The Weight of the Evidence Read Online Free PDF Page A

prologue. And the result of it is that we come back asking if it is Pluckrose.’
    ‘Of course it’s Pluckrose.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear it. Remember I haven’t yet seen the body. And a meteorite dropped from a tower sounds as if it might be pretty obliterating. Pluckrose’s clothes on somebody else’s carcase. Such things happen.’
    Hobhouse grunted. ‘Down to the supposed victim’s false teeth lying on the grass nearby.’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ The car slid between lamp-posts and trams – gliding effortlessly up the hill like an immaterial thing. And Appleby looked sombrely out over the grey proliferation of slate and stone. ‘But the line is fine-drawn sometimes between those tawdry fictions and actual crime… Undoubtedly Pluckrose?’
    ‘Undoubtedly. Much of him was – was crushed. Quite remarkably so. But there was nothing like an obliteration of the features. That’s common knowledge, so his grace is barking up a wrong tree. I’m surprised he didn’t find out from Sir David.’
    ‘From the Vice-Chancellor, that is? His Grace will never see you or me again. But with those he has frequently to meet he probably practises a good deal of reserve. And here we are. And what we want now is actors.’
    They stood in a windy outer vestibule, curiously eyed. ‘Actors?’ said Hobhouse.
    ‘No drama without actors. And as yet we haven’t had any – except a sort of strayed ducal reveller. I wonder how he gets that wine – Montalcino, I should say – to carry?’ Appleby’s glance was straying round the large lobby – tiled, sweating faintly, and inhospitable – to which they had come. ‘But look; there are a couple of possible actors. Let’s begin with them.’ Two gowned figures, one elderly and the other young, were advancing up a corridor. ‘Ring up the curtain, Hobhouse. The gallery is agog.’
    ‘But I don’t know anything about them.’ Hobhouse looked at Appleby with an eye startled and plainly meditating the potency of Montalcino. ‘I think the regular thing would be to take you to see Sir David.’
    ‘Bother Sir David. Likely enough we shall have to interview the whole learned lot before we’re finished.’ And Appleby took a couple of steps across the lobby. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, and fished a slip of paper from his pocket.
    The two gowned persons said good afternoon politely.
    ‘I am Detective-Inspector Appleby of New Scotland Yard.’
    The two academic gentlemen, who a moment before had been conversing together with dignity and eyeing the empty corridor with an unnecessary but impressive severity, now looked at Appleby dumbly and with at least momentary dismay. It was upsetting, no doubt.
    ‘And this is Inspector Hobhouse of the Borough police. As you may know, we are inquiring into the death of Professor Pluckrose.’ Appleby looked at the elder of the two men. ‘Mr Murn, I think?’
    ‘You are mistaken, sir.’ The elderly man looked both offended and relieved. ‘My name is Crunkhorn.’
    Appleby looked at his slip of paper, and his face lit up with sudden interest. ‘Mr Crunkhorn!’ he said. ‘That’s capital. And I may suppose, perhaps, that this is – ?’
    ‘Church,’ said the younger man, innocently and obligingly.
    ‘Exactly. Now I wonder if you could both give us a few minutes? We are using a room just along this corridor.’
    Mr Crunkhorn bowed, and they moved into the tank-like apartment where Hobhouse had earlier given his account of the case. Appleby politely set chairs. ‘We are lucky to have come upon you so readily,’ he said.
    The young man called Church again looked scared. But Mr Crunkhorn now wore an expression of settled severity. ‘We are somewhat at a loss, Mr Appleby. I hold the chair of mathematics and Mr Church is my colleague in that department. We have no special knowledge of Pluckrose. In fact, we were very seldom associated with him.’
    ‘Just so.’ Appleby nodded agreeably. ‘Inspector Hobhouse and I have been seeing the