"That girl’s a bit delirious," Dr. Ringwood diagnosed, as he heard the sound; and he quickened his ascent. But as he reached a little landing and could see ahead of him, he was brought up sharply by the sight which met his eyes. Sir Clinton was bending with his flash-lamp over a huddled mass which lay on the floor at the head of the flight, and a glance showed the doctor that it was the body of the maid who had admitted him to the house on his earlier visit.
"Come here, doctor, and see if anything can be done for her," Sir Clinton’s voice broke in on his surprise.
He leaped up the intervening steps and stooped in his turn over the body, while Sir Clinton made way for him and kept the flash-lamp playing on the face. Down the well of the stairs came the voice of the delirious patient, sunk now to a querulous drone.
The briefest examination showed that the victim was beyond help.
"We might try artificial respiration, but it would really be simply time lost. She’s been strangled pretty efficiently."
Sir Clinton’s face had grown dark as he bent over the body, but his voice betrayed nothing of his feelings.
"Then you’d better go up and look after that girl upstairs, doctor. She’s evidently in a bad way. I’ll attend to things here."
Dr. Ringwood mechanically switched on the light of the next flight in the stairs and then experienced a sort of subconscious surprise to find it in action.
"I thought the fuse had gone," he explained involuntarily, as he hurried up the stairs.
Left to himself, Sir Clinton turned his flash-lamp upwards on to the functionless electric light bracket above the landing and saw, as he had expected, that the bulb had been removed from the socket. A very short search revealed the lamp itself lying on the carpet. The Chief Constable picked it up gingerly and examined it minutely with his pocket-light; but his scrutiny merely proved that the glass was unmarked by any recent finger-prints. He put it carefully aside, entered the lighted bedroom, and secured a fresh bulb from one of the lamp-sockets there.
With this he returned to the landing and glanced round in search of something on which to stand, so that he could put the new bulb in the empty socket. The only available piece of furniture was a small table untidily covered with a cloth, which stood in one corner of the landing. Sir Clinton stepped across to it and inspected it minutely.
"Somebody’s been standing on that," he noted. "But the traces are just about nil. The cloth’s thick enough to have saved the table-top from any marks of his boot-nails."
Leaving the table untouched, he re-entered the room he had already visited and secured another small table, by means of which he was able to climb up and fix the new bulb in the empty socket over the landing. It refused to light, however, and he had to go to the foot of the stairs and reverse the switch before the current came on.
Shutting off his flash-lamp, Sir Clinton returned to the landing and bent once more over the body. The cause of death was perfectly apparent: a cord with a rough wooden handle at each end had been slipped round the woman’s throat and had been used as a tourniquet on her neck. The deep biting of the cord into the flesh indicated with sufficient plainness the brutality of the killer. Sir Clinton did not prolong his examination, and when he had finished, he drew out his pocket-handkerchief and covered the distorted face of the body. As he did so, Dr. Ringwood descended the stairs behind him.
"I’ll need to telephone for the hospital van," he said. "It’s out of the question to leave that girl here in the state she’s in."
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement. Then a thought seemed to strike him.
"Quite off her rocker, I suppose?" he demanded. "Or did she understand you when you spoke to her?"
"Delirious. She didn’t even seem to recognise me," Dr. Ringwood explained shortly.
Then the reason for the Chief Constable’s questions seemed to occur to him.
"You mean she might be able to give evidence? It’s out of the question. She’s got a very bad attack. She won’t remember anything, even if she’s seen something or heard sounds. You’d get nothing out of her."
Sir Clinton showed no particular disappointment.
"I hardly expected much."
Dr. Ringwood continued his way down stairs and made his way to the telephone. When he had sent his message, he walked up again to the first floor. A light was on in one of the rooms, and he pushed open the door and entered, to find Sir Clinton kneeling on the floor in front of an antique chest of drawers.
A glance round the room showed the doctor that it belonged to Mrs. Silverdale. Through the half-open door of a wardrobe he caught sight of some dresses; the dressing-table was littered with feminine knick-knacks, among which was a powder-puff which the owner had not replaced in its box; a dressing-jacket hung on a chair close to the single bed. The whole room betrayed its constant use by some woman who was prepared to spend time on her toilette.
