Gibbous House 70

Eventually, the soi-disant 'police detective' appeared to realise that his proselytising on the part of this innovatory development in the world of police work was hindering the carrying out of any investigation. He stopped in the midst of some many-syllabled neologism and his mouth closed like a gin-trap sprung by an unwitting badger. The reporter gave a great sigh to indicate his disappointment at this development. The constable turned his gaze once more to Maccabi, who had not desisted in his squirming at any point. What possessed Maccabi to utter the following, I did not know,

'The body, Cullis, I should like to see to its removal... If...'

His resolve withered under the stare.

'It's just, his brother...' He faltered again.

The policeman let him fidget a little longer, then said:

'All in good time. Mr Maccabi. The brother might be summoned , I take it?'

For myself, I would have found this renewed venture into civilised speech an un-nerving departure. Maccabi relaxed a little, and, voicing his compliance loudly, dashed out to the servants entrance, presumably towards the stables.

The uncompanionable silence prevailed once more and I was glad of it, idly perusing the oddly peculiar figure of the newspaperman scribbling at the table. He was of middling height , dark of hair and with eyes of the wateriest blue, save for those parts which, by rights, should have been white, but were threaded with a myriad of red filaments. Whether this was a symptom of some undiagnosed affliction or simply a sign of the extent to which his vanity prevented him from wearing the eyeglasses he so clearly needed, who could say? His attire was, I had to admit, as garish as something I might have worn -had I not benefited from the much needed education in matters of taste, which my late wife had given me. His tail coat was high in the waist and long in the matter of tails. It was violet, not a sin in itself, of course. However, his trousers were a plaid monstrosity such as might have been worn by one of the more unlikely mechanicals in one of Scott's puerile romances. Perhaps his eyeglasses should have been the first item assumed on rising from his bed. He seemed to be about forty-five years of age. I remarked in him the inclination to a furtive and timid manner as observed in such people as are unused to the fugitive life – and who seldom prosper long in it.

Maccabi returned in the time it took to note these things – which is to say, in no time at all. He was unaccompanied and prevailed on the constable to make shift to the stables, as Cullis was unable to enter the house at that moment. The reporter leapt to his feet intent on witnessing the interview. I thought I might follow suit and it struck me that I had theretofore seen no sign of a notebook in Turner's hands. Perhaps an extraordinary memory was another aspect of the neophyte science of detection.

Outside, Cullis was waiting. He had assumed a rough and filthy leather apron over his clothes, although they would not have been ruined by any amount of the blood coating the roughly cured skin. In either hand he held an extremely large and bloodied knife; the one blade being toothed in the manner of a saw and the other visible as being exceptionally keen - even to the naked eye. The reporter looked wide-eyed as though in fear of his life. The policeman was stolidly silent. I considered that this 'detection' seemed to be a remarkably passive activity. Then Maccabi turned to me:

'Have you spoken with Cullis earlier today, sir?'

'What of it?' I asked.

The 'detective' intervened:

'He would like to know if you ordered the disposal of an equine. It appears there is a use for its skin at least.'

The reporter looked at him as a bumpkin at a magic show might at the conjuror. Maccabi looked impressed.

'For pity's sake, we're outside a d____ stable, Cullis reeks of horse, he's wearing an ostler's apron and... I am right am I not, Constable, the poor fellow in the pond has been a corpse too long to produce such gouts of blood! It's this wonderful detection, although any fool might pretend to be a practitioner, it seems to me.'

I turned to the policeman expecting a deserved look of respect. He gave something which approximated a smile.

'My father owned the knacker's in Morpeth when I was young. It must have been a greater feat of detection for you. Although, in fact, you mean deduction, Mr Moffatt.'

He appeared to stop and consider that he had not wanted to say so much, but went on his more customary terse style:

'Strange thing. Corpses, blood. Not a military man even so.'

It was not a question. Therefore I did not answer.