"Grenville, would you mind?"

"Show you how he looked, you mean?" Grenville gave his usual cool shrug, but his face was white. He strolled to the chair and sat down. "Slumped over the desk, as I said." He arranged himself in an untidy hunch, resting his head and one arm on the desk and letting the other arm hang to the floor. "Like this, I think." His voice was muffled.

I moved to the doorway and looked in. "Interesting."

Grenville sat up. "I found it rather appalling, myself. Are you finished?"

I started to tell him to stay a moment longer, then I realized that he found sitting in the dead man's chair distasteful. "Of course. I beg your pardon."

Grenville stood, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his lips. "I know you must have seen worse sights than a man dead in a chair, but the entire business gave me a turn. It was so quick- "

He broke off and patted his lips again.

I thought I understood. The month before, Grenville had received a deep knife wound in his chest, one that had barely missed killing him. The sight of the knife and the fact that it had killed Turner instantly must have given him pause.

Grenville tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and assumed his usual air of calm. If I hadn't come to know him well, I would think he'd found the whole thing a dead bore. But he betrayed himself with the twitching of his fingers and the tight lines about his mouth.

"If Imogene Harper entered and saw Turner sitting here, she might have thought him drunk or asleep," I said. "But as soon as she touched him…" I moved to the chair and laid my hand on an imaginary Turner's shoulder. "She would have noticed he was dead. How, then, did she get the blood on her glove?"

I saw Grenville's interest stir. "Yes, I see what you mean. He bled very little. If she'd merely shaken his shoulder, where would she have picked up the blood? She would have had to reach down to grasp the knife or press her fingers to the wound."