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I recollected, myself, how strange had been her manner when she had visited me, and inwardly confessed to being utterly mystified. Doctor Govitt I found to be a stout middle-aged man, of the usual type of old-fashioned practitioner of a cathedral town, whose methods and ideas were equally old-fashioned.
Four men from the village carried her up here, and they've placed her in her own room." "The police know about it, of course?" "Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He's sent a telegram to Oundle, I think." "And what doctor has seen her?" "Doctor Govitt. He's here now." "Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?" "I expect so, sir. He's been a long time in the room."
Here was a case in point. The scratch on the face that Govitt had described was undoubtedly a post-mortem injury, and, with the exception of another slight scratch on the ball of the left thumb, I could find no trace whatever of violence. And yet, to me, the most likely theory was that she had again met her husband in secret, and had lost her life at his hands.
Govitt drew up the blind, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room, thereby giving me sufficient light to make my examination. The latter occupied some little time, my object being to discover any marks of violence. In persons drowned by force, and especially in women, the doctor expects to find red or livid marks upon the wrists, arms or neck, where the assailant had seized the victim.
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