“Chalk makes clunch, sir, and it’s m-m-mighty hard,” Mr. Twitchell said. “And it makes w-w-wonderful clear water, and good beer, too. This here ale comes from the C-c-cat Ditch. Marston’s B-b-brewery, at Whipstead. We live by the old D-d-ditch, you might say.” He waved his immense hand towards the street and the village at large. “Once upon a time there was a t-t-terrible drought. Even the old Ditch near d-d-dried up, and the wells were dry, and th-th-that’s how the village got its name. D-d-dry Stocking they called it, ever after. There’s a s-s-saying about it. As d-d-dry as Stocking when there was no b-b-beer.”
Two labouring men entered the bar, and in the road outside a car could be heard drawing up before the inn. Mr. Tuke prepared to take his departure, and as he bade Mr. Twitchell good morning two more customers were coming in. The leader was a man in a rather loud check jacket, loose in the shoulders but short as to the sleeves, and flannel trousers that also had the air of being adapted to a different figure. The broad peak of his cloth cap almost rested on a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, so that little was to be seen of his face beyond a long nose and an ingratiating smile which showed indifferent teeth. Tufts of silvery hair were visible above his ears. His companion, shorter and stouter, with a coarse red face and hands, was dressed in a stained and shiny suit of blue serge and an ancient felt hat. As Harvey passed the pair, the owlish horn-rims and the smile were turned benevolently on him for a moment.
A blue Morris saloon, a good deal older than the war, was drawn up in rear of the Delage. Before Harvey moved off, he looked at his map: then he backed, turned, and headed south, away from the village. As Inspector Vance had mentioned in his report, the road from Dry Stocking to Whipstead Station curved eastward to take in the few houses which were Stocking End. Then it turned westward to complete a wide loop; the embankment and telegraph poles of the railway appeared ahead; and within a minute the Delage ran into the station yard. The road passed on, to turn once more due south and cross the line by a high bridge on its way to Whipstead village, hidden among trees half a mile away. The little railway station stood isolated, with only one house, obviously the stationmaster’s, near by.
Map in hand, Harvey strolled onto the bridge. From this eminence, as Mr. Vance had also remarked, a good view was obtained of the shallow basin in which Dry Stocking lay. That village and its church were plainly visible, and the sweep of the road by which Mr. Tuke had come, and the footpath cutting the chord of the arc, taken by the man in the grey suit on the evening of Raymond Shearsby’s death. West of this the willows and shrubs lining the Cat Ditch made a curve in the opposite direction to that of the road. Near at hand stream and path and road drew together as they approached the railway; and here the observer could see the branch path, with its plank footbridge, striking off towards the lonely cottage in the lane. The cottage itself, three miles away, could not be detected among the distant trees. Just beyond the road bridge on which Mr. Tuke was standing another bridge, of iron girders, carried the railway over the Cat Ditch. To the south, beyond Whipstead, rose the low hills where the little river had its spring.
After a thoughtful survey of this green landscape, Harvey walked back to the station. It was deserted, for only certain morning and evening trains stopped here. Having studied the time-tables, he returned to his car and drove back to Stocking.
CHAPTER XIV
THE Vicarage stood beside the church, an ugly house with its window surrounds painted the repellent chocolate colour favoured by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners. Mr. Tuke pulled gingerly at an old-fashioned bell-knob. Its behaviour was true to type. First it appeared to have stuck, and then about a foot of shank came away in his hand and a fearful clanging rang through the house.
The echoes still reverberated as the front door opened. A woman with a shock of untidy grey curls peered up at the visitor.
“It’s my husband’s fault,” she said. “He’s been going to oil that bell ever since he was inducted——”
She stopped abruptly, her mouth open, as she took in Mr. Tuke’s features. Any clergyman’s wife, meeting a personification of the Devil on her doorstep, might well be startled.
“You can warn your husband what to expect,” said Harvey, grinning. “Is he at home?”
Rallying, the lady turned and called loudly: “Athanasius! Athanasius! ”
A distant voice replied from somewhere above.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone to see you.”
“The name is Tuke,” said Harvey. “Your husband would not know me. I am making some inquiries about a late neighbour of yours, Raymond Shearsby.”
This news having been relayed, the distant voice announced that its owner was coming down. The Vicar’s wife opened a door beside her and led the way into a shabby but comfortable drawing-room.
“Our name is Fawkes, by the way,” she said. “My husband is always trying to prove that Guy Fawkes was a member of his family. Ah, here he is!”
A round little man burst into the room. The Reverend Athanasius Fawkes had rather the air of bouncing like a ball, which in figure he resembled. His very bright blue eyes stared aggressively from a pink round face, ornamented by tufts of white eyebrow and a bristle of white hair which grew into an unruly cockscomb. His dress was unorthodox —a baggy flannel suit and a grey flannel shirt with an open collar.
“Well, well,” he said, looking truculently at the visitor. “Mr. Duke, eh?”
“Tuke,” said Harvey.
“My mistake,” said the Vicar in his abrupt way, but with a sudden attractive smile. “So
