The numerous people in court who knew Markenmore and its immediate vicinity, turned with one accord as the Coroner spoke and looked at a corner of the room wherein, all through the proceedings, a man had leaned against the oak panelling, carefully watchful, eagerly listening to all that had been said. He was a thick-set, clean-shaven man, save for a pair of close-cropped whiskers that ornamented the upper part of his fresh-coloured cheeks, a man of a horsy appearance, who ever since the Coroner took his seat, had persistently chewed at a bit of straw that protruded from the corner of his firm-set lips. This horsy appearance was accentuated by his garments—a suit of whipcord cloth, of the pepper-and-salt variety, smart box-cloth gaiters, and a white hunting stock, fastened by a large, good horseshoe pin. He looked like a head groom, but the folk in court knew him well enough for Grimsdale, landlord of the Sceptre Inn. The Coroner had reason for saying that he had no idea of the evidence which Grimsdale had volunteered to give. The truth was that nobody in that room had any idea. And of all the people there who regarded the landlord with curiosity the police regarded him with most—for a good reason. In the course of the enquiries which they had made in the village and the neighbourhood Blick and his satellites had visited the Sceptre, and had interviewed Grimsdale as to whether he knew anything. Grimsdale, in his shrewd, knowing, reserved fashion had told Blick that he did know something—maybe a good deal—and would tell what he knew . . . at the right time and in the proper place. Blick had exerted all his powers of persuasion in an effort to find out what Grimsdale knew, and had failed, utterly; Grimsdale, always hinting that he knew a lot, had steadfastly refused to say one word until the inquest on Guy Markenmore came off; he would only speak before the Coroner and the jury. Blick, defeated, had set the Chief Constable on to Grimsdale then; the Chief Constable had met with no better luck. Not one word, said Grimsdale, would he say until he got into the witness-box; then, he added, with a knowing wink, they’d be more than a bit surprised, on hearing his evidence. And now here he was, at last, before them, and every police official in the room, from the Chief Constable downwards, was all agog to learn what he had to tell.
Grimsdale in the box, thought more than one keen-eyed observer, looked like a man that knows the importance of his own testimony. There was an expression in his eye, and about his lips, which seemed to indicate that all that had already taken place was nothing—what really was of importance was his story. He was the coolest hand, thought the barrister, that he had ever set eyes on; the sort of witness whom nothing whatever will move: whose testimony, once given, nothing will shake. His entire appearance and calm attitude made the whole roomful of people more attentive than to any previous witness; there was that about him which made everybody feel that at last something vitally important was going to be heard.
The Coroner took this witness in hand, eliciting from him a few formal facts. Charles Grimsdale, formerly groom in the service of Sir James Marchant; now landlord and licensee of the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore. Had lived in the neighbourhood of Markenmore all his life—born in the village. Knew every member of Sir Anthony Markenmore’s family. Knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore particularly well from the time he was a mere child until he left home seven years ago.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Guy Markenmore since he left home, Grimsdale?” asked the Coroner. He was somewhat at a loss as to what questions to put to the witness, and thought it best to get to useful facts. “I mean—recently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When, then?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At my house—the Sceptre.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore came to your house, the Sceptre Inn, on Monday night?”
“Mr. Guy, sir, was at my house, the Sceptre Inn, from five minutes to twelve on Monday night until a quarter-past three on Tuesday morning.”
“He came there?”
“He came there, sir, at the time I’ve mentioned.”
“Did he come alone?”
“He came alone, sir. But he wasn’t alone for the rest of the time.”
“Who was with him?”
“From twelve o’clock until two, sir, one gentleman. From two o’clock until three, two gentlemen.”
“He saw two gentlemen at your house? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know? But—I suppose you saw them?”
“I saw one of them, sir. I didn’t see the other. At least, I only saw his back—some little distance off, too.”
The Coroner looked at the jury and from them to the legal practitioners. From them he turned to the witness-box.
“I think, Grimsdale, you’d better tell us what you know—about whatever it was that happened at your house on Monday night and Tuesday morning—in your own way. Just give us a plain, straightforward account of things.”
“Yes, sir. About nine o’clock on Monday night, I was standing in the hall of my house. A gentleman suddenly came in by the front door. He was a tall, well-made, fine-looking man; I should say about fifty years of age. Slightly grey of hair and moustache; fresh-coloured; an active sort of gentleman. Very well dressed in a grey tweed suit; one of those big slouch hats that gentlemen wear nowadays: grey, with a black band; no overcoat, carried a gold-mounted cane. He asked me if I was the landlord; I said I was, at his service, and showed him into a private parlour that I keep for better-class sort of customers. He then said that he wanted to book a room for the night, as he had business in the village. I told him I could give him a very good room, and offered to show it. He said that would be all right: he was sure it would be comfortable, and added that the Sceptre had been highly recommended to him. He then told me that he expected a gentleman to call on him, late that evening, on business, and asked me if I could prepare supper for two in a private room—a cold supper, he said, would do. I said I could give them a cold chicken and a fine tongue, some tart, and a prime old Stilton cheese, and they could have that room—there was a good fire in it, then, and I would have it made up. He then asked if eleven o’clock would suit me for the supper? I said any time he liked would suit me. We fixed on eleven. He then told me to put a bottle of my very best Scotch whisky and some bottles of soda-water on the side-board, and that I could lay the supper whenever I pleased, for, after he’d had a drink, he was going out for an hour or so, to see some one. I got him a Scotch whisky and soda. While he was drinking it he pulled out a five-pound note, gave it to me, said that he’d probably be in a hurry in the morning, so would I settle his bill that night and give him the change at breakfast, which he wanted at seven-thirty sharp. He then went out. I made up the fire, saw that all was comfortable and ready, and about half-past ten, after I’d closed the house for the night, I laid the supper myself, as my wife wasn’t well and had gone to bed early in the evening. At five minutes to eleven he came back.”
“Alone?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes, sir, alone. He remained alone, in that parlour, until an hour later. Then, at five minutes to twelve, I heard a knock at the door. I went and opened it, and found Mr. Guy Markenmore there.”
“You knew who he was?—you recognized him?”
“Oh yes, sir—I knew Mr. Guy well enough in the old days. He hadn’t altered much.”
“Had you any conversation with him?”
“Just a bit, sir. He said, ‘Hullo, Grimsdale, how are you? I heard you’d blossomed into a full-blown landlord,’—that sort of thing, sir—he was always a gentleman for his joke.”
“Did he seem in good spirits?”
“The best, sir! He stood in the hall, laughing and talking a bit about old times, when I used to see him in the hunting field. Then he said, sudden-like, ‘I believe you’ve got a gentleman here who’s expecting me?’ I said we had, and took him straight to the parlour where the strange gentleman was waiting. I showed him in and closed the door on them.”
“Did you hear any greeting exchanged between them, Grimsdale?”
“Well, sir, I just heard the strange gentleman say, ‘Hello, Markenmore!’ and I heard Sir Guy say, ‘Hello, old chap, sorry to be so late.’ That was all, sir.”
“You didn’t hear Mr. Guy mention the other man’s name?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither then nor at any other time?”
“I never had any further chance, sir. I never went into the room again. The supper was all ready for them. I’d taken in the bottle of whisky and the soda-water which the gentleman had ordered, and the fire was made up. The gentleman had told me, when he came in the second time, that he and the friend he was expecting would very likely sit up very late, as they’d a lot of business to talk over, and he said that if I wanted to go to bed he’d let his friend out, and see that the front door was fast and the parlour lights turned out.”
“Did you go to bed?”
“No, sir, I did not. I sit up late myself, as a rule, and I thought that what he meant by late would perhaps be half-past one, or so. I’d my own supper to get, too, and after I’d had it I sat up ............