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in front of him. He shook himself then took out his cigarette case. He paused before he opened it. It seemed disrespectful somehow to smoke with Tim in the room, and yet Tim would never have minded when he was alive. (‘Chuck me a gasper, old scream, you’re sitting there like a man with no arms . . .’) Surely the smell of cigarette smoke was no worse than the smell of gunpowder which hung about the room. He really wanted a cigarette.
    Footsteps sounded outside and saved him from making a decision. He thrust the cigarette case back into his pocket as Sir Philip, accompanied by Dr Speldhurst and the Chief Constable, Major-General Flint, came into the room.
    Haldean recognized the doctor. He usually wore a baggy tweed suit with a sprinkling of cigar ash down the front and he looked out of place in evening clothes, especially as he was carrying his doctor’s bag. He had a pair of pince-nez spectacles through which he glared at his patients, as if daring them to get any worse whilst under his care. He was now glaring through them at the wound on Preston’s head.
    â€˜This is a bad business,’ the doctor said briskly. ‘A very bad business indeed.’ He opened his bag. ‘It’s lucky I had this with me.’ Haldean had never seen him without it. ‘Mind you, I like to be prepared. You never know what’ll crop up. I wasn’t expecting anything of this sort, though. I thought a sprained ankle would be the height of it.’
    He raised Preston’s head and put a thermometer under his neck before picking up his hand and flexing the joints. Taking out the thermometer he held it up to the light. ‘He’s been dead about an hour, give or take ten minutes or so either side. There’s powder and burning marks round the wound. That ties in with the revolver being discharged at close quarters.’ The doctor drew back, returning the thermometer to its case. ‘It’s lucky we can still move him, Sir Philip. With these brain injuries rigor often sets in instantly and we have to crack the joints to move the body.’
    â€˜Is the body in the position you would expect to find it, Doctor?’ asked Haldean.
    Dr Speldhurst spun round and subjected Haldean to the full beam from the pince-nez. ‘And who might you be, young man?’ The recognition obviously wasn’t mutual.
    Sir Philip intervened. ‘This is my nephew, Major Haldean, Speldhurst. He’s staying with us at present.’
    Dr Speldhurst nodded briefly. ‘In answer to your question, Major, the body is not positioned exactly as I would have expected, no. It’s difficult to predict the effect of sudden trauma but I would have expected the hand holding the gun to have dropped down by his side.’
    General Flint spoke in a no-nonsense voice. ‘Do you think he’s been moved at all?’
    Dr Speldhurst shook his head decisively. ‘I should say not.’ He turned his attention to the bullet wound once more. He tilted Preston’s head gently and ran his hands over the skull. ‘No exit wound, but looking at the angle of entry, I should say that the bullet traversed the brain ending up in the frontal lobe. Death would have been instantaneous, of course. Well, gentlemen, that’s all I can do here.’ He looked at Sir Philip. ‘I’ll make arrangements for the removal of the body. Now, I believe I have a couple of patients amongst your servants. They’ll need something to help them sleep.’
    Haldean remembered his promise to Stanton. ‘Could you take a look at Miss Robiceux, Doctor?’ What on earth was Bubble’s proper name? ‘Miss Celia Robiceux.’ That was it. ‘She was fond of Tim and I think she’ll be pretty cut up about it. And Miss Rivers,’ he added.
    Dr Speldhurst pencilled a note on his shirt cuff and looked critically at Haldean. ‘What about you, young man? You look a bit green about the gills. Want