The messenger whom Blick had sent into Selcaster that morning, before he himself went up to Markenmore Court to attend the Coroner’s inquest, had carried a letter to the principal bookseller and stationer in the old city. There were certain things that Blick found himself in great need of in tackling the problems which had just been put before him; the bookseller was the man to supply him. And now here were the bookseller’s parcels—one, a long, rolled thing, carefully wrapped in canvas; the other a fat little parcel in brown paper. Blick undid that first and drew out and laid on his table a folding road map, a general map of the county, two or three local guide-books, illustrated by photographs, a more ambitious work, Environs of Selcaster, also full of pictures, a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, and a local time-table. He looked over all these carefully as he laid them out—they were just what he wanted. But he felt still greater interest in the long, canvas-covered parcel, which, divested of its wrappings, proved to contain the Government Ordnance Map of the Markenmore village and immediate surroundings—a big square thing, on stout paper, wherein every road, bylane, footpath, house, cottage, meadow, wood, field, coppice, river, stream, hedgerow, stile, was marked, named, and measured. Blick’s detective instincts rejoiced at the sight of that masterly performance—he blessed the men of the Ordnance Survey service for their meticulous care in preparing it. Going out in search of Grimsdale, he procured some tin tacks from him; with these he fastened his Ordnance Map to a convenient blank space on the wall of his sitting-room, and for the next half-hour stood smoking his pipe in front of it. At the end of that time he had memorized the general lie of his surroundings and committed the more important place-names to the secret cells of his quick brain.

He turned then to the guide-books, maps, and timetables, and for two hours pored over them with absorbed intentness. He wanted to know all about roads, railways, and times—spade-work this, but of high importance. And he saw at once that, as Walkinshaw had said, during the informal talk which had followed on the adjournment, Markenmore lay near the middle of a sort of triangle, with main roads running along each side. The triangle formed by these roads was of the sort which has two sides longer than the third, but are equal to each other; the third was of further extent. Markenmore lay in the south-west part of this triangle, inclining towards the corner made by the bare line and the longer line of the three; consequently it was nearer to two sides of the triangle than to the third, and therefore to two of the main roads than to the other. Now of these three main roads, two, both starting from London, ran to the Court, within a few miles of Markenmore; the third ran all the way along the coast itself. As regards highways, then, Markenmore was in direct communication with London, exactly sixty-five miles to the north-east, and with several coast towns at nearer distances.

But in addition to the triangle made by these main roads, there was yet another, made by railways. The railways, indeed, followed, and ran parallel with the highways; they corresponded to them in every respect; road and rail ran alongside each other, with no greater intervening space at any point than a mile or so. Markenmore was within easy distance of these main railway routes. Several stations could be easily gained from it. Selcaster itself lay two and a half miles to the south-east; Mitbourne about the same distance to the east; there was a somewhat important junction three miles to the south-west; a roadside station four miles due north. And on turning to his time-table, Blick discovered that between four and six o’clock in the morning, there were, taking these four stations altogether, a respectable number of trains going north or south, east or west, and that from two stations, the junction aforesaid and the one to the north, there were at a quarter to six every morning, workmen’s special trains, which doubtless conveyed large numbers of craftsmen, artisans and labourers into the big shipping port a few miles away on the coast. Altogether, he saw that a smart, astute man would have no difficulty in getting away unobserved from the Markenmore district by an early morning train, in any one of at least six separate directions.

Turning again to the question of access and excess by the roads, Blick remembered what Walkinshaw had said about the facilities which the district afforded for successfully hiding a motor-car while its owner or occupant paid a visit. Here the Ordnance Map on the wall gave him great help. The entire contour and configuration of the country was plainly shown. North and north-east of Markenmore village, behind Greycloister, Mr. John Harborough’s big house, The Warren, Mr. Fransemmery’s residence, and Woodland Cottage, Mrs. Braxfield’s domain, lay over downs, which, bleak and bare, in the main, were intersected by deep lanes, and honeycombed by disused chalk-pits, thickly grown over with vegetation and shrubbery; there were also plantations, coppices, and here and there deep woods. It would be an easy thing for any one to turn aside from a main road into these solitudes, leave a motor-car in the shadows of some old, unworked pit, or amongst the elms and beeches of a wood, while he came down into the village. Moreover, Blick noticed that on the Ordnance Map were marked several grass tracks across the downs; now, he had already seen enough of the downs about Markenmore Hollow to know that the turf up there was so wiry, resilient, and firm that you could drive an automobile across it, almost anywhere, with as great ease as on a macadamized road and without leaving any trace. Therefore a man might have turned off the main roads, crossed the downs to some point within a couple of miles of the village, left his car in some convenient old chalk-pit, and felt assured that no one would know how he came nor how he left. Up there, on those solitudes, there was not a house, not a cottage, not even an outlying farm, marked on the map.

So much for these matters—Blick now turned to a third. Grimsdale had said that when the three men left his house at a quarter-past three on Tuesday morning, he saw them walk up the road in the direction of Greycloister and Mitbourne; Blick directed his attention to this road. Immediately in front of the Sceptre, flanking on its front garden, in fact, was the main road of the village; at the corner of the garden it divided; one branch, to the right, turning off, direct, to Selcaster; the other, on the left, turning to Mitbourne, and, at about three hundred yards from the Sceptre, passing the entrance gates of Greycloister. Now according to Grimsdale, the three men took this road and disappeared along it. But Guy Markenmore, if the medical evidence was reliable, was shot dead, about four o’clock, at Markenmore Hollow, about a mile northward of this road. How had he come there? The Ordnance Map and its meticulously careful markings, showed that. Two hundred yards from the Sceptre Inn, on the Mitbourne road, there were two footpaths, one on either side of the way. One, on the south, or right-hand side, went across the meadows in the directions of Selcaster; the other, on the north, or left-hand side, turned up to the downs, between Greycloister and Woodland Cottage. Near Markenmore Hollow—in fact, at the very spot whereat Guy Markenmore’s dead body had been found by the ploughman, Hobbs, this path struck into another, which led direct to Mitbourne Station. And on seeing this, Blick came to a conclusion: When the three men came to these footpaths, they separated. One man either turned back to the village (unlikely, thought Blick) or took the right-hand footpath to Selcaster (very probable, Blick considered); the other two men, of whom Guy Markenmore was certainly one, took the left-hand path, and climbed the hill-side to Markenmore Hollow. There Guy Markenmore was suddenly murdered, and whichever man it was who was with him, whether the presumed American who had come to the Sceptre at nine o’clock on Monday night, or the man who had been given admittance at two o’clock on Tuesday morning, was the murderer.

Arrived at this conclusion, Blick felt somewhat cheerful. He refilled and lighted his pipe, put his hands in his pockets, and lounged out of his sitting-room, across the hall, and into the bar-parlour. This was years before the imposition of those rigorous licensing restrictions which now prevent the free-born Englishman from taking his ease in his inn whenever he feels so disposed, and though it was only five o’clock in the afternoon the cosy bar-parlour contained several customers—village idlers who were discussing the inquest and the tragedy that had given rise to it. All and each already knew Blick as the great London detective who had come there to find out who had killed poor young Master Guy, and to hang that same varmint when found, and they stared at Blick’s light hair, blue eyes, chubby countenance, and smart town clothes as if wondering how such a youthful-looking cherub could possibly possess the faculties of a ferret and the persistency of a foxhound. But Blick, beyond giving them a friendly nod, paid no attention to these patriarchs and wiseacres—he fully intended to cultivate their acquaintance at some future time, but just then he wanted a word or two with Grimsdale.

Grimsdale, in his shirt-sleeves, was polishing glasses at the farther end of the bar; Blick strolled up and leaned over to him.

“I say!” he whispered. “A word or two with you, Grimsdale. That pipe you found——”

“Yes, sir?” returned Grimsdale, leaning across the bar.

“I suppose,” continued Blick, “that you took a good look at it?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you notice the name or initials of the makers?”

“Yes, sir. It was one of those L. & Co.’s pipes. I know ’em well enough, Mr. Blick—my old guv’nor, Sir James Marchant, used to smoke ’em. He’s given me one of his old ones, now and again.”

“One of LÖewe & Company’s, eh?” said Blick, who had already assured himself of that fact, and only wanted to know if the landlord knew.

“L. & Co.’s sir—that’s what I call ’em; that’s how they’re stamped—on the wood, and on the silver mount—and of course, markings on the silver—a lion and a crown and so on, same as all silver articles are.”

“Did you notice anything else about the pipe?”

“I noticed two things, Mr. Blick—I’m one of those that’s given to noticing. It was a newish pipe; the other was this—there was a slight, very slight chip in the edge of the bowl, as if its owner had knocked out the ashes against something sharp—perhaps against the edge of a fender, or against the heel of his boot, and caught a nail there; I’ve seen many a good pipe chipped that way, however sound the wood is.”

“Good!” said Blick. “You’ve certainly a talent for observation.”

Grimsdale smiled.

“Aye, well!” he said, sinking his voice still lower. “I didn’t say anything about it in that witness-box, but—between you and me—when I learnt all I did about this murder, I put a mark of my own on that pipe!”

“You did?” exclaimed Blick. “What mark?”

“Bit of a cross on the silver band,” said Grimsdale. He winked knowingly at the detective. “I’d know my own mark again—anywhere!”

Blick nodded. Then he glanced round at the men in the far corner of the room.

“Gossiping about all this, I suppose?” he asked.

“Aye!” assented Grimsdale. “Lord bless you!—they’ll talk of nothing else for many a day—unless there’s a four-legged fowl or a calf with three heads comes along! It’s pie to them, all this, Mr. Blick. You being a Londoner, you don’t know what village folk are for talk and gossip!”

“Who’s the biggest gossip in the place?” asked Blick.

“Benny Cripps, the sexton,” replied Grimsdale promptly. “Get talking to him, and he’ll tell you the whole history of Markenmore and every man, woman, and child in it, high and low, rich and poor, since Doomsday—whenever that was, and it must be a long time ago. They say he knows the pedigree of these Markenmores, for instance, better than they do themselves!”

“An interesting old party,” remarked Blick. “Where does he hang out?”

“Next cottage to the churchyard,” replied Grimsdale. “Old, thatched cottage.”

“Well,” said Blick, lifting his elbows off the bar-counter. “I’m going for a stroll—to have a look round. You’ll have supper ready for me about eight?”

“Right, sir—got a nice roast chicken for you,” answered Grimsdale. “A beauty!”

Blick laughed, nodded, and went away into the village street. He had an eye for the picturesque, this tracker of criminals, and the little south-country settlement, half as ancient as the hill-sides above it, appealed to him. Markenmore was a place of tiny thatched cottages, set in gardens and orchards, with here and there a substantial farmstead, set back from the road, in its paddock or home-garth; its main feature stood in its midst—a grey old church, whose tower and spire rose high above the elms and poplars that fenced in the churchyard. In these early spring days there was a great sense of peace about these rustic surroundings, and it struck Blick that it seemed odd that he should be there, amidst so much natural serenity, under his present circumstances. Everything just then, from the new flowers and plants in the cottage gardens to the new nests high in the fresh-leaved trees, spoke of life—and his task was to discover the author of a crime, the cause of a violent death.

He was presently reminded of that death and its consequences by the sight of an old man, who, in a nook of the tree-surrounded churchyard, was superintending the digging of two graves. Blick remembered then that Sir Anthony Markenmore and his elder son were to be buried side by side on the next day but one—the old man, accordingly, must be the sexton, Benny Cripps, of whom Grimsdale had just spoken. He entered the churchyard and went up to him; the sexton, a gnarled old fellow of apparently seventy, turned from his two diggers and gave the detective a knowing nod. He sat down on a box-tomb dose by, and pulling out a short clay pipe proceeded to light it.

“You be the young London feller what’s come here to find out who killed young Mr. Guy, I do hear?” he observed, looking Blick over with critical eyes. “A sharp ’un you be at your job, too, I do understand. Well, and I ’low as how you’ve got your work set, my fine young man, I do so! ’Tain’t going to be found out in a day, ain’t that, nor yet in a week. Didn’t make much out at the Coroner’s ’quest, neither—no!”

“You were there, eh?” asked Blick.

“There I was, master, and hear all as was said. And come away about so wise as I did go. Lord bless ’ee, ’tain’t only just starting this here! You’m like one o’ they exploring fellers that goes into furrin parts, setting out, like, on a path that you don’t know the end of!”

“I guess you’re about right,” admitted Blick. “Bit of a tangle, isn’t it?”

”I believe ’ee, my son! And so far as I see, I don’t see no sort of a clue as you can lay hands on to guide ’ee, like. All same, I do have my own opinions—sure! And ain’t going to alter ’em for nobody—not for the King himself, and no disrespect to him, neither.”

Blick sat down by the old man’s side, and lighted his own pipe.

“You’re Mr. Cripps, aren’t you?” he asked. “Sexton, I think?”

“Benjamin Cripps I be, young master, and sexton I am, and parish clerk, and a mort o’ other offices, and the one man in this here village can’t do without, nohow. Five vicars there’s been in Markenmore i’ my time and here I am—buried four of ’em! They comes and they goes—but I stops. Been parish clerk here five-and-forty years, and my father he was same for nigh as many, and his father before him; he was same, too, but for over fifty, the Crippses, we’ve been in this parish as long as they Markenmores themselves, and buried a sight or ’em, and now I’m going to bury two more. This here church, now, you might say as how we Crippses, it belongs to we—knows all about it, we do, and about most things in this here village. Keeps it—so to speak.”

“And what do you think about this affair, Mr. Cripps?” asked Blick suavely. “A man of your experience will have an opinion. Do you call it a murder, now?”

“Murder I do entitle it, my dear young London man, and a grievous and bloody one! Ain’t going for to say as how young Master Guy was a parrygon of righteousness, ’cause he wasn’t, and didn’t make no pretensions to being one o’ them here saints what we reads about in the prayer-book. But murdered he was, and cruel shameful; and you ain’t got on the real truth o’ the matter I do suppose—no, nor won’t yet awhile. But I hope ’ee will, and I’ll tramp cheerful to hear whoever done it sentenced to be hanged—so I will!”

“You haven’t any idea of your own about it, I suppose?” suggested Blick.

“Ain’t got what you might call precise ideas—yet,” declared Cripps. “But Lord bless ’ee, of course it do be something to do with something rising out of that there young Jezebel at the Dower House!—and I don’t care if she do hear me say so. Her be a terr’ble sinful and scarlet lot, that! I mind she well enough when her pa was vicar here, and her a young lass that should ha’ been minding her hemming and stitching, and such-like women’s work. But her didn’t never take to no such peaceful okkypations; her was allus a-trapesing about wi’ a pack o’ young fellers at her skirts, and a-setting ’em by the ears. Lot o’ trouble her occasioned when she was a girl, and now as soon as her comes back to the place, her starts it again.”

“Then you think Mrs. Tretheroe’s something to do with it?” asked Blick.

“Don’t say hers anything to do wi’ it, active like,” replied the old sexton. “But I do say as how, in my opinion, hers at the bottom of it, one way or another. Lord bless ’ee, some on ’em—young gentlemen—was for fighting each other about her before her was eighteen year old! If it had been i’ the old days, there’d ha’ been a mort o’ they duels fought about her. Her was that sort—first favouring one, and then t’other till they was all mad, like!”

“I suppose Mr. Guy Markenmore was pretty mad about her at that time, eh?” suggested Blick.

“Umph!” said Cripps. “Runned after her a deal, he did, to be sure. But he was a powerful bad ’un for running after women-folk of all sorts, high and low—turned the heads of half the lasses in this village, he did! Lord bless ’ee, he was always a-making love, all round—couldn’t help it, seemed so. Left some aching hearts behind him, did Master Guy when he went away to London town.”

“What, amongst the village girls?” asked Blick.

“Aye—and ’mongst the village men!” growled the sexton. “There was more than one young feller that had reason to hate him, so there was! Dead he is, and not to be spoke ill of now—but he was a bad ’un, sure-ly!”

This paradoxical answer suggested a new train of thought to Blick, and he presently went away to think it over. But ere he had gone far, he remembered that he had a question to ask of Mrs. Tretheroe, so he passed through the village and betook himself to the front door of the Dower House.

CHAPTER XII