“They got out through there, Inspector.” The constable directed his comment toward me and pointed to the window. “Looks like the victim put up a fight.”
Red hand prints marred the barely open leaded glass and my attention swung to the adjacent desk where—slumped over it, clutching a plasma-laden knife—sat the apparently strangled dean of Canterbury College.
“Check hospitals,” I said. “I’ll warrant they’re badly injured and won’t get too far. And send this knife to forensics. I want DNA and fingerprints. What’s this?”
I read aloud the note, apparently strategically placed under the deceased’s hand.