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members of the police team.
    They moved their tripod in front of the suit.
    â€œInspector?”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œOpen or shut?”
    â€œOpen and shut,” said Sloan. “Crosby’s done the headpiece for fingerprints.”
    â€œClose-helmet,” said Dyson.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œClose-helmet,” repeated Dyson. “That’s what it’s called. Not headpiece.”
    â€œOh, is it?” said Sloan in neutral tones. “I must remember that.”
    There was another bright flash. Then Williams moved forward and lifted the visor. Inspector Sloan was surprised again at the sight of the dead face.
    â€œI remember,” said Dyson improbably, “when I was an apprentice photographer on the beach at Blackpool, people used to put their faces into a round hole like this …”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œAnd we’d take a picture and they’d come up riding on the back of a sea-lion.”
    â€œThey did, did they?” said Sloan, “Well, let me tell you—”
    â€œOr a camel, sir,” interposed Constable Crosby suddenly. He was still holding one end of the sheet. “I’ve been photographed riding on the back of a camel.”
    Sloan snapped, “That’s enough of—”
    â€œThis chap reminds me of that,” said Dyson, unperturbed. “Sort of stepping into a set piece, if you know what I mean, Inspector. Just the round face visible.”
    â€œI know what you mean. Now get on with it.”
    â€œRight-oh.”
    But for the fact that their subject was dead, the pair of them might have been taking a studio portrait.
    â€œBack a little.”
    â€œA bit more to your right, I think.”
    â€œWhat about an inferior angle?”
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œHold it.”
    Quite unnecessarily.
    â€œNow a closeup.”
    â€œJust one more, don’t you think?” Dyson turned. “Anything else, Inspector?”
    Sloan grimaced. “I should think the only thing you two haven’t done is to ask him to say ‘cheese.’”
    â€œNo need,” said Dyson ghoulishly. “The face muscles contract anyway when you’re dead, and you get your facial rictus without asking.”
    â€œI see.” It was perhaps as well that Dyson had gone in for photography. Knowing all the answers as he did would have got him nowhere on the police ladder of promotion.
    Nowhere at all.
    â€œHe looks peaceful enough to me,” commented Dyson. “Any idea what hit him?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œPlenty of weapons to choose from.” Dyson made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole collection. “Perhaps it was that one.”
    â€œThat’s a spetum,” announced Constable Crosby, who was close enough to read the label.
    â€œA what?” said Sloan.
    â€œSpetum. Honestly, sir.”
    â€œIs it indeed?” said Sloan.
    â€œOften confused with a ranseur,” added Crosby, straight from the label.
    â€œWell,” said Dyson, “I’d rather have that for my money than that nasty-looking piece over there.” He indicated a heavy-headed weapon studded with vicious-looking spikes. “What in the name of goodness is that?”
    Crosby leaned over and read aloud, “That’s a holy water sprinkler.”
    â€œWell, I’m blessed,” said Dyson, for once strangely appropriate in the phraseology of his reaction. “And the one next to it?”
    Crosby moved a step towards a ferocious iron ball on the end of a short chain. “That’s called a morning star,” he said, “similar to a military flail.”
    Dyson grinned. “Queer sense of humor the ancients had, didn’t they?”
    â€œThey did,” said Sloan shortly.
    Dyson swung his camera back on his shoulder and took the hint. “We’d better be going then.” He picked up the heavy tripod. “Williams?”
    â€œComing.”
    â€œWilliams.”