“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t like the place, and I thought I would wait here; we cleared the Giles out after the murder, and locked it up.”
He produced a great key, and led the way to the front door.
It was a massive portal surmounted by carved stone work, now green and crumbling. The hall was square and lofty, with a great open fireplace, cheerless and empty. The last light of the dying afternoon showed portraits on the walls, and a staircase leading upwards.
“I’ll get a light,” said the constable, and stamped off to the kitchen, returning with a lamp which threw a bright light on the walls and timbered ceiling.
“That’s better,” said Fletcher, “this place is confoundedly damp.”
“There were only two rooms used by the Giles,” said Brown, setting down the lamp, “the kitchen and a bedroom next to it, but they always kept Lord Reckavile’s rooms ready, as they never knew when he was coming back. He only used his library, and a bedroom on the ground floor. All the rest of the house is shut up, and full of rotting furniture.”
“Let’s have a look at the library then,” Fletcher said, and the constable led the way. Everything had been left untouched; the battered door still hung loose, and inside the furniture had been tossed and thrown about.
“There’s where the body was, lying over the sofa, and you can see the stains of blood on the floor and the armchair.”
Fletcher examined the dark marks of ill omen.
“Everything is just as it was. I made a careful list,” said Brown. “There is the wireless, a four valve set, and this is his desk, a very old one I should say, and that cabinet contains what they call a dictaphone, though I call it a gramaphone. His Lordship was very keen on these things. Here is a sketch I made, very rough I am afraid,” and he handed it to Fletcher.