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Authors: Kel Richards
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‘Where on earth has this chap been since yesterday? How can he tumble off the roof and take hours to hit the ground? Dashed fishy, that’s what I call it.’
Constable Bernard Butler came bursting through the rear doorway from the school, his uniform tunic unbuttoned and flapping in the morning breeze.
He stood and stared, open mouthed, at the body of Dave Fowler. Then he slowly did up his silver buttons and pulled a notebook from his pocket.
Jack and I had to repeat the events of yesterday several times before they finally sank in and ended up as scribbled notes in the policeman’s small book.
It was during one of these repetitions that Dr Green arrived. He knelt down and felt the skin of the corpse, then lifted one arm, or tried to.
‘Rigor mortis is fully developed,’ the doctor said, ‘and the body is completely cold. Death occurred at least eight hours ago. Constable, may I roll the body over?’
‘Should we wait until Inspector Locke gets here?’ asked the hapless policeman, clearly out of his depth. ‘In fact, I need to go and call district headquarters—the inspector needs to be informed at once.’
Tucking his notebook into his tunic pocket he bustled away in search of a telephone.
‘Well, I’m rolling the body over,’ said Dr Green. ‘I’ve seen the position of the corpse, and there’s nothing to be gained by leaving it untouched.’
It was odd to see a human body being rolled over and not flapping flaccidly around, but moving as stiff as a piece of hardboard.
As the doctor pushed the body over onto its back, he said, ‘Well, I think we have cause of death, gentlemen.’
There, protruding from the stomach of the corpse, was the handle of a long, narrow knife. The blade was completely invisible, being buried in Dave Fowler’s stomach.
The long silence that followed was broken by Jack, who asked, ‘Was it the knife wound that killed him then? Not the fall?’
‘Actually, it could have been either,’ Dr Green admitted, ‘or a combination of both. The autopsy should tell us more.’
The doctor straightened up, blinking in the early morning sunlight, and then asked, ‘Is this how you found him? I mean, when you discovered the body, was it in the position in which I first saw it? Face down?’
Jack and I both said yes, it was.
‘That is strange then,’ the medical man went on, ‘because of the post-mortem lividity.’
‘The what?’ asked Warnie.
‘The marks you can see that look like large bruises. That’s where the blood pooled after death—post-mortem lividity. Those marks show that he landed on his back, and that he lay on his back for some time. But you found him lying face down. That’s very odd.’
FIFTEEN
~
Detective Inspector Sexton Locke turned out to be a tall, thin man with a hawk-like face. He was accompanied by Sergeant Jack Drake, a solidly built, red-faced man. Both seemed unshaken by the sight of the dead body or by the strange tale that Jack and I had to tell.
Locke very quickly impressed me with his quiet, unflustered intelligence.
He paced around the body of Dave Fowler where it was still lying on the gravel road, looking and listening as Dr Green gave a brief explanation of what he’d found in his first, superficial examination. When the doctor had finished, Locke ordered two uniformed constables who’d come with him to borrow a stretcher and remove the body.
‘Take the victim straight to the mortuary,’ said Locke. ‘And doctor, how quickly can you get the autopsy underway?’
‘I can do it this afternoon,’ Green replied, snapping closed the clasps on his Gladstone bag. ‘There are a few patients I must see this morning, but I’ll close the surgery this afternoon and attend to this matter.’
Locke thanked him and waited until the body had been removed.
‘Now, Mr Lewis, Mr Morris,’ he said turning to us, ‘are you sure that this wound we’ve seen on the corpse this morning is the wound you saw inflicted yesterday
Constable Bernard Butler came bursting through the rear doorway from the school, his uniform tunic unbuttoned and flapping in the morning breeze.
He stood and stared, open mouthed, at the body of Dave Fowler. Then he slowly did up his silver buttons and pulled a notebook from his pocket.
Jack and I had to repeat the events of yesterday several times before they finally sank in and ended up as scribbled notes in the policeman’s small book.
It was during one of these repetitions that Dr Green arrived. He knelt down and felt the skin of the corpse, then lifted one arm, or tried to.
‘Rigor mortis is fully developed,’ the doctor said, ‘and the body is completely cold. Death occurred at least eight hours ago. Constable, may I roll the body over?’
‘Should we wait until Inspector Locke gets here?’ asked the hapless policeman, clearly out of his depth. ‘In fact, I need to go and call district headquarters—the inspector needs to be informed at once.’
Tucking his notebook into his tunic pocket he bustled away in search of a telephone.
‘Well, I’m rolling the body over,’ said Dr Green. ‘I’ve seen the position of the corpse, and there’s nothing to be gained by leaving it untouched.’
It was odd to see a human body being rolled over and not flapping flaccidly around, but moving as stiff as a piece of hardboard.
As the doctor pushed the body over onto its back, he said, ‘Well, I think we have cause of death, gentlemen.’
There, protruding from the stomach of the corpse, was the handle of a long, narrow knife. The blade was completely invisible, being buried in Dave Fowler’s stomach.
The long silence that followed was broken by Jack, who asked, ‘Was it the knife wound that killed him then? Not the fall?’
‘Actually, it could have been either,’ Dr Green admitted, ‘or a combination of both. The autopsy should tell us more.’
The doctor straightened up, blinking in the early morning sunlight, and then asked, ‘Is this how you found him? I mean, when you discovered the body, was it in the position in which I first saw it? Face down?’
Jack and I both said yes, it was.
‘That is strange then,’ the medical man went on, ‘because of the post-mortem lividity.’
‘The what?’ asked Warnie.
‘The marks you can see that look like large bruises. That’s where the blood pooled after death—post-mortem lividity. Those marks show that he landed on his back, and that he lay on his back for some time. But you found him lying face down. That’s very odd.’
FIFTEEN
~
Detective Inspector Sexton Locke turned out to be a tall, thin man with a hawk-like face. He was accompanied by Sergeant Jack Drake, a solidly built, red-faced man. Both seemed unshaken by the sight of the dead body or by the strange tale that Jack and I had to tell.
Locke very quickly impressed me with his quiet, unflustered intelligence.
He paced around the body of Dave Fowler where it was still lying on the gravel road, looking and listening as Dr Green gave a brief explanation of what he’d found in his first, superficial examination. When the doctor had finished, Locke ordered two uniformed constables who’d come with him to borrow a stretcher and remove the body.
‘Take the victim straight to the mortuary,’ said Locke. ‘And doctor, how quickly can you get the autopsy underway?’
‘I can do it this afternoon,’ Green replied, snapping closed the clasps on his Gladstone bag. ‘There are a few patients I must see this morning, but I’ll close the surgery this afternoon and attend to this matter.’
Locke thanked him and waited until the body had been removed.
‘Now, Mr Lewis, Mr Morris,’ he said turning to us, ‘are you sure that this wound we’ve seen on the corpse this morning is the wound you saw inflicted yesterday
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