The hood of the car was up, and Parker approached with an uncomfortable feeling that there might be something disagreeable inside, but it was empty. He tried the gears. They were in neutral and the handbrake was on. On the seat was a handkerchief- a large linen handkerchief, very grubby and with no initials or laundry-mark. Parker grunted a little over the criminal’s careless habit of strewing his belongings about. He came round in front of the car and received immediate further proof of carelessness. For on the mud there were footmrks- two men’s and a woman’s, it seemed.

The woman had got out of the car first- he could see where the left heel had sunk heavily in as she extricated herself from the low seat. Then the right foot-less heavily- then she had staggered a little and started to run. But one of the men had been there to catch her. He had stepped out of the bracken in shoes with new rubbers on them, and there were scuffling marks as though he had held and she had tried to break away. Finally, the second man, who seemed to possess rather narrow feet and to wear the long-toed boots affected by town boys of the louder sort- had come after her from the car- the marks of his feet were clear, crossing and half-obliterating hers. All three had stood together for a little. Then tracks moved away, with those of the woman in the middle, and led up to where the mark of a Michelin balloon tyre showed clearly. The tyres on the Austin were ordinary Dunlops- besides, this was obviously a bigger car. It had apparently stood there for some little time, for a little pool of engine-oil had dripped from the crank-case. Then the bigger car had moved off, down a sort of ride that led away through the trees. Parker followed it for a little distance but the tracks soon became lost in a thick carpet of pine-needles. Still, there no other road for a car to take. He turned to the Austin to investigate further. Presently shouts told him that the other two were converging upon the centre of the wood. He called back and before long Wimsey and Sir Charles Pillington came crashing towards him through the bracken which fringed the pines.

“Well,” said Wimsey, “I imagine we may put down this elegant bit of headgear to the gentleman in the slim boots. Bright yellow, I fancy, with buttons. He must be lamenting his beautiful cap. The woman’s footprints belong to Mary Whittaker, I take it.”

“I suppose so. I don’t see how they can be the Findlater girl’s. This woman went or was taken off in the car.”

“They are certainly not Vera Findlater’s- there was no mud on her shoes when we found her.”

“Oh! you were taking notice, then. I thought you were feeling a bit dead to the world.”

“So I was, old dear, but I can’t help noticin’things, though moribund. Hullo! What’s this?”

He put his hand down behind the cushions of the car and pulled out an American magazine- that monthly collection of mystery and sensational fiction published under the name of The Black Mask.

“Light reading for the masses,” said Parker.

“Brought by the gentleman in the yellow boots, perhaps,” suggested the Chief Constable.

“More likely by Miss Findlater,” said Wimsey.

“Hardly a lady’s choice,” said Sir Charles, in a pained tone.

“Oh, I dunno. From all I hear, Miss Whittaker was dead against sentimentality and roses round the porch, and the other poor girl copied her in everything. They might have a boyish taste in fiction.”

“Well, it’s not very important,” said Parker.

“Wait a bit. Look at this. Somebody’s been making marks on it.”

Wimsey held out the cover for inspection. A thick pencil-mark had been drawn under the first two words of the title.

“Do you think it’s some sort of message? Perhaps the book was on the seat, and she contrived to make the marks unnoticed and shove it away here before they transferred her to the other car.”

“Ingenious,” said Sir Charles, “but what does it mean? The Black. It makes no sense.”

“Perhaps the long-toed gentleman was black,” suggested Parker. “Or possibly a Hindu or Parsee of sorts.”

“God bless my soul,” said Sir Charles, horrified, “an English girl in the hands of a black man. How abominable!”

“Well, we’ll hope it isn’t so. Shall we follow the road out or wait for the doctor to arrive?”

“Better go back to the body, I think,” said Parker. “They’ve got a long start of us, and half an hour more or less in following them up won’t make much odds.”

They turned from the translucent cool greenness of the little wood back on to the downs. The streamlet clacked merrily away over the pebbles, running out to the southwest on its way to the river and the sea.

“It’s all very well your chattering,” said Wimsey to the water. “Why can’t you say what you’ve seen?”

Chapter 21 By What Means?

The doctor turned out to be a plumpish fussy man- and what Wimsey impatiently called a “Tutster.” He tutted over the mangled head of poor Vera Findlater as though it was an attack of measles after a party or a self-provoked fit of the gout.

“Tst, tst, tst. A terrible blow. How we come by that, I wonder? Tst, tst. Life extinct? Oh, for several days, you know. Tst, tst- which makes it so much more painful, of course. Dear me, how shocking for her poor parents. And her sisters. They are very agreeable girls; you know them, of course, Sir Charles. Yes. Tst, tst.”

“There is no doubt, I suppose,” said Parker, “that it is Miss Findlater.”

“None whatever,” said Sir Charles.

“Well, as you can identify her, it may be possible to spare the relatives the shock of seeing her like this. Just a moment, doctor – the photographer wants to record the position of the body before you move anything. Now, Mr.- Andrews? -yes- have you ever done any photographs of this kind before? No?- well, you mustn’t be upset by it! I know it’s rather unpleasant. One from here, please, to show the position of the body- now from the top of the bank- that’s right-now one of the wound itself- a close-up view, please. Yes. Thank you. Now, Doctor, you can turn her over, please- I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews- I know exactly how you are feeling, but these things have to be done. Hullo! look how her arms are all scratched about. Looks as if she’d put up a bit of a fight. The right wrist and left elbow- as though someone had been trying to hold her down. We must have a photograph of the marks, Mr. Andrews- they may be important. I say, doctor, what do you make of this on the face?”

The doctor looked as though he would have preferred not to make so much as an examination of the face. However, with many tuts he worked himself up to giving an opinion.

“As far as one can tell, with all these post-mortem changes,” he ventured, “it looks as though the face had been roughened or burnt about the nose and lips. Yet there is no appearance of the kind on the bridge of the nose, neck or forehead. Tst, tst- otherwise I have put it down to severe sunburn.”

“How about chloroform burns?” suggested Parker.

“Tst, tst,” said the doctor, annoyed at not having thought of this himself-“I wish you gentlemen of the police force would not be quite so abrupt. You want everything decided in too great a hurry-I was about to remark- if you had not anticipated me- that since I could not put the appearance down to sunburn, there remains some such possibility as you suggest. I can’t possibly say that it is the result of chloroform- medical prononcements of that kind cannot be hastily made without cautious investigation- but I was about to remark that it might be.”

“In that case,” put in Wimsey, ”could she have died from the effects of the chloroform? Supposing she was given too much or that her heart was weak?”