Two days had elapsed since her clandestine activities in the cadaver keep, and she was anxious to make up for lost time. She had trouble keeping her patience as Fletcher, their coachman, stocky frame lumbering around their backyard, never quite got the gist of her instructions. He heaved the tool bench from the stick-house and placed it in front of the coal chute. Dody suppressed a sigh. “Not there, Fletcher, you’ve hardly left room to swing a cat—closer to the servants’ privy, please, towards the back wall.” With much sweating and grunting, he dragged the bench across the mossy cobbles, until finally he had it placed in a suitable position. Here there would be plenty of room for him to swing each of the possible murder weapons: half a brick, a belaying pin, a piece of wood measuring four-by-two, and the policeman’s “borrowed” truncheon. “The first one, if you please, Fletcher,” Dody said. She sensed movement from the house next door. A sash window rattled open and a maid appeared, shaking out a floral bedspread.
