Harold looked at the bones the police had pulled out of his oubliette. They had been picked clean by something. He didn’t dare to venture what.
“Indeed, sir.” Inspector White knew Harold of old. Mr. Waterman was, in his opinion, one of those people who happened to things. He was never the cause of any trouble* but trouble nevertheless crashed into him like a bubble of happiness against the rusty nail of consequence. “I would be interested to know how he ended up in what can only be described as a small dungeon on your grounds.”
“It’s an ice house,” said Harold, “In the last century people--”
“I know what an ice house is, sir. My interest is in why this unknown gentleman’s remains were found there.”
Harold looked up at the roof of the ice house. It was a squat tower some twenty feet in diameter and the same to the eaves. It needed some tiles replaced. He could see where the winter storms had dislodged a section. He’d have to get Devious up there.
“Mr. Waterman?” White clicked his fingers in front of Harold’s face. “I think you faded out there.”
“Sorry.” Harold smiled at the policeman. “What was the question?”
“How do you suppose the victim died in your ice house?”
“Frostbite I expect,” said Harold. “Just look at those teeth marks.”
*As far as the Inspector knew