The surgeon briskly gave his name, address and qualifications. He had been called to 27 Daylesford Gardens. There he had seen the body of the deceased. Rigor mortis had already set in. It was impossible to say accurately how long he had been dead, but he estimated from two to three days. That would place the time of death between midday on Friday and midday on Saturday. If anything, he thought it would be rather towards the beginning of that period. Asked specifically whether appearances were consistent with death on Friday afternoon or evening, he agreed that that was so.

“Did you find anything to account for the death?” asked the coroner.

“Yes—a thin piece of cord was passed twice round the neck and tightly knotted at the back.”

“Was this the piece of cord in question?”

For the first time in his recital there was a stir of interest in court, as an impassive officer placed the exhibit before the witness. The surgeon glanced at it, said “Yes”, and plunged into medical details. He had conducted a post-mortem. The body was healthy and well nourished. There was no trace of organic disease. Death was due to strangulation. Great force must have been used, suicide was out of the question. He gathered up his papers and left the box with the same air of dreary efficiency that he had displayed throughout.

Harper and then Lewis were next called to give their account of the finding of the body. The inspector, listening idly to what was for him a twice-told tale, took a certain grim amusement in noting the difference in their attitude. Harper was before the coroner as he had been to the detective, aloof, detached and cool; Lewis, on the contrary, was flustered and excited. He evidently took a vulgar delight in being for once the centre of interest, and was much more concerned to describe his own sentiments of horror and amazement at what he saw than to add anything useful to the enquiry. He had already, Mallett knew, allowed himself to be interviewed and photographed by press reporters, unlike Harper, who had done all in his power to avoid publicity. Altogether the pair made a contrast which to a psychologist—and every good detective must be something of a psychologist—was not without interest, and, possibly, profit.

The coroner looked at the clock. He had been satisfactorily expeditious so far, and he was anxious to finish the case before lunch.

“There are only two more witnesses,” he told the jury. “We will deal with them now.”

The jury, aching on hard wooden benches, and longing to escape from the fetid air, wriggled impatiently but made no protest.

“Mr. Du Pine,” called the coroner’s officer.