The cool sea-water put an end to David’s bleeding, and as he dressed he began to feel delightfully uncomfortable (as in the attics of Baxminster) so grimly and gravely did Frank reconstruct the history of the crime with fearful imaginative details thrown in. A little way from them on the beach was something vague and black and humped up, and Frank suddenly pointed at it.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked David in a whisper.
Of course this was all nonsense, but David peered at it through the gloom, and Frank suddenly gave a deep and hollow groan, which startled him quite awfully.
“It wasn’t utterly dead,” he explained. “It tried to call for help, but it couldn’t call loud, as its throat was cut from ear to ear. But it just groaned. The body was that of a boy of fifteen, tall for his age, David, and well nourished.”
David could not help it; he had to run in his bare feet to where the supposed corpse lay, kicked it, and came back.
“Only seaweed,” he said. “Now the murderer did it in my room, you say, I mean he cut the well-nourished boy’s throat there, and then carried it down to the beach. That won’t do. There are only quite a few drops of blood on the way down. If its throat had been cut from ear to ear, there’d be more blood.”
“Not at all,” said Frank. “The murderer held the two edges of the wound together—no, he’d want both hands to carry the body—he pinned the edges of the wound together with—with safety pins, so that it only just leaked. He carried it down to the beach like that, and then took out the pins, because he had a saving disposition, and this let the boy bleed to death. As I said, he thought the tide would carry it away, but it didn’t, and it was found there next morning. Lobsters had got at it though, and howked pieces out of it. There’s lobster for dinner to-night. Then the police traced the bloodstains to your bedroom, and found the slop-pail, and you were kept in prison till you were sixteen, and then hung at Norwich.”
“And what did he—I—I don’t know which I am, the corpse or the murderer——”
“You’re both,” said Frank. “The pins? They were put back in the pin-cushion on your dressing-table, where I saw them just now. There were stains on them that looked like rust. But they weren’t rust, they were——”