You've asked questions and hinted things. Just say straight out what it is you've got in your head."
I wavered between injured dignity and the overwhelming desire to express my theories. Injured dignity went to the wall.
"You said at the inquest you were positive it wasn't suicide?"
"Yes, I'm quite certain of that. The man was frightened. What frightened him? It wasn't me. But some one might have been walking up the platform towards us—some one he recognized."
"You didn't see any one?"
"No," I admitted. "I didn't turn my head. Then, as soon as the body was recovered from the line, a man pushed forward to examine it, saying he was a doctor."
"Nothing unusual in that," said the inspector dryly.
"But he wasn't a doctor."
"What?"
"He wasn't a doctor," I repeated.
"How do you know that, Miss Beddingfeld?"
"It's difficult to say, exactly. I've worked in Hospital during the war, and I've seen doctors handle bodies. There's a sort of deft professional callousness that this man hadn't got. Besides, a doctor doesn't usually feel for the heart on the right side of the body."
"He did that?"
"Yes, I didn't notice it specially at the time—except that I felt there was something wrong. But I worked it out when I got home, and then I saw why the whole thing had looked so unhandy to me at the time."
"H'm," said the inspector. He was reaching slowly for pen and paper.
"In running his hands over the upper part of the man's body he would have ample opportunity to take anything he wanted from the pockets."
