Detective Gillett made a journey to London in order to visit Somerset House and inspect the will left by James Lumsden, the grandfather of the man who had been murdered. He had been able to ascertain, from local sources of information at Ashlingsea, some of the details of the will, but as an experienced detective he knew the value of exact details obtained from official sources.

His perusal of the will showed him that Cliff Farm and all the testator's investments and personal property had been left to his nephew Frank, with the exception of legacies to three old servants who had been in his employ for over a quarter of a century.

Gillett had ascertained from previous inquiries that Frank was at the front in France when his grandfather died. He had been brought up at the farm, but as his inclinations did not tend to a farming life, he had left his grandfather, and gone to London, where he had earned a livelihood as a clerk prior to enlisting in the Army. According to Ashlingsea gossip, old James Lumsden had been a man of considerable wealth: though local estimates of his fortune varied considerably, ranging from £20,000 to five times that amount. Gillett's inspection of the terms of the will convinced him that the lower amount was somewhat nearer the correct figure; and an interview with Messrs. Holding, Thomas & Holding, the London solicitors who had drawn up the will, supported this view.

It was the elder Mr. Holding, the senior partner of the firm, who had transacted Mr. Lumsden's business and had taken the instructions for drawing up the will. The document had been executed seven years ago. Mr. Holden, senior, a white haired old gentleman whose benign appearance seemed out of harmony with the soulless profession he adorned, told Gillett that Mr. Lumsden had consulted him on several occasions about business matters, but the old man was extremely intelligent and capable, and kept his affairs so entirely in his own hands that he was not a very profitable client.

The solicitor did not even know the extent of the old farmer's investments, for his client, who hated to disclose much of his private affairs even to his solicitor, had taken care when the will was drawn up not to tell him much about the sources of his income. Mr. Holding had been consulted by Frank Lumsden after he had come into his grandfather's estate, and on his behalf had made some investigations concerning the time the old man had converted his securities into cash. Of course the grandfather had lost heavily in doing so, for the stock market was greatly depressed immediately after the war broke out. But he had probably realized between ten and fifteen thousand pounds in cash.

Where this money had gone was a mystery. All the ready money that Frank Lumsden had handled when he came into the property was the sum of eighty-five pounds, which had been standing to the old farmer's credit in the bank at Staveley. Most of this amount had been swallowed up by the funeral and legal expenses connected with the transfer of the deeds. The young man had naturally been eager to find some trace of the missing money. Mr. Holding was inclined to the belief that the old man's mental balance had been disturbed by the war. He thought that fear of a German invasion had preyed on his mind to such an extent that he had buried his money, intending to dig it up after the war was over. Frank had sold some of the farming machinery in order to provide himself with ready money. In this way over £200 had been obtained.

Nothing had been paid to the three old servants who had been left legacies. The old farmer had fractured his skull through falling downstairs, and had died without recovering consciousness, and therefore without realizing the emptiness of the reward he had left to his faithful servants. To Mrs. Thorpe, his housekeeper, he intended to leave £200, and legacies of half that amount to two of his old farm-hands, Samuel Hockridge and Thomas Jauncey.

Mrs. Thorpe was a widow who had had charge of the domestic management of the house for thirty-seven years. Hockridge, who was over seventy years of age, had spent over thirty years with James Lumsden as shepherd, and Jauncey, another shepherd, had been twenty-eight years at Cliff Farm.

Detective Gillett had no difficulty in tracing each of these three old servants and interviewing them. Mrs. Thorpe had gone to live with a married daughter at Woolwich. Gillett found her a comparatively cheerful old woman, and, though the loss of her legacy which her old master had intended to leave her was a sore memory, she had little complaint to make against him. She was full of hope that her master's money would ultimately be found and that she would get her legacy.

Hockridge had gone into the service of a neighbouring sheep-farmer on the Staveley Downs. It was true that his best days were over, but he had a profound practical knowledge of sheep, and as labour was scarce, owing to the war, the farmer had been glad to get him. When Gillett interviewed him in his new employment he found that the loss of his promised legacy from his old master had soured him. To the detective's optimistic view that the missing money would be found, he replied that it would be too late for him—he would be in his grave.

One hundred pounds was more than his year's earnings, and it represented wealth to him. He dwelt on the ease and comfort he would have been able to command with so much money. He could give no clue regarding the hiding-place of the old farmer's fortune. He was familiar with every foot of ground on the farm, but he knew of no place that suggested a hiding-place for a large sum of money. If it had been buried, his old master must have buried it himself, and therefore the garden was the most likely place. But the garden had been turned over by zealous searchers under the direction of Master Frank, and no trace of money had been found there.

It was evident to Detective Gillett that this feeble old man had not killed Frank Lumsden. Although he regarded the loss of the legacy as the greatest disappointment that could befall any man, he felt no active resentment. He accepted it as a staggering blow from fate which had dealt him many blows during a long life. The detective's inquiries showed that on the day of the murder, and for weeks before it, Hockridge performed his ordinary duties on the farm of his new employer, and therefore could not have been near Cliff Farm, which was ten miles away from the farm on which he was now employed.

Thomas Jauncey was an inmate of Staveley Infirmary, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism which rendered him unable to get about except with the aid of two sticks. Gillett's inquiries established the fact that he was crippled in this way when Frank Lumsden was murdered. Nevertheless, he went over to Staveley to interview the old man. He found him sitting in a chair which had been wheeled into the yard to catch the weak rays of the autumn sunshine. He was a tall old man, with a large red weather-beaten face surrounded by a fringe of white whisker, and his two hands, which were crossed on a stick he held in front of him, were twisted and gnarled with the rheumatism that had come to him as a result of half a century's shepherding on the bleak downs. The mention of the legacy he had not received brought a spark of resentment to his dim eyes.

"Seems to me I ought to have been paid some'et of what belongs to me," he said to Detective Gillett, after that officer had engaged him in conversation about his late master. "Why didn't Master Frank sell the farm and pay his grandfather's debts according to what the will said? That's what ought to be done."

"Well, of course, he might have done that," said the detective soothingly. "But there are different ways of looking at things."

"There is a right way and a wrong way," said the old shepherd, in a tone which ruled out the idea of compromise as weakness. "I ought to have been paid some'et. That's what my son says."

"Ah!" said Gillett, with sudden interest. "That is how your son looks at it, is it? And now I come to consider it, I think he's right. He's a man with ideas."

"No one can't say as he ain't always been a clever lad," said the withered parent, with a touch of pride in his offspring.

"I'd like to meet him," said the detective; "Where is he to be found?"

"He is gard'ner to Mrs. Maynard at Ashlingsea. Mrs. Maynard she thinks a heap of him."

"Ah, yes," said Gillett. "I remember Sergeant Westaway telling me that you had a son there. I'll look him up and have a talk with him about your legacy. We may be able to do something—he and I."

On returning to Ashlingsea, Detective Gillett made inquiries concerning the gardener at "Beverley," the house of Mrs. Maynard. Sergeant Westaway was able to supply him with a great deal of information, as he had known young Tom Jauncey for over a score of years. Young Tom was only relatively young, for he was past forty, but he bore the odd title of Young Tom as a label to distinguish him from his father, who to the people of Ashlingsea was old Tom.

The information Gillett obtained was not of a nature which suggested that young Tom was the sort of man who might commit a murder. Mrs. Maynard lived on her late husband's estate two miles south from Ashlingsea. The household consisted at present of herself, her daughter, a cook, a housemaid and young Tom, who was gardener, groom and handy man. Young Tom bore a reputation for being "a steady sort of chap." He liked his glass of ale, and was usually to be found at The Black-Horned Sheep for an hour or so of an evening, but no one had ever seen him the worse for liquor.

Detective Gillett took a stroll over to "Beverley" in order to interview young Tom. The house, an old stone building, stood in the midst of its grounds—well away from the sea—on a gentle eminence which commanded an extensive view of the rolling downs for many miles around, but the old stone building was sheltered from the fury of Channel gales by a plantation of elm-trees.

The detective found his man digging in the kitchen-garden and preparing the ground for the spring sowing. Young Tom was a thickset man of middle age with a large round face that he had inherited from his father. He was a man of slow thought, slow actions, and hard to move once he had made up his mind. According to Gillett's standards his appearance scarcely justified the parental description of him as a clever lad.

The detective was not an expert in gardening, his life having been spent in congested areas of London where the luxury of a plot of ground is unknown, but something in young Tom's method of digging attracted his attention. It was obvious that young Tom was not putting much energy into the operation. The fact that his shirt-sleeves were not rolled up but were buttoned at the wrist seemed to bear out this opinion. With his heavy boot young Tom pressed down the spade vigorously, but he brought up only a thin spadeful of earth each time. Then with his spade in his right hand he twisted the blade among the earth so as to break it up.

Detective Gillett brought the conversation round from the weather and vegetable growing to his recent visit to young Tom's father. He spoke of the legacy and expressed regret that old Tom, who if he had his rights would be able to pay for proper care and nourishment, should have had to go to the infirmary. But, according to Detective Gillett, even adversity had its uses. The fact that old Tom was practically bedridden when the murder was committed prevented the idle gossip of the town from trying to connect him with the tragedy.

The detective had not expected to find in young Tom a fluent conversationalist, but after a few moments he came to the conclusion that he was a more than ordinarily hesitating one, even according to the slow standard of Ashlingsea. Apparently young Tom did not want to discuss the murder. Detective Gillett kept the conversation on that subject and soon arrived at the conclusion that young Tom was uneasy. It came to him suddenly that what was wrong with the man's method of digging was that to all practical purpose he was using only one arm. Young Tom was careful not to put any weight on his left arm.

"What is wrong with your arm?" exclaimed the detective in an imperative tone.

Tom stopped digging and looked at him.

"Nothing," he replied in a surly tone.

"Let me have a look," said the detective, stepping towards him.

"No, I won't," answered young Tom, stepping back slowly.

Gillett looked him over from head to foot as if measuring him. His eyes rested on the man's boots, and then turned to an impression made on the soft earth by one of the boots.

"I want you to come along to the police station with me," he said suddenly.

"What for?" asked Tom in a tone of defiance.

Gillett looked him over again as if to assure himself that he had made no mistake in his first measurements.

"I'll tell you when you get there," was the reply.

"I had nothing to do with it," said Tom.

It was plain to Gillett that the man was undergoing a mental strain.

"With what?" asked the detective.

"With what you want to ask me about."

For a clever lad young Tom seemed to be making a hash of things.

"I have not said what it is," said Gillett.

"But I know," said Tom.

If that was the extent of young Tom's cleverness it seemed to be leading him in the direction of the gallows.

"You think it is about this murder?" suggested Gillett.

There was a long silence. Gillett kept his eyes steadily on his man, determined not to help him out by substituting another question for the plain one that Tom found it so difficult to answer.

"I'll come with you to the police station," said Tom at length. "But you go first and I'll follow you behind."

It was obvious to Detective Gillett that Tom wanted to avoid giving the village cause for gossip by his being taken to the police station by a detective. The detective was not disposed to consider Tom's feelings, but he reflected that his main purpose was to get Tom to the station, and that since he was not prepared to arrest Tom at present it was desirable to get him there as quietly as possible.

"No," he said. "You go on ahead and I'll follow."

Tom accepted this plan and walked up the village street to the police station with the detective about forty yards behind. Constable Heather was in charge of the station, and when he saw Tom he greeted him affably. When Heather was made to realize by Tom's awkwardness that Detective Gillett was responsible for his visit, he whistled in a significant manner.

When Gillett entered the building Tom rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and displayed a bandage round the upper part.

"Do you want to see this?" he asked doggedly.

"I do," replied the detective with keen interest. He was anxious as to the nature of the wound, but he was too cautious to display a curiosity which would reveal his ignorance. He assisted at unwinding the bandage.

"Be careful," said Tom wincing, as the detective's hand touched his arm. "The bullet is in it."

"Is it?" said Gillett.

When the bandage was off he examined the wound carefully. It was a bullet wound through the fleshy upper part of the arm, dangerously inflamed and swollen from dirt and neglect.

"You had better get this attended to," said Gillett. "There is a risk of blood poisoning and the bullet must be removed. You'll be more comfortable without that bullet, and I want it."

"I had nothing to do with him," said Tom. He spoke in a loud excited voice. It was evident that he was feeling the strain of being under suspicion.

"But you were at Cliff Farm the night Frank Lumsden was murdered," said Gillett, eyeing him closely as he put the question.

Young Tom nodded a surly admission, but did not speak.

"What were you doing there? How did you get this?" Detective Gillett pointed to the wound. "Take my advice and make a clean breast of it. I'll give you five minutes to make up your mind." Gillett picked up a pair of handcuffs from the office table as he spoke, and jingled them together nonchalantly.

Young Tom's ruddy colour faded as he glanced at the handcuffs, and from them his eyes wandered to Police Constable Heather, as though seeking his counsel to help him out of the awkward position in which he found himself. But Police Constable Heather's chubby face was set in implacable lines, in which young Tom could recognize no trace of the old acquaintance who for years past had made one of the friendly evening circle in the tap-room of The Black-Horned Sheep. Young Tom turned his gaze to the floor and after remaining in silent cogitation for some moments spoke:

"I was in the garden. It was before the storm came on. I don't know who killed Frank Lumsden. I didn't see either of them. They were in the house before I got there. I saw a light in a room upstairs. Then a gun or something of the kind was fired and I felt that I was hit. I got up and ran."

"Do you mean that some one fired at you from the house?"

"That's what I mean."

"Whereabouts were you?"

"Just near the cherry-tree at the side of the house."

"Did you see who fired it at you?"

"No."

"Didn't anyone call out and ask you what you were doing there?"

"No."

"He just fired—whoever it was."

"I heard the gun go off and then I felt a pain in my arm. I touched it and saw it was bleeding. Then I ran and that is all I know."

"I want to know a lot more than that," said Gillett sternly. "Your story won't hold water. What were you doing there in the first place? Why did you go there?"

"I went there to look for the money. I thought there was no one at home and I meant to look for it in the garden round about."

"Did you take a spade with you?" asked Gillett.

"What would I want to do that for?" asked Tom.

"Well, you can't dig without a spade," said Gillett.

"There's spades enough in the barn," said Tom.

"You meant to dig for the money?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In the garden."

"Whereabouts in the garden? Don't you know that the garden has been turned over several times?"

"I've heard that, but I wanted to dig for myself."

"It would take one man a week to dig over the garden. No one knows that better than you."

"I was going to try just near the pear-tree. I count that's a likely place."

"And did you dig there?"

"No. Didn't I tell you there was lights in the house when I got there?"

"A likely story," sneered the detective. "You went there to dig in the garden, although you knew it had been turned over thoroughly. You didn't take a spade with you, and you didn't turn over as much as a single clod. But you came away with a bullet wound in the arm from a house in which the murdered body of the owner was subsequently found."

Dull as young Tom was, he seemed to realize that the detective had a gift of making things appear as black as they could be.

"I've told you the truth," he said obstinately.

"And I don't believe a word of your story," said Detective Gillett.