by Georgette Heyer
In another minute he and Miss Patterdale had entered the garden, and were bending over the lifeless form of Sampson Warrenby, slumped on a wooden seat set under an oak-tree, and at right angles to the lane. Warrenby, a short, plump man, dressed in sponge bag trousers, an alpaca coat, and morocco-leather slippers, was sitting with his head fallen forward, and one hand hanging limply over the arm of the seat. Charles straightened himself after one look, and said, rather jerkily: "Who was his doctor?"
"Dr. Warcop, but it's no use, Charles."
"No, I know, but probably we ought to send for him. I'm not familiar with the correct procedure on occasions like this, but I'm pretty sure there ought to be a doctor here as soon as possible. Do you know which room the telephone's in?"
"In the study. That one, on the right of the front-door."
When he rejoined Miss Patterdale, a few minutes later, that redoubtable lady was staring fixedly at a bed of snapdragons. "Well? Find Dr. Warcop in?" she said.
"Yes. Surgery-hour. He's coming at once. Also the police, from Bellingham."
Miss Patterdale cleared her throat, and said in a fierce voice: "Well, Charles, there's nothing you or I can do for the poor man. He's dead, and that's all there is to it."
"He's dead all right," said Charles grimly.
"But if you imagine that's all
there's going to be to it, Aunt Miriam, you'd better think again!"
This section was donated by John