“Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at the scene of the tragedy.”
This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant Coventry’s humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we saw the wide-spread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.
“That was where Mrs. Gibson’s body lay. I marked it by that stone.”
“I understand that you were there before it was moved?”
“Yes; they sent for me at once.”
“Who did?”
“Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be moved until the police should arrive.”
“That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot was fired from close quarters.”
“Yes, sir, very close.”
“Near the right temple?”
“Just behind it, sir.”
