braced ourselves. I was second, the coroner, last. The policeman relieved his strain somewhat by snagging the rope against the edge of the well, but I marveled, nevertheless, at the ease with which he held the weight. Very little of it came to me.