A period of tense silence followed on this bold declaration, ended at last by a shuffling of feet and a succession of dry, deprecating coughs. Then a voice came out of the smoke-laden depths of a far corner. “’Tis all very well to say as how this here is a free country,” remarked the voice, “but I do allow as ’tain’t so free as that a man may call murder agin a woman! That there be what they call libel and slander, what folks goes to ’sizes for—it be a punishable matter that. I count as how you’ll git yourself into sore tribulation, Bill Carver, if so be as you do go up and down a-saying that Mistress Braxfield her did murder pore young Muster Guy—so you will!”
“Ain’t a-saying as how her did murder he!” retorted Bill Carver. “What I says is that ’tis my belief as how her did shoot he dead—main different matter! Might ha’ bin done accidental, like!”
“Oh, if ’twas accidental, like, ’tis a vastly different circumstance!” said the correcting voice. “There’s bin a deal o’ serious and bloody murders done accidental, I do allow! But it seem strange if this here catastrophe bin brought about i’ that way. Mistress Braxfield, she say nothing o’ that, so far.”
“’Tain’t likely as her would,” declared Bill Carver. “Her’ve more sense! Ain’t no ’casion as I knows on for any man or woman to go for to accuse theirselves o’ terrible doings. Wouldn’t be a common-sense thing for anybody as that happened to come for’rard and say as they done it! Ain’t Christian conduck for anybody to walk into a trap wi’ his eyes open, I do reckon.”
“’Tis very true!” assented another wiseacre. “Noo—I don’t count as how any well-disposed, law abiding citizen have any call to ’criminate his-self—’tis agin religion and nature, which is powerful commodities. Noo!—I reckon that if Mistress Braxfield done this, accidental like, wi’ that pistol what Bill Carver refer to, she say to herself ‘Well,’ she say, ‘this here is a sad misfortune to happen to me, but I ain’t no call to tell about it,’ she say, and then, of course, she say nothing. That be the way of it—common-sense, like. And we all knows that accidents does happen to the meekest of us!”
“Accident’ll happen to I, if I don’t get homealong?” remarked Bill Carver with a laugh, as he rose from his corner and made for the door. “My old woman, she do have supper ready nine o’clock Sunday nights, and if I ain’t to the minute, her’ll let me hear the sound of her tongue. I bids ’ee all a good night!”
He strode out amidst a chorus of farewells, but stopped in the hall, pulled up by a tap on his arm, and turned to find Blick at his elbow.
“A word with you,” said Blick. “Come in here.” He led Carver into his sitting-room, and closed the door. “You know what I am, Carver?” he went on in a low voice. “A detective! Very well—now, I heard what you said in there. Is it true that you’ve seen Mrs. Braxfield shooting at things with a pistol—early of a morning?”
“True enough, master,” replied Carver. “I seen her do that more than once. Been working up in they woods all this winter and spring, I have, and gone to my work uncommon early since the mornings got light. I seen Mistress Braxfield out about her house now and again, taking a pop at they foxes—there’s a wealth o’ them varmints up there, and I did hear her say as they was allays at her chickens. Oh, aye, I seen her wi’ her pistol!”
“You didn’t see her last Tuesday morning?—the morning Mr. Guy was shot?”
“I didn’t, master, ’cause I wasn’t in them parts at all, that day—I was over t’other side of Greycloister, two miles off.” He paused, regarding the detective with knowing eyes. “Don’t want to make no trouble, master,” he went on, suddenly, “but I could ha’ said a deal more in there than what I did say!”
“What?” demanded Blick. “If you know anything, tell it!”
“Don’t know anything partic’lar,” said Carver. “But I said, in there—accidental! Nor, there is them in the village what says—on purpose!”
“Do you mean that there are people in Markenmore who are saying that Mrs. Braxfield meant to shoot Mr. Guy?” asked Blick. “Is that it?”
“That’s it, master!” replied Carver. “They are saying it, some of ’em, round about where I lives—on one Mitbourne road. But only since it come out that Mistress Braxfield’s lass—young Poppy—be wed to Master Harry. When that comes out, the folk began to talk same as I do tell ’ee. ‘Ah!’ says they. ‘That be the true colour of it! Her shooted Master Guy so’s his poor brother could be Sir Harry and that young damsel be my Lady Markenmore! So ’tis,’ says they; ‘ain’t no doubt on ’t.’ But you’ll bear in mind, master, as how I don’t say that. I do say her, very like, shooted he accidental.”
Blick paid no attention to Carver’s personal opinion; he was thinking of the common gossip.
“Are many of them saying that?” he asked. “Your neighbours, I mean?”
“All on ’ems a-saying of it!” declared Carver. “Down our way, you understand—far end o’ the village. Them here chaps what you sees i’ th’ bar there, they belong to this end o’ the place—us don’t know what they’m thinking. But down along wi’ us, that be the general talk—her shooted Master Guy so’s Master Harry ’ud be Sir Harry, and the young gel’ ud be my lady! See, master?” He paused again—and again gave the detective a shrewd, knowing look. “Her’s a sharp, spry female, Mistress Braxfield!” he continued suddenly. “I could tell ’ee more nor that, only I ain’t one for to get nobody into trouble. But so I could!”
“If you know anything, you ought to tell it,” said Blick. “What do you mean, now, about Mrs. Braxfield?”
“Well, master, I tells ’ee,” said Carver, after a pause. “Mebbe you didn’t see I, but I was up at that Crowner’s ’quest what they held at the Court. Mistress Braxfield, her wented into the witness-box and gived evidence. Her said as how her see’d Master Harborough at a certain place on the hillside from her chamber window, at a certain time that Tuesday morning. Master, her didn’t do nothing o’ that sort! Her couldn’t see that place from her chamber window!—’tis impossible! I did help to build that there house of hers—Woodland Cottage—and from her chamber window you couldn’t see that place where she said her did see Master John. But—her could ha’ seen it, and him, or whoever was there, from somewhere else, where very like her was!”
“Where?” demanded Blick.
“Bit of a spinney, right against Markenmore Hollow,” answered Carver. “Where I seen her, more than once, a-looking out for they foxes.”
Blick suddenly remembered his big Ordnance Survey Map, still pinned against the wall. He led Carver over to it, and pointed out certain landmarks.
“I seen a drawing like this afore, master,” said Carver. “Old Muster Tompkins, to Beech Farm, he have one o’ them here, framed, in his parlour—many’s the time I’ve studied he when I bin waiting there for the old gentleman to give me my orders. And I’ll show ’ee what I do mean about what I say.” He pulled out a wooden match from his pocket, and proceeded to point out places and trace lines on the map before him. “Now here be Woodland Cottage, master, so plainwritten as never was, and there be the spot where Mistress Braxfield do say she see Muster Harborough. But, as you see, between them two places there be the rise of a bit of a hill! Her couldn’t see through that, nohow, could her? No! But now you comes along here, as it med be, from her house, across the hill-side, to this here bit of a spinney, on the edge of Markenmore Hollow, and you sees that from that her could see, straight down, to the place where she said she see Muster Harborough: ’tis all visible, so to speak, from that. There med be no doubt her did see Muster Harborough at that partic’lar spot that morning, but her didn’t see him from her chamber window, ’cause her couldn’t! If her see’d him at all, her see’d him from that spinney, where I assures ’ee I see her more than once, popping at they foxes.”
“Did you ever see the pistol she used?” asked Blick. He was certain by then that at last he had got on a definite trail, and he felt that he might as well pursue it.
“Seen it in her hand, time and again,” replied Carver.
Blick suddenly produced the automatic pistol and held it out to his companion.
“Was that it?” he asked.
Carver looked down at the exhibit with a flash of curiosity.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “If ’tain’t, ’tis the very spit and image of that there what I sees her handle! But they things be pretty much of a muchness, I reckon, master.”
Blick put the automatic pistol back in his pocket, and laid his hand on Carver’s arm.
“Now, look here!” he said. “Just you keep all this to yourself, there’s a good man! Don’t say a word about it to anybody—not even to your wife. I hope you won’t get into trouble by being late for your supper. But—silence, now—not a word!”
“I understand ’ee, master,” responded Carver, with a knowing grin. “And I ’on’t go for to breathe a syllable till you tells I ’tis convenient. Howsomever, do ’ee remember, master, as how what I says is—accidental it med be! Ain’t no sort of hands at shooting off guns and pistols, isn’t wimmin, as you knows.”
When Carver had departed into the night, Blick walked up and down............