“Eh!” exclaimed Crofts. “I thought Dr. Niblett—”
“We’re off together, sir. The Coroner’s conductin’ the bodies, and I’m conductin’ the Coroner.”
“For heaven’s sake, send us some newspapers to read,” I urged.
“I will, I will.” Salt cast his eye somewhat sardonically about the circle. “Any more small commissions from any of you gentlemen?”
We clustered at the doorway where the melancholy caravan set out in charge of Dr. Niblett. The bodies of Cosgrove and of the unknown, stitched in sheets and laid along improvised stretchers, were to be carried by motor as far as the temporary bridge, across which they must be borne by hand. The undertaker’s van was waiting across the Water to convey them to the mortuary, where to-morrow they will be “viewed” by the Coroner’s juries impanelled to sit on the bodies.
They were gone.
XVIII.
Grisly Planting
With the departure of the dead men from the House, the mansion seemed to me for the nonce most lonely.
I drifted away from the others, into the vacant Hall of the Moth, slouched down in one of the flimsy chairs. My mind was rather wistful for the deceased Cosgrove, wanting him back, but not quite sure whether I preferred him to return alive or dead.
Voices of persons passing in the armoury came to me.