“Heavens, no. But this fallen world has taken a harsh toll on many. My life’s purpose is to rehabilitate those I can, and to protect and nurture those I can’t.”
“How noble,” Smith replied with asperity.
“And I am, in fact, a duly licensed medical doctor.”
“Very well. And your findings?”
“Mr. Oliver was struck on the back of his head with sufficient force to cause a contusion.”
“The cause of death.”
“I believe so. I also noticed the dark appearance of his lips and fingers. That gave me pause, wondering if the man might have been poisoned, but at the time, I concluded that the black marks were simply ink stains.”
Smith nodded. “We concluded the same. Anything to add?”
Fox considered. “Only something Sir Frederick observed. That if Mr. Oliver were sitting on the chaise alive and well, reading or writing, he would have heard his door open. Why did he sit there instead of rising to challenge his assailant? To defend himself?”
“And your point?”
“Either he knew and trusted whoever entered, or perhaps hewasdrugged or poisoned and could not rise.”
“You already said you discounted the black stains. Did you see any other evidence of poison or drugs?”
“No, but an autopsy might reveal telltale inflammation of the internal organs. I have sent the contents of the cup and bowl found in his room to be tested for traces of poisonous substances. The results may take some time.”
Smith frowned. “That was quite presumptuous. The man was bludgeoned. You said it yourself. Struck with enough force to kill a man.”
Dr. Fox sighed. “Yes.”
“I see little reason to delay this process further by requesting an autopsy when the body has already been removed. But the jury will deliberate that option later. You are excused, Dr. Fox. Next, I would like to hear from the constable.”
The young man was sworn in, then began, “Noah Brixton, born and raised right here in Swanford.”
“And you are the current constable?”
“Yes. As well as local baker now my father’s gone.”
“Well, Mr. Brixton, anything useful to report?”
Brixton looked uneasily at Sir Frederick, then said, “No, sir. I thought I might, but turns out I was mistaken.”
“Oh?”
“That’s right.”
“Very well. And as constable, what is your opinion of the manner and cause of death?”
“If I had to wager a guess, I’d say maybe a robbery gone wrong. Famous author staying in the hotel and all. Times are hard for some, and now and again, a man gets desperate, especially if he has a family to feed.”
Smith said archly, “And do you have many robberies here in the metropolis of Swanford?”
Apparently aware he was being mocked, Brixton lifted hischin. “A few, yes. A theft of hens and another from the church poor box.”
“Large-scale crime indeed.”
“The way I see it,” Brixton went on, undeterred and warming to his theory, “is someone desperate-like heard Ambrose Oliver was staying here and decided to rob him.”
“Even though we’ve heard testimony from others that Mr. Ambrose Oliver was in financial difficulty?”
