Sefton seemed to take a decision.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you, but I didn’t see any point in telling the police. It was most curious, but I did not want to be accused of sensationalism. You know the chairs in the room had been overturned, as though there had been a struggle, there was blood on some of them, and on the floor. Well, I have enough medical knowledge to know that the clean stab which killed the man could not have caused all that amount of blood.”
“You mean …?” said Fletcher.
“I mean,” said the other, leaning forward, “that the blood came from the assailant whoever he was. It was impossible to have come from Reckavile.”
“That is interesting,” said Fletcher.
There was a pause, then Sefton went on.
“That is not all. Of course, this is only between ourselves.”
“Of course,” said Fletcher.
“If you read the reports you will appreciate what I am going to say. I bent down to examine one of the overturned armchairs, the constable was holding the light and it shone full on the chair. Stretched from the leg to the floor there was a spider’s web—a fully formed one.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Fletcher.