Five minutes later, the charwoman, amazed and lachrymose, and holding a corner of her apron in readiness to apply to her eyes, watched the little procession move away across the garden of Woodland Cottage and over the hill-side to the edge of the grass track whereat the cab was in waiting. She kept her eyes fixed on Mrs. Braxfield until Mrs. Braxfield vanished; but Mrs. Braxfield never looked back. Her eyes were concentrated on the cab in which she was to be carried away. There were two more plain-clothes men in charge of it; one on the box, another by the door, and at sight of them she laughed satirically.

“You came pretty well prepared, I think!” she said with bitter emphasis. “I can see what was in your minds! This is what you call having a talk between ourselves—being frank and candid—and all that! Rubbish!”

“You’ve only got to be candid, Mrs. Braxfield, and there’ll be no necessity to take you away,” said the Chief Constable. “If you’ll only just tell me——”

“I shall tell nothing!” retorted Mrs. Braxfield, “Nothing at all!—not one word!—until I’ve seen my solicitor, Mr. Crewe. I suppose you’ll not deny me the right of seeing him when I get to wherever you’re going to take me?”

“You shall see Mr. Crewe within ten minutes of reaching Selcaster,” assented the Chief Constable. “I’ll give orders to that effect. My men here will see that you’re quite comfortable, and that you and Mr. Crewe have every facility you want—and I hope, Mrs. Braxfield, for your own sake, that by the time I get back to Selcaster you’ll have thought better of things and been more open and candid with your solicitor than you’ve been with me!”

“That’s my business,” said Mrs. Braxfield. “I can do it without any advice from you. But—aren’t you going back now? Mr. Crewe’ll want you.”

“Not at present,” said the Chief Constable. “You’ll go with my men—Mr. Blick and myself are now going to see Mr. Harry Markenmore.”

Mrs. Braxfield stopped in her progress towards the cab. A curious look came into her eyes.

“You’re not—not going to arrest him?” she whispered. “He——”

“Just leave us to manage our own business, if you please, Mrs. Braxfield,” said the Chief Constable, “Step in!—you’ll be treated with every consideration, as you’ll see. Marshall!” he continued, turning to the man who had accompanied Blick and himself to the cottage. “As soon as you get to Selcaster, put Mrs. Braxfield in my room, and send Robinson at once to Mr. Crewe, asking him to come round immediately to see her. You know all the rest—I shall be back there as quickly as possible.”

The cab drove away with its burden of three stolid-faced men and a highly indignant woman, and the Chief Constable took off his peaked and laced cap and wiped his forehead.

“Phew!” he said. “Disagreeable business that, Blick! Now, why the deuce couldn’t that foolish woman be candid instead of behaving in a fashion calculated to arouse suspicion? A few words—a proper explanation—and we needn’t have been put to this trouble!”

“She’s a determined and obstinate woman,” answered Blick reflectively. “But as far as I’m concerned no amount of explanation would have satisfied me. I haven’t the slightest doubt that it was she who threw this automatic pistol away down the badger-hole, and if that isn’t damaging to her, I don’t know what is!”

“You think it’s highly probable that she shot Guy Markenmore, then?” suggested the Chief Constable.

“Well, if you want to know, I do!” declared Blick frankly. “It was probably done on the spur of the moment, but I think she did. From what I’ve seen of her, I think she’s a woman who wouldn’t stick at anything. She’s evidently tremendously ambitious about that daughter of hers, and was very keen that she should be Lady Markenmore instead of merely Mrs. Harry. Fransemmery can tell you that Mrs. Braxfield was terribly upset when she found that Guy had left a son, and that Harry hadn’t succeeded to the baronetcy. Whatever may result there’s very strong ground of suspicion against her. She wouldn’t be the first woman who’s resorted to murder for the sake of family advancement—not she!”

“I wonder what made her start when I mentioned that we were going to see Harry Markenmore?” remarked the Chief Constable. “And whatever made her ask if we were meaning to arrest him? Surely, if she was in it, he isn’t—can’t have been an accessory?”

“Can’t say!” answered Blick laconically. “But—she was taken aback. However, there is Harry Markenmore—we needn’t go to the house for him.”

He and his companion had crossed Deep Lane by that time, and were now traversing the park in the direction of Markenmore Court. And there, a little way before them, they saw Harry Markenmore, superintending the labours of three or four men who were engaged in felling a giant elm tree. He caught sight of them at the same moment, and presently came strolling in their direction, his eyes looking a question as they met.

“Good morning, Mr. Markenmore,” began the Chief Constable. “We were just going to the house to see you. The fact is,” he continued, unconsciously lowering his voice in spite of the fact that he and his two companions stood in a solitude, “a very unpleasant situation has arisen in respect of the death of your brother. Now, Mr. Markenmore, you can help us to clear it up, one way or another, if you’ll give us some information: the whole thing may be capable of very easy explanation—anyway, I’m sure you’ll help us if you can.”

“In what way?” asked Harry. He stood, hands in pockets, glancing first at one, then at the other; in Blick’s opinion he seemed to be ill at ease. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, first of all,” replied the Chief Constable quietly, “we better tell you what we do know. Now don’t be alarmed or upset, Mr. Markenmore, by what I have to say——”

A queer expression suddenly played about Harry Markenmore’s lips, and he gave Blick an equally queer glance.

“Why should I be either alarmed or upset?” he asked. “Scarcely likely!”

“Just so, Mr. Markemnore, just so!” agreed the Chief Constable. “It isn’t at all likely, but you know what I mean. Well, now, in the course of his enquiries Detective-Sergeant Blick has found that some little time ago you purchased a Webley-Fosbery automatic pistol at Widdington’s, the gunsmith, in Selcaster. That’s so, Mr. Markenmore?”

“That is so, certainly,” replied Harry. “No secret about it, either.”

“I felt sure there wouldn’t be,” said the Chief Constable. “Very well—would you recognize that pistol if you were shown it?”

“By its mark and number—yes!” answered Harry.

The Chief Constable turned to Blick, who promptly drew the automatic pistol from his pocket and handed it over. Both watched curiously as Harry examined it.

“That’s it!” he said. “But how——”

“Mr. Markenmore!” interrupted the Chief Constable. “This is where the unpleasant part of the business comes in! That pistol was found, by Detective-Sergeant Blick himself, thrown away in a hole—a badger hole—behind the bushes in Deep Lane there, last Friday evening. Now, Mr. Markenmore, have you any idea how your pistol came to be there? For it is the automatic pistol you bought at Widdington’s—we’ve identified the number and mark.”

Harry Markenmore, healthy enough in colour until then, had paled, and he was staring at the automatic pistol with a frown that was half angry and half puzzled.

“I!” he exclaimed. “How should I know how it came there!”

“But you’ll know what you did with the pistol when you bought it, Mr. Markenmore!” said the Chief Constable. “I gather from your last remark that it passed out of your possession. Now, Mr. Markenmore, be frank with us! To whom did you give the pistol?—or to whom did you lend it? Anyway, who’s had it?”

Harry Markenmore handed the pistol back, and replaced his hands in his pockets.

“Look here!” he said quietly. “You’d better be frank, too. Are you suggesting that it was a shot from that thing that caused my brother’s death?”

“We think it extremely probable, Mr. Markenmore,” answered the Chief Constable. “We showed it to the police-surgeon last night, and in his opinion, it is just the sort of thing that was used.”

“And whom do you suspect of using it?” demanded Harry. “Come, now?”

He had assumed the rÔle of examiner then, and he was watching the two men as keenly as they had watched him. The Chief Constable hesitated.

“I should prefer that you tell us what you did with the pistol,” he began. “I think——”

“And I prefer that you tell me whom you suspect of using it on my brother,” declared Harry. “Whatever you prefer, I’m not going to say anything that may incriminate perfectly innocent people! That’s flat—and final, too!”

The Chief Constable looked at Blick. And Blick, who was beginning to size matters up, nodded.

“Tell him!” he murmured.

“Very well, Mr. Markenmore,” said the Chief Constable. “I’ll take the lead. We believe there is ground of suspicion against Mrs. Braxfield. We have found out that for some time she has been in the habit of firing an automatic pistol near a spinney on the edge of Markenmore Hollow in order to frighten foxes away from her chickens, and that she has often been seen there at very early hours of the morning. Now, Mr. Markenmore, is yours the pistol she used?”

“What does Mrs. Braxfield herself say?” asked Harry quietly.

“Mrs. Braxfield refuses to say anything,” answered the Chief Constable, “except that she admits firing at the foxes sometimes, at the times and place I’ve mentioned. And the result is that we’ve been obliged to take her off to Selcaster, pending enquiries——”

Harry Markenmore’s face suddenly became dark with anger.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You’ve—arrested her?”

“Detained for further enquiries,” said the Chief Constable, with a sudden approach to stern formalities. “She has only to give us a satisfactory explanation——”

“Damnation!” Harry Markenmore suddenly burst out. “Are you aware that Mrs. Braxfield is my mother-in-law? What the devil do you mean by even suggesting that she murdered my brother?”

“Be calm, Mr. Markenmore!” said the Chief Constable. “Help us to clear up this affair of the automatic pistol! Tell us if and why you gave it to Mrs. Braxfield, and if you can account for its being thrown away? Then——”

But Harry, muttering angrily to himself, suddenly turned and strode off rapidly in the direction of Markenmore Court, and though the Chief Constable called to him, begging him to listen to reason, he marched on without taking further notice. The two men looked at each other.

“Is he to go?” asked Blick.

“What can we do?” answered the Chief Constable. “Hang it all——”

“I think I should have insisted on his going with us to Selcaster,” said Blick. “If he and Mrs. Braxfield had been confronted——”

The Chief Constable, however, had turned towards the village.

“Oh, well!” he said. “There’s a way of making him speak! He’ll have to speak of his part in a witness-box. Let’s get to Selcaster, and if that woman hasn’t come to her senses under Crewe’s advice, I’ll charge her, formally, and bring her before the magistrates—they’ll be sitting at eleven o’clock this morning.”

“You’ll go as far as that?” said Blick.

“I will!” declared the Chief Constable. “I shall be justified on what we know already. Come on—we’ll get a trap at the Sceptre.”

Half an hour later, when he and Blick drove up to the police-station, they met Crewe, the solicitor, emerging from it. He gave the Chief Constable a dry, shrewd smile.

”Um!” he said, drawing him aside. “Pretty arbitrary in your treatment of Mrs. B., I think! However, under my advice, she’ll now tell you what you wanted to know. And after that, if I were you, I should just let her go quietly home. She’s pretty furious—and she’s given me certain instructions that’ll possibly help you—though between you and me, I think she’s a fool for doing it!”

“I don’t understand you,” said the Chief Constable curtly.

Crewe waved a sheet of paper which he carried towards the police-station.

“Go in and see her, then!” he retorted.

The Chief Constable motioned Blick to follow him to his room. One of the plain-clothes men stood outside; inside sat Mrs. Braxfield, conversing amicably with the other two, who, at a sign from their superior, went out.

“Well, Mrs. Braxfield,” said the Chief Constable as he seated himself at his desk, “we’ve just seen your solicitor, and he tells me you are now going to give me the information I wanted. But I may as well tell you I’m a bit tired of this, and I want straightforward answers to my questions. Now then—is that automatic pistol that you’ve been using, to scare foxes with, one that was given you by Mr. Harry Markenmore?”

“Yes!” answered Mrs. Braxfield sullenly.

“For what purpose did he give it to you?”

“Well—it was some time after he became engaged, with my consent, to my daughter. He used, of course, to come up to Woodland Cottage and see us, in the evenings. And he often said what a lonely situation it was for two women—for Braxfield rarely came then. And one day he brought that pistol, and showed us both how to use it. And when those foxes began raiding my fowls, I thought of the pistol and used it to scare them. I never hit one, that I know of.”

“Where is the pistol?” demanded the Chief Constable.

“Well,” replied Mrs. Braxfield, with obvious reluctance, “I’ve been a fool about that! After I heard of Guy Markenmore’s murder, I got nervous—frightened. I thought there might be a search made—you never know—and it would look queer for me to have a pistol, and so—well, I threw it away.”

“Where?”

“Down a deep hole behind the bushes in the lane near my house,” said Mrs. Braxfield.

“One more question,” said the Chief Constable. “Did you see Guy Markenmore at all, anywhere, last Tuesday morning, and did you fire that pistol that morning?”

“No!” declared Mrs. Braxfield. “I never saw Guy Markenmore—have never seen him for seven years—and I never fired the pistol that morning—I hadn’t it with me.”

The Chief Constable took Blick aside and for some minutes they talked together in low tones. At last the Chief Constable turned round.

“Well, Mrs. Braxfield,” he said, “I won’t detain you any longer. You’ve only yourself to thank for your being brought here. You can go, now.”

Mrs. Braxfield got up from her chair with dignity.

“I am going!” she said. “And it would be a bad job for anybody who kept me any longer! Just as it’ll be a bad job for anybody who spreads any more rumours about me! But I’ve adopted a course that’ll surprise some of you. And you police-folk may as well know what it is—it’s something that ought to have been done before. I’ve instructed Crewe to get out, at once, this very morning, a bill offering a substantial reward to anybody who gives information that’ll lead to the arrest and conviction of Guy Markenmore’s murderer; if you police had had half your wits about you, you’d have done that long since! Lord bless you, do you think there aren’t folk in Markenmore who know something? Why, there isn’t a soul in the place that wouldn’t give his or her own mother away for a five-pound note! And I’m not short of five-pound notes, I can tell you! I could buy all Markenmore up if I wanted!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Braxfield,” said the Chief Constable. Then, remembering that Mrs. Braxfield had come there against her will, he added politely, “Will you have a cab to drive home in? I’ll order one at once.”

“Thank you; I can order cabs for myself, and pay for them, too,” said Mrs. Braxfield as she sailed out. “I want no favours!”

The Chief Constable sighed when Mrs. Braxfield had gone.

“I daresay that’s the real truth, at least, about the automatic pistol,” he remarked. “Why couldn’t Harry Markenmore tell us!”

“I don’t suppose that he knew that she threw it away,” answered Blick. He was walking up and down the room, evidently restless and dissatisfied; finally, he brought up at a window overlooking the street. “Here’s Harry Markenmore himself, with Chilford,” he exclaimed suddenly. “He must have ridden in as soon as he left us in the park. They’ve met Mrs. Braxfield now, and she’s giving them the benefit of her tongue, I think!”

“Let her!” said the Chief Constable. “I’m sick of her!”

“I’m not satisfied about her and Harry Markenmore and that pistol,” observed Blick. “After all, we’ve only got her word for what she alleges, and we haven’t got his at all. If he gave her the pistol for the very innocent reason she spoke of—to keep in the house as a means of protection—why couldn’t he say so, straight out, without all that mystery and losing his temper into the bargain? Not very satisfactory!”

“I suppose he was angry because Mrs. Braxfield is his mother-in-law, and he’d have to tell his wife of what we appeared to suspect,” remarked the Chief Constable. “Not a very nice situation for a young woman who’s come into a family under odd circumstances. I don’t think I should have liked it had I been Harry Markenmore, to have to go and say to my young wife, ‘Look here! the police have collared your mother on suspicion of murdering my brother!’ Would you? So I can excuse his temper.”

Blick made no reply. He continued staring out of the window in silence, for some time. Suddenly he spoke.

“Chilford’s coming across here,” he said. “Those two have been jawing at him no end!”

Chilford came in presently, and shook his head at the two men, with mock reproof.

“I say—I say!” he said. “Rather high-handed proceedings, eh—to collar Mrs. Braxfield like that, after trying to get her to incriminate herself? Come—come! You don’t really mean to tell me, either of you, that you think it at all likely that Mrs. Braxfield would be such a fool as to murder a man to whom she’d just become related by marriage—a Markenmore, too! Really, I’m surprised——”

“Look you here, Chilford!” interrupted the Chief Constable, getting a little red about the ears, “you can be as surprised as you like! Mrs. Braxfield has only herself to blame, and she’s only gone out of here on sufferance. Let her be thankful if we don’t fetch her back—and keep her!”

Chilford pulled himself together, staring.

“Oh!” he said. “Ah! Oh, very well: if you’re putting it that way, I’ve no more to say, except that Crewe and I will put our heads together on behalf of the family. We’re not at all satisfied with you police—you’re not going on the right track. Why don’t you recognize once and for all that the real reason for Guy Markenmore’s murder was money!—money in some fashion or another—money!”

With another emphatic repetition of his last word he swung round and left the room.

CHAPTER XXIII