Mr. Fransemmery brought his story to an end with a force and emphasis worthy of a judicial utterance, and Blick, who was now busily occupied with suggestions of a surprising sort, nodded assent to his concluding remarks. But Mrs. Braxfield, in spite of her obvious agitation, showed a dogged disinclination to accept Mr. Fransemmery’s premise. “That’s all very well, Mr. Fransemmery,” she said after a pause. “You’re a lawyer, and ought to know! But it’s all ifs and buts! If, as you say, Guy Markenmore married Myra Halliwell, and if they had a child, a son, and if that son’s alive—well, then, of course, he succeeds his father—or his grandfather, for as far as I’m aware, there’s nobody knows which died first, Sir Anthony or his elder son—in the title and estates. But—it’s all if!—if—if—if! I don’t believe Guy Markenmore ever married that girl—not I! He may have taken her away with him, and they may have lived together in London, and there may be a child—but all that doesn’t prove any marriage, Mr. Fransemmery!”
“What about the inscription on the tombstone, Mrs. Braxfield?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery. “My informant saw it!—and I take Margaret Hilson to be a truthful woman.”
“I’m not saying anything against Margaret Hilson,” retorted Mrs. Braxfield. “A decent enough woman! And I don’t deny that she may have seen such an inscription. But that proves nothing. Anybody could so describe anybody else—especially in a London cemetery, and who’d be the wiser! There’ll have to be more evidence than that forthcoming, Mr. Fransemmery, before it’s proved that all you’ve told is true—marriage lines, and birth certificate, and so on.”
“All that will doubtless be brought forward, ma’am,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “We shall hear more, I’m convinced—much more! Somebody must know.”
“And you say you advised Margaret Hilson to go and tell this tale to Lawyer Chilford?” asked Mrs. Braxfield. “At once?”
“At once!” answered Mr. Fransemmery. “Matters of that sort can’t be allowed to wait. I think Margaret Hilson will already have seen Mr. Chilford—she spoke of going down to his house early this evening.”
“Then they’ll know at the Court,” observed Mrs. Braxfield with a frown. “Chilford would be sure to go there and tell them as soon as he got to know.”
“They may know—by now,” asserted Mr. Fransemmery. “But whether they know tonight or tomorrow, Mrs. Braxfield, what is certain is that this matter will have to be fully investigated. And if I may give you a little advice, ma’am, in the capacity of a neighbour who wishes you well, I should counsel you to wait a little before you send your daughter to Markenmore Court as Lady Markenmore. She may, you know, be only Mrs. Harry Markenmore. Count twenty, ma’am!”
With this Mr. Fransemmery, nodding at Mrs. Braxfield with the warning expression of a sage counsellor, rose to take his leave; his Airedale terrier, hitherto sleeping with one eye open under the table, rose too; accompanied by Blick they sallied out into the night; dark, save for the light of stars, for the moon had not yet risen. In silence they threaded the garden paths of Woodland Cottage and emerged upon the open hill-side.
“Queer revelations!” muttered Blick at last as they paced slowly across the close-cropped turf. “I gather that you believe this story about Guy Markenmore’s marriage?”
“I do!” replied Mr. Fransemmery firmly. “Putting everything together—I do! The woman from whom I got my information today, Margaret Hilson, is the sort of person that makes an ideal witness—you know what I mean. The sort that tells just what she knows, doesn’t want to add or subtract, embellish or disfigure, gives a plain affirmation or an equally plain negative; the sort, in fact, that hasn’t the imagination necessary to a deviation from truth. I have no doubt whatever that she gave me a plain, unvarnished account of what happened during her two visits to London, nor any that she saw the grave and the inscription she describes. And as to the probabilities of the marriage—well, Mr. Blick, I am, perhaps, a bit of an old gossip!—anyway, I like to talk to the country people about their affairs, though I hope I am not a Paul Pry. I like to hear of their little comedies and tragedies—I take a sympathetic interest in them. Now, long before I heard this story from Mrs. Hilson, I had heard of Myra Halliwell and her disappearance, and I had had a hint from one or two old people in the village that it might not be unconnected with Guy Markenmore. So—I was not unduly surprised at what Mrs. Hilson told me.”
“I wonder if Myra’s sister—the woman at the Dower House—knows anything about it?” said Blick.
“Daffy, as they call her—I wonder, too,” answered Mr. Fransemmery. “I think not, though. Daffy—whose correct name is Daphne—has been away in India for three years with Mrs. Tretheroe, and has only recently returned. Of course she may. But if she does, you may be certain she’ll soon let it be known!”
“She looks,” remarked Blick thoughtfully, “like a woman who’s got a good many secrets. Secretive!—very much so. Well, it’s an odd business, sir! And as you unfolded your story to Mrs. Braxfield I began to speculate on its possible relation to my particular business—naturally!”
“In what way, now?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“Well, first of all,” replied Blick. “An obvious question: Has this anything to do with Guy Markenmore’s murder?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Has it, indeed. A very big question, my good sir, and a remarkably difficult one to answer.”
“Another,” continued Blick. “Mrs. Tretheroe told us at the inquest that she and Guy Markenmore had renewed their old love-affairs when they met last Monday night, and had agreed to get married at once. Now, I’d like to know this: Did Guy Markenmore tell her that he’d been married before, lost his wife, and had a son living?”
“Did he, indeed?” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I wonder? But—who knows?”
“If he did,” Blick went on, “why didn’t she divulge that fact at the inquest? If she knew it, why did she conceal it?”
“Aye—why?” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Why?”
“And if Guy Markenmore didn’t tell her—the woman he was going to marry!—why didn’t he?” said Blick. “Did he or didn’t he? It strikes me, sir, that there’s a good deal that’s of high importance in that!”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Mr. Fransemmery. “But then, between you and me, there’s a good deal else that I’ve wondered about ever since I heard Mrs. Tretheroe’s evidence!”
“What, for instance?” asked Blick.
“Nothing, in any particular instance,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “I have wondered, generally, if Mrs. Tretheroe told all she might have told; if she was candid, open, ingenuous, truthful. Between ourselves, I think she’s a vain, selfish, silly woman—and as stupid as such a woman always is!”
“Stupidity of that sort is very often allied with a good deal of cunning, isn’t it, though?” suggested Blick. “She’s struck me—what bit I’ve seen of her—as the sort of woman who could play a game.”
“I shouldn’t wonder!” agreed Mr. Fransemmery.
“Then, the question for me is—is she playing any game now, and if so, what is it?” said Blick. “And has von Eckhardstein anything to do with it?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “That’s still another question!”
“Nice mystery altogether!” muttered Blick.
“Black as this lane, my friend,” said Mr. Fransemmery, as they descended into the deep and narrow cutting which, high-banked and tortuous, wound its way upward to the summit of the downs between The Warren and Woodland Cottage. “And you’ll want something more than starlight by which to find your way in it! Up to now, I believe, you’ve scarcely got hold of the ghost of a clue?”
“Got no more than a very slender thread, which mayn’t be a thread at all,” answered Blick, thinking of the information that Lansbury had given him. “No!—so far, Mr. Fransemmery, I’ve very little, indeed, to work on. I—what’s your dog up to?”
The Airedale terrier, who had preceded the two men into the darkness of the lane, had run on before them to the spot whereat he had shown inordinate signs of restlessness and curiosity when Mr. Fransemmery was on his way to Mrs. Braxfield. He was now whimpering again, and as they came near the bushes, they heard him tearing and scratching at the soil; the whimpering presently changed to growling.
“Now I shouldn’t wonder if that is a badger!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “I have had an idea that there were badgers, or a badger, in this lane, and hereabouts, for some time; I fancied that I detected footprints in the loose, sandy soil. If only I had a lantern, I could soon tell, for a badger’s burrow is easily distinguishable from a fox’s hole.”
Blick put a hand in his coat pocket and produced something which, under pressure of his fingers, gave a sharp metallic click, followed by a steady glare of light.
“There you are!” he said. “Electric torches are better than lanterns. Where is he?”
Mr. Fransemmery forced aside the bushes behind which the Airedale was busy, and revealed him at work, digging furiously at a cavity in the bank. The terrier turned his head, blinked at the light, and went on with his task mor............