Early in the morning of that day, Mr. Fransemmery, in common with the rest of the Markenmore people, heard of the strange disappearance of Baron von Eckhardstein, and like many of them, he joined in a search for the missing man. Since his coming to The Warren, Mr. Fransemmery had become minutely acquainted with his immediate surroundings, and he knew of many nooks and corners of the woods and downs wherein a stranger might easily have met with an accident. There were queer places in that neighbourhood; two thousand years ago, the folk who were here before the Romans had quarried the hill-sides, scooped out caves and pit-dwellings, and made long lines of fortifications and trenches. These primeval works, grown over in course of time, were danger-traps for the unwary who wandered through the backwoods or crossed the rough, unfrequented parts of the uplands; more than once, in Mr. Fransemmery’s short experience of Markenmore, he had known of man or horse falling into some unexpected cavity. Some such accident as this he conceived to have been possible in the present instance, and when he heard of von Eckhardstein’s disappearance, he took his stoutest walking-stick, some lunch in his pocket, and a small flask of brandy and water, and set out to prospect. In the course of the day he met many folk who were similarly engaged. Mrs. Tretheroe was so much concerned about the fate of her guest, and so convinced that evil had befallen him, that she had pressed into service every villager who could be spared from his proper and usual labours, and had offered a handsome reward for success. But when eventide came again, and Mr. Fransemmery, weary with tramping up hill and down dale, returned to his own fireside, no success had materialized; Baron von Eckhardstein, as far as Markenmore folk were concerned, had vanished. Mr. Fransemmery sat down to his solitary dinner, puzzled and wondering. He had thought of little else than the Markenmore problem since it was first presented to him, and the more he thought, the more he was bewildered. He had listened with care and patience, and, he hoped, with understanding, to the evidence put before himself and his fellow-jurymen, and he was bound to confess that he had made little out of it. What seemed to him much the most important fact of that evidence was the affair of the briar-wood pipe. There was no doubt that that pipe had been left on the supper-table at the Sceptre by one of the two men who were there with Guy Markenmore. There was no doubt that Grimsdale produced it at the inquest, passed it round, and left it lying on the table; there was no doubt—none whatever—that it was abstracted from that table between the moment of adjoining and the moment wherein the officious newspaper reporter asked to see it. What was to be deduced from that? In Mr. Fransemmery’s opinion one certain conclusion—the owner of that pipe, the man who had left it at the Sceptre, was present at the inquest, and had kept silence. Who was he? Mr. Fransemmery had asked himself that question a hundred times, and got no answer. He was unaware of Blick’s doings and discoveries, and had only his own knowledge to go on. But he felt sure of one thing—the owner of the pipe had purloined it from the solicitors’ table of the temporary court in the old dining-hall so that it could not be used in evidence against him. Once more—who was he?
Mr. Fransemmery was still puzzling about this and various other collateral questions when his bachelor dinner came to its end. He rose from his chair and meditated a little; then, remembering that he had had a very hard and trying day, he went to his modest cellar, found a bottle of his best good old port, and carefully decanting it, carried the decanter and a brightly polished glass or two into his library. With his slippered feet on the padded fender-rail, the decanter of port at his elbow, and a cheery fire of beech-logs in front of him, Mr. Fransemmery proceeded to do more thinking. But he had not followed his train of thought very far when his trim parlourmaid entered to his presence, and informed him that Mr. Harborough was in the hall, and would be obliged if Mr. Fransemmery would see him for a few minutes.
Mr. Fransemmery rose from his deep chair with alacrity. He had never had speech with Harborough before the occasion on which they met at Markenmore Court on the morning of the murder, but he knew all about him as the wealthy owner of Greycloister; he regarded him as a wrongly accused man, and he was sorry that his home-coming should have been marred by so much unpleasantness. Moreover, Mr. Fransemmery was the sort of man who is always glad of a chat with anybody—and just now, in spite of the Coroner’s admonition to him and his fellow-jurymen, he felt that he had plenty to talk about. He accordingly hastened into the hall with open hand and welcoming smile.
“Hope I am not disturbing you?” said Harborough, as his host led him into the cosy library. “An odd time to call—but I had a reason.”
“My dear sir, I am only too delighted!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery hospitably. “Try that chair—and a glass of my port. I can recommend both.”
“You are very good,” responded Harborough. “I’m no great judge of wines,” he added, taking the glass which his host handed him with old-fashioned courtesy, “and as to easy-chairs, I haven’t had much acquaintance with them of late years—a camp-stool has been more in my line, Mr. Fransemmery! Well,” he continued, as Mr. Fransemmery resumed his own seat, “I came to ask your advice about something; I rather formed the opinion, when I met you the other day, that you were the most likely man round here to take a common-sense view of things.”
“Flattered, I’m sure!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I hope I am a common-sense person.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” observed Harborough. “You’re not likely to let local prejudices and gossip affect you. Now, I want to ask your advice—as I said just now. Tomorrow, Sir Anthony and his elder son are to be buried in Markenmore churchyard. I, of course, have known the Markenmore family ever since I knew anything. Guy Markenmore and I were close friends as boys and young men, until the estrangement happened, of which you heard the other day. Now, do you think it would be proper if I attended the funeral—having regard to present circumstances?”
Mr. Fransemmery fell into a naturally judicial attitude. His face became thoughtful, and, at first, a little doubtful. But suddenly it cleared.
“My dear sir!” he said. “It is, I believe, within my recollection that, when you were giving evidence before myself and my fellow-jurymen the other morning, you said, clearly, plainly distinctly, without any apparent mental reserve that your one-time feeling of anger and resentment against the late Guy Markenmore had completely died out years ago, and that, had you met him again, you would have offered him your hand. Am I right?”
“Quite!” replied Harborough. “On all points.”
“Then I see no reason why you should not attend the funeral ceremonies,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “None!”
“Well—one’s got to remember that there are people—close at hand—who believe I killed Guy Markenmore,” said Harborough.
“Um!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery dryly. “But—are there? I mean—seriously?”
“Mrs. Tretheroe—and her following,” suggested Harborough.
“Has she any following?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, more dryly. “And as for herself—temper, my dear sir, temper! I don’t believe the woman thinks anything of the sort, if you could really get at her mind—if she has one.”
“I think she did—at first,” said Harborough, after a moment’s reflection. “Natural, perhaps.”
“Natural, perhaps, if one is foolish enough to believe that people cherish resentment indefinitely,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “She must know that her accusation was ridiculous! I do not think I should attach the slightest importance to Mrs. Tretheroe’s opinion. But,” he added, as if struck by a sudden happy thought, “I know what I should do!—I should just ask the two young people at Markenmore Court what their wishes are. My opinion is that they would be glad of your presence.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” said Harborough. “Bit slow, I think. I’m sorry enough for them, God knows! And I think they know that whatever I once felt about their brother I—well, I got over it long since.”
Mr. Fransemmery gave his visitor a keen, sidelong glance. “I suppose Guy Markenmore really did treat you badly?” he suggested.
“Yes!” answered Harborough, with simple directness. “But—I’ve forgotten it. And—not all his fault, either. As I say—I’ve forgotten it.”
“Queer business, this murder!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “And now here’s a second mystery. You’ve heard, of course, about this Baron von Eckhardstein?”
“No,” replied Harborough. “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been away from Greycloister since very early this morning until just now—came straight to see you as soon as I got back. What about von Eckhardstein?”
“Disappeared!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Last night. Clean gone!—no one knows where.” He proceeded to give his guest a circumstantial account of the day’s doings, and of his own share in them. “What do you think of that?” he asked in conclusion. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“The whole affair’s odd,” asserted Harborough. “It looks to me as if—but, really, I think that’s impossible!”
“What’s impossible?” demanded Mr. Fransemmery.
“Well, I was thinking—I was going to say—it almost looks as though this might be a s............