These matters arranged and dismissed from his thoughts, Blick, having had enough of business for that night, turned into the bar-parlour of the Sceptre, minded for a little relaxation before retiring to bed. He had been in there once or twice since taking up his quarters at the inn; usually there were two or three Markenmore men to be found round the fire, a farmer or two, the miller, the carpenter, the blacksmith, engaged in discussing the latest news of the village; Blick liked to hear them talk. But on this occasion the room was almost empty; there was in fact, nobody in it but a little, meek-and-mild looking man in a tweed knickerbocker suit, who sat thoughtful and solitary near the hearth, and turned an unusually large pair of spectacles on the detective with a sort of apologetic look. He moved his chair back a little, as if to invite Blick to the cheery blaze. “Thank you,” said Blick. He dropped into a chair facing the stranger and drew out his pipe and tobacco. “A bit of fire’s quite welcome, though we’re nearly in May,” he opened.
“Very welcome indeed, sir,” responded the other. “Especially when you’ve been out in the open all day!”
“Been walking?” asked Blick, with a glance at the stranger’s knickerbockers.
“I have, sir! Done thirty miles today before I came to this place,” replied the stranger. “Right across the downs. I always take a holiday twice a year—early spring and late autumn—and spend it pedestrianizing. Run all over this particular part of the South in my time. But I never came to this particular village until today. And I confess that what led me here—for in the ordinary way I should have put up at Selcaster—was curiosity! I read in the newspapers about this Markenmore mystery—so being near, I thought I’d like to see the place.”
“Queer business, isn’t it?” said Blick.
“Queer indeed, sir!” agreed the stranger. “You’re interested in it, sir?”
“Got to be,” answered Blick laconically. “Professionally.”
The stranger brought his big spectacles to bear on Blick and regarded him with rapt attention. Then he bent forward and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Is it possible, sir, that I have the pleasure of meeting the famous Detective-Sergeant Blick, whose name I have heard in connection with this case?” he asked almost reverentially. “Do I see Mr. Blick in the flesh?”
“You do!” replied Blick. “All there is of him!”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the stranger. “Very proud, I’m sure, to meet you, sir. My name’s Crawley—I come from Tooting. Rate-collector, Mr. Blick—an arduous and humdrum occupation, sir, but it keeps me in form for walking, of which exercise I’m passionately fond. Dear me! Now, it may seem an extraordinary thing, but do you know, sir, in the course of my five-and-forty years of existence I have never met a gentleman of your profession before! A very exciting and engrossing profession, I believe, sir—quite adventurous?”
“Depends,” said Blick. “Dull and monotonous enough, sometimes. You can, of course, get excitement and adventure out of a problem in mathematics—but there isn’t much of either in doing a long sum of compound addition, is there?”
Mr. Crawley looked his admiration—and his failure to comprehend.
“I mean,” added Blick, “that our job is very often one of adding this to that, and that to this—until you’ve got a total.”
“Very good, sir, very good—I see your meaning!” said Mr. Crawley, rubbing his hands. “Oh, very good indeed, sir—an excellent illumination! It wouldn’t be fair of me, I suppose, to ask if you’ve arrived at a total in this Markenmore problem, Mr. Blick?”
“I can soon answer that for you,” said Blick. “I haven’t!”
“A very stiff nut to crack, I should think, sir,” remarked Mr. Crawley. “I read all the evidence in the paper—the Daily Sentinel, Mr. Blick—as I sat on a hill-side eating my modest lunch: very interesting indeed—more interesting, sir, than any of those sensational novels that people borrow from the libraries—oh, much more! Real life, sir!”
“Make anything out of it?” suggested Blick. “Got any opinion?”
Mr. Crawley glanced at the door and lowered his voice.
“I have opinions, Mr. Blick,” he answered. “Yes, sir, I have opinions. I am not a betting man, sir, but I would lay money that I know what is at the bottom of this affair!”
“Aye? What, now?” asked Blick. “Always glad of an idea.”
“Money!” said Mr. Crawley solemnly. “Money, sir—money!”
“Just—how?” enquired Blick.
Mr. Crawley took off his spectacles, revealed a pair of weak, dreamy eyes, and shook his head.
“I think the unfortunate young man, Mr. Guy Markenmore—queer name, sir!—was followed. Tracked!” he answered. “Tracked, sir! With money at the bottom of it—yes!”
“Do you mean that he was robbed as well as murdered?” asked Blick.
“No, sir—I don’t mean that at all,” said Mr. Crawley with emphatic decision. “I observed that Mr. Guy Markenmore’s property and money were left untouched. No—I mean that money is at the bottom of the mystery of his murder—that he was murdered by some evil person who will benefit by his death—in a pecuniary sense, Mr. Blick, a pecuniary sense. I may be wrong,” concluded Mr. Crawley; “I may be wholly and entirely wrong—but, on the evidence, sir, such is my opinion. And I have served on a jury—more than once.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if there’s a good deal in what you say,” admitted Blick. “There’s generally some question of money at the bottom of all these things. However,” he added, as he pulled out his watch and yawned in the act, “up to now I’ve got precious little light on the subject—perhaps I’ll get a bit more tomorrow.”
Then, with a laughing remark that even detectives must sleep occasionally, he bade Mr. Crawley good night and went off to bed.
Mr. Crawley flung him a last remark as he left the room, accompanied by a wag of his forefinger.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Blick—though a gentleman of your ability and experience needs no reminding of it, I’m sure—don’t forget that it’s always the unexpected that happens! The unexpected, sir!—Ah, there’s a great deal in the unexpected! No one knows, sir, what the morrow may not bring forth!”
“Guess you’re about right there, Mr. Crawley,” asserted Blick. “You’ve hit it in one this time!”
He had no idea of what the morrow would bring forth, neither then, nor when he presently fell fast asleep, nor when he woke in the morning, nor when, at eight o’clock, he climbed up into the trap in which Grimsdale was to drive him into Selcaster. Mr. Crawley, who had also breakfasted early, stood at the Inn door when Blick emerged; he was equipped for walking, and was fastening a small satchel on his shoulders.
“Off?” enquired Blick.
“Only for the day, sir,” replied Mr. Crawley. “I am going to have a full and glorious day on the downs—behold the receptacle of my lunch! And I am so well satisfied with the Sceptre, Mr. Blick, that I propose to make it my headquarters for the rest of my holiday, so I shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing you tonight, sir—when,” he added in a whisper, “I trust the day may have brought forth!—profitably, eh?”
“You never know your luck!” responded Blick.
He said little to the landlord as they drove into Selcaster, but when they came to the ancient Market Cross in the middle of the old city, he laid a hand on his arm.
“Grimsdale,” he said, “pull up, and set me down here. I’m going to see the Chief Constable—I’ll walk along the street. And listen—I want you to stop in Selcaster a bit. Be down at the station at ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see you there.”
He got out of the trap and went off in the direction of the Chief Constable’s office, and Grimsdale turned into the big courtyard of the Mitre, to wait until the appointed time. At five minutes to ten he went down to the station, and handing over his horse and trap to the care of the boy, walked upon the up platform. The London express was nearly due, and, as usual, there were many passengers awaiting its arrival: the platform was thronged. But Grimsdale was quick to observe that Blick was there, and that near him, mingling with the crowd, were two or three plainclothes policemen of the local force; clearly Blick was expecting somebody. And Grimsdale, a bit of straw protruding from his lips, watched, keen-eyed and observant.
Ten o’clock chimed from the many towers in the city, and nothing had happened. In five minutes more the big express would come thundering in; in eight it would have glided away again on its sixty-mile run to London. At one minute past ten Mr. Blick, who was keeping a sharp watch on the booking-office, left the platform and went outside the station. As he emerged on the open space in front, William Pegge, driving Mrs. Tretheroe’s smart dog-cart, came racing up—alone.
Pegge singled Blick out from the folk who hung about the station doors and pulled up right before him. The detective was at the side of the dog-cart in an instant. His eyes went to the vacant seat at the groom’s side.
“Where is he?” he asked in a sharp whisper.
Pegge bent down.
“Gone!” he answered. “Hooked it during the night! Nobody in his room this morning; clean disappeared! Mrs. Tretheroe sent me in to tell the police—she says something’s happened to him.”
“Happened to him? What does she mean?” growled Blick.
Pegge bent still lower. As he spoke they heard th............