Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne’s farmyard, which Rénine recognized by Hortense’s description of its position.
The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing:
“Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to Mathias’ gun!”
“What about the locked gate?”
“It means that the lad’s asleep, that’s all. Last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me … perhaps two … or even three; and he’ll be sleeping it off, I expect … he and Natalie.”
He climbed on to the box of his trap—an old cart with a patched tilt—and cracked his whip:
“Goodbye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won’t stop me from going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I’ve a couple of calves under the tilt; and they’re just fit for the butcher. Good day to you!”
The others walked on. Rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name:
“I’m a friend of Mlle. Ermelin, of La Roncière; and, as it’s too early to call on her yet, I shall be glad if you’ll allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mlle. Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there’s nothing wrong at the manor-house, I hope?”
“If there is,” replied the sergeant, “we shall read all about it as plainly as on a map, because of the snow.”
He was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Mathias had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by the farm-labourer and the woman. Meanwhile they came to the walls of a property of which the locksmith readily opened the gate.
From here onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of Mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely in the father’s libations, as the line of footprints described sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue.
Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of the Manoir-au-Puits. The principal door was open.
“Let’s go in,” said the sergeant.
And, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered:
“Oho! Old de Gorne made a mistake in not coming. They’ve been fighting in here.”
The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the struggle. The tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past eleven.
With the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. Neither Mathias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they discovered under the bed.
Rénine and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living-room had a passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. At the end of this enclosure was a well near which one was bound to pass.
Now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body had been dragged over it. And all around the well were tangled traces of trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this spot. The sergeant again discovered Mathias’ footprints, together with others which were shapelier and lighter.
These latter went straight into the orchard, by themselves. And, thirty yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by one of the peasants as resembling that which Jérôme Vignal had produced in the inn two days before.
The sergeant examined the cylinder. Three of the seven bullets had been fired.
And so the tragedy was little by little reconstructed in its main outlines; and the sergeant, who had ordered everybody to stand aside and not to step on the site of the footprints, came back to the well, leant over, put a few questions to the farm-girl and, going up to Rénine, whispered:
“It all seems fairly clear to me.”
Rénine took his arm:
“Let’s speak out plainly, sergeant. I understand the business pretty well, for, as I told you, I know Mlle. Ermelin, who is a friend of Jérôme Vignal’s and also knows Madame de Gorne. Do you suppose … ?”
“I don’t want to suppose anything. I simply declare that someone came there last night. …”
“By which way? The only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are those of M. de Gorne.”
“That’s because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to say, before nine o’clock.”
“Then he must have hidden in a corner of the living-room and waited for the return of M. de Gorne, who came after the snow?”
“Just so. As soon as Mathias came in, the man went for him. There was a fight. Mathias made his escape through the kitchen. The man ran after him to the well and fired three revolver-shots.”
“And where’s the body?”
“Down the well.”
Rénine protested:
“Oh, I say! Aren’t you taking a lot for granted?”
“Why, sir, the snow’s there, to tell the story; and the snow plainly says that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked away and left the farm, one man only, and his footprints are not those of Mathias de Gorne. Then where can Mathias de Gorne be?”
“But the well … can be dragged?”
“No. The well is practically bottomless. It is known all over the district and gives its name to the manor.”
“So you really believe … ?”
“I repeat what I said. Before the snowfall, a single arrival, Mathias, and a single departure, the stranger.”
“And Madame de Gorne? Was she too killed and thrown down the well like her husband?”
“No, carried off.”
“Carried off?”
“Remember that her
