Lomas shook his head. “We’ve had too much theory, Finch,” said Reggie cheerfully. “Let’s try some facts. I want the body exhumed.” The eyes of Mr. Finchampstead goggled. His large jaw fell. “Good Gad, you don’t doubt he’s dead?” Lomas cried. “Oh, he’ll be dead all right. I want to know how he died.” “Are you serious?” Finchampstead mourned. “Really, Fortune, this is not a matter for frivolity. The poor fellow was found dead with one side of his head beaten in. There can be no dispute how he died. I presume you have taken the trouble to read the medical evidence.” “I have. That’s what worries me. I’ve seen the doctors you called. Dear old things.” “Very sound men. And of the highest standing,” Finchampstead rebuked him. “As you say. They know a fractured skull when they see it. They would see everything they looked for. But they didn’t look for what they didn’t see.” “May I ask what you mean?” “Any other cause of death.” “The cause was perfectly plain. There was nothing else to look for.” “Yes. Yes,” Reggie lay back and blew smoke. “That’s the sort of reasoning that got you this verdict. Look here, Finch. That smashed head would have killed him all right, but it shouldn’t have killed him so quick. He ought to have lingered unconscious a long while. And he had been dead hours when they found him. We have to begin again from the beginning. I want an order for exhumation.” “Better ask for a subpoena for his soul.” “That’s rather good, Finch,” Reggie smiled. “You’re beginning to take an interest in the case.” “If you could take the evidence of the murdered,” said Lomas, “a good many convictions for murder would look rather queer.” Mr. Finchampstead was horrified. “I conceive,” he announced with dignity, “that a trial in an English court is a practically perfect means of discovering the truth.” Reverently then they watched him go. And when he was gone, “He’s a wonderful man,” said Reggie. “He really believes that.” The next morning saw Mr. Fortune, escorted by Superintendent Bell, arrive at Carwell Hall. It stands in what Mr. Fortune called a sluggish country, a country of large rolling fields and slow rivers. The air was heavy and blurred all colour and form. Mr. Fortune arrived at Carwell Hall feeling as if he had eaten too much, a sensation rare in him, which he resented. He was hardly propitiated by the house, though others have rejoiced in it. It was built under the Tudors out of the spoils and, they say, with the stones of an abbey. Though some eighteenth-century ruffian played tricks with it, its mellow walls still speak of an older, more venturous world. It is a place of studied charm, gracious and smiling, but in its elaboration of form and ornament offering a thousand things to look at, denies itself as a whole, evasive and strange.