“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 his sitting-room for a good ten minutes, thinking. At the end of that time he went up to his bedroom, got into an overcoat, and made ready for going out. Descending to the hall, he encountered Grimsdale, just entering the house.
“Late walk, Mr. Blick?” asked the landlord, with a smile. “Fine night, too!”
“I’m going into Selcaster,” replied Blick, “and look here—I don’t think I shall be back tonight; I shall stay the night at the Mitre. You’ll see me sometime tomorrow morning.”
Grimsdale nodded in acquiescence and let his guest out. And Blick went away along the starlit road towards Selcaster, still thinking, speculating, putting things together, and all his thoughts and speculations came to a point in Mrs. Braxfield.
Mrs. Braxfield was in her tidy kitchen next morning at half-past eight o’clock, giving orders to the charwoman who always came to Woodland Cottage on Mondays, when a knock sounded on her front door. She opened the door herself, and confronted Blick, the Chief Constable, and another man—in plain clothes, but obviously a policeman. The three men, all watching her keenly, saw her start, frown, and turn pale. But they affected to notice nothing unusual, and the Chief Constable’s voice, addressing her, was polite and cheery.
“Good morning, Mrs. Braxfield!” he said. “Just called to have a little chat with you, ma’am. May we come in?”
Mrs. Braxfield turned back into the hall, and opening a door, motioned her visitors into the room in which Blick had listened to Mr. Fransemmery’s story three nights previously. The plain-clothes man, entering last, carefully closed the door, and remained standing before it.
“What do you want?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield. The colour had come back to her cheeks, and she was looking decidedly angry; anger, too, was apparent in her voice.
“We want to have a talk to you about last Tuesday morning, Mrs. Braxfield,” replied the Chief Constable. “Just a quiet talk—between ourselves.”