light from the brazier. The edge of the sheet had gone down on the dead man's tunic, nipping a bit by the shoulder. The face had disappeared in shadow. There were several men's faces in the doorway.
Tietjens said: "No: I don't believe that did it. Something bigger. . . . Say a prize-fighter's fist. . . ."
Sergeant-Major Cowley said:
"No, no prize-fighter's fist would have done that, sir. . . ." And then he added, "Oh, I take your meaning, sir . . . O Nine Morgan's wife, sir. . . ."
Tietjens moved, his feet sticking, towards the sergeant-major's table. The other runner had placed a tin basin with water in it. There was a hooded candle there now, alight; the water shone innocently, a half-moon of translucence wavering over the white bottom of the basin. The runner from Pontardulais said:
"Wash your hands first, sir!"
He said:
"Move a little out of it, cahptn." He had a rag in his black hands. Tietjens moved out of the blood that had run in a thin stream under the table. The man was on his knees, his hands rubbing Tietjens' boot welts heavily, with the rags. Tietjens placed his hands in the innocent water and watched light purple-scarlet mist diffuse itself over the pale half-moon. The man below him breathed heavily, sniffing. Tietjens said:
"Thomas, O Nine Morgan was your mate?"
The man's face, wrinkled, dark and ape-like, looked up.
"He was a good pal, pore old ———," he said. "You would not like, surely to goodness, to go to mess with your shoes all bloody."
