‘It couldn’t be that, Joe.’

‘Nor it ain’t “geranium” neither-leastways, there’s no tail to the G.’

‘“Cranium”, perhaps,’ suggested Peter. ‘The back of the skull.’

‘That’ll be it,’ said Kirk. ‘That’s where it is, anyhow, never mind what the doctor calls it.’

‘Yes, sir. “A little above and behind the left ear, the apparent direction of the blow being from behind downwards. An extensive fracture – ”’

‘Hallo!’ said Peter. ‘On the left, from behind downwards. That looks like another of our old friends.’

‘The left-handed criminal,’ said Harriet.

‘Yes. It’s surprising how often you get them in detective fiction. A sort of sinister twist running right through the character.’

‘It might be a back-handed blow.’

‘Not likely. Who goes about swotting people left-handed? Unless the local tennis-champion wanted to show off. Or a navvy mistook old Noakes for a pile that needed driving.”

‘A navvy’d have hit him plumb centre. They always do. You think they’re going to brain the man who holds the thing up, but it never happens. I’ve noticed that. But there’s another thing. My recollection of Noakes is that he was awfully tall.’

‘Quite right,’ said Kirk, ‘so he was. Six foot four, only he stooped a bit. Call it six foot two or three.’

‘You’ll want a pretty tall murderer,’ said Peter.

‘Wouldn’t a long-handled weapon do? Like a croquet mallet? or a golf club?’

‘Yes, or a cricket-bat. Or a beetle, of course-’

‘Or a spade-the flat side-’

‘Or a gun-stock. Possibly even a poker-’

‘It’d have to be a long, heavy one with a thick knob. I think there’s one in the kitchen. Or even a broom, I suppose-’

‘Don’t think it’d be heavy enough, though it’s possible. How about an axe or a pick-?’

‘Not blunt enough. They’ve got square edges. What other long things are there? I’ve heard of a flail, but I’ve never seen one. A lead cosh, if it was long enough. Not a sandbag-they bend.’

‘A lump of lead in an old stocking would be handy.’

‘Yes-but look here, Peter! Anything would do-even a rolling-pin, always supposing-’

‘I’ve thought of that. He might have been sitting down.’

‘So it might be a stone or a paper-weight like that one on the window-sill there.’

Mr Kirk started. ‘Strewth!’ he observed, ‘you’re quick, you two. Not much you miss, is there? And the lady’s as smart as the gentleman.’

‘It’s her job,’ said Peter. ‘She writes detective stories.’

‘Does she now?’ said the Superintendent. ‘I can’t say I reads a lot o’ them, though Mrs Kirk, she likes a good Edgar Wallace now and again. But I couldn’t rightly call ‘em a mellering influence to a man in my line. I read an American story once, and the way the police carried on-well, it didn’t seem right to me. Here, Joe, hand me that there paper-weight, would you? Hi! Not that way! Ain’t you never heard of fingerprints?’

Sellon, his large hand clasped round the stone, stood awkwardly and scratched his head with his pencil. He was a big, fresh-faced young man, who looked as though he would be better at grappling with drunks than measuring prints and reconstructing the time-table of the crime. At length he opened his fingers and brought the paper-weight balanced on his open palm.

‘That won’t take finger-prints,’ said Peter. ‘It’s too rough. Edinburgh granite, from the look of it.’

‘It might a-done the bashing, though,’ said Kirk. ‘Leastways, the underneath part, or this here rounded end. Model of a building, ain’t it?’

‘Edinburgh Castle, I fancy. It shows no signs of skin or hair or anything about it. Just a minute.’ He picked it up by a convenient chimney, examined its surface with a lens, and said, definitely, ‘No.’

‘Humph. Well. That gets us nowhere. We’ll have a look at the kitchen poker presently.’

‘You’ll find lots of finger-prints on that. Bunter’s and mine, and Mrs Ruddle’s-possibly Puffett’s and Crutchley’s.’

‘That’s the devil of it,’ said the Superintendent, frankly. ‘But none the more for that. Joe, you keep your fingers off anything what looks like a weapon. If you sees any of them things what his lordship and her ladyship here mentioned laying about, you just leave ‘em be and shout till I come. See?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘To go back’, said Peter, ‘to the doctor’s report. I take it Noakes can’t have bashed the back of his own head falling down the steps? He was an oldish man, wasn’t he?’

‘Sixty-five, me lord. Sound as a bell, though, as far as you can judge now. Eh, Joe?’

‘That’s a fact, sir. Boasted of it, he did. Talked large as ’ow Doctor said ’e was good for another quarter of a century. You ask Frank Crutchley. ’E ‘eard ’im. Over at Pagford, in the Pig and Whistle. And Mr Roberts wot keeps the Crown in the village-he’ve heard him many a time.’

‘Ah! well, that’s as may be. It ain’t never safe to boast. The boast of heraldry-well, I take it that’d be more in your lordship’s line, but it all leads to the grave, as Gray’s Elegy has it. Still, he wasn’t killed falling down the stairs, because there’s a bruise on his forehead where he went down and hit the bottom step-’

‘Oh!’ said Peter. ‘Then he was alive when he fell?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Kirk, a little put out by being anticipated. ‘That’s what I was leading up to. But there again, that don’t prove nothing, because seemm’ly he didn’t die straight off, Accordin’ to what Dr Craven makes out-’

‘Shall I read that bit. sir?’

‘Don’t bother with it, Joe. It’s only a lot of rigmarole. I can explain to his lordship without all your onions and geraniums. What it comes to is this. Somebody ’it him and bust his skull, and he’d likely tumble down and lose consciousness-concussed, as you might say. After a bit, he’d come to, like as not. But he’d never know what hit ’im. Wouldn’t remember a thing about it.’

‘Nor he would,’ said Harriet, eagerly. She knew that bit, in fact she’d had to expound it in her latest detective novel but one. ‘There’d be complete forgetfulness of everything immediately preceding the blow. And he might even pick himself up and feel all right for some time.’

‘Except,’ put in Mr Kirk, who liked a literal precision, ‘for a sore head. But, generally speaking, that’s correct, according to Doctor. He might walk about and do quite a bit for himself.’

‘Such as locking the door behind the murderer?’

‘Exactly, there’s the trouble.’

‘Then,’ pursued Harriet, ‘he’d get giddy and drowsy, wouldn’t he? Wander off to get a drink or call for help-’ Memory suddenly showed her the open cellar-door, yawning between the back-door and the scullery. ‘And pitch down the cellar-steps and die there. That door was standing open when we arrived; I remember Mrs Ruddle telling her Bert to shut it.’

‘Pity they didn’t happen to look inside,’ grunted the Superintendent. ‘Not as it’ud have done the deceased any good-he’d been dead long enough-but if you’d a-know you could have kept the house in statu quo, as they say.’

‘We could,’ said Peter, with emphasis, ‘but I don’t mind telling you frankly that we were in no mood to.’

‘No,’ said Mr Kirk, meditatively, ‘I don’t suppose you were. No. All things considered, it would have been inconvenient, I see that. But it’s a pity, all the same. Because, you see, we’ve got very little to go on and that’s a fact. The pool old chap might a-been killed anywhere-upstairs, downstairs, in my lady’s chamber.’

‘No, no. Mother Goose,’ said Peter, hastily. ‘Not there, not there, my child, Felicia Hemans. Let us pass on. How long did he live after he was hit?’

‘Doctor says,’ put in the constable,’ “from half an hour to one hour, judging by the-the-hem-something-or-other.”’

‘Haemorrhage?’ suggested Kirk, taking possession of the letter. ‘That’s it. Haemorrhagic effusion into the cortex. That’s a good one.’

‘Bleeding in the brain,’ said Peter. ‘Good lord-he had plenty of time. He may have been coshed outside the house altogether.’