“And your nephew, as his solicitor, no doubt came to see him about it,” interrupted Brereton. “Thank you, Miss Pett—I don’t want to trouble you any more.”
He sat down as the housekeeper left the witness-box—confident that he had succeeded in introducing a new atmosphere into the case. Already there were whisperings going on in the crowded court; he felt that these country folk, always quick to form suspicions, were beginning to ask themselves if there was not something dark and sinister behind the mystery of Kitely’s murder, and he was callous enough—from a purely professional standpoint—to care nothing if they began to form ideas about Miss Pett. For Brereton knew that nothing is so useful in the breaking-down of one prejudice as to set up another, and his great object just then was to divert primary prejudice away from his client. Nevertheless, nothing, he knew well, could at that stage prevent Harborough’s ultimate committal—unless Harborough himself chose to prove the alibi of which he had boasted. But Harborough refused to do anything towards that, and when the case had been adjourned for a week, and the prisoner removed to a cell pending his removal to Norcaster gaol, a visit from Brereton and Avice in company failed to move him.
“It’s no good, my girl; it’s no good, sir,” he said, when both had pleaded with him to speak. “I’m determined! I shall not say where I was last night.”
“Tell me—in secret—and then leave me to make use of the knowledge, also in secret,” urged Brereton.
“No, sir—once for all, no!” answered Harborough. “There’s no necessity. I may be kept locked up for a bit, but the truth about this matter’ll come out before ever I’m brought to trial—or ought to be. Leave me alone—I’m all right. All that bothers me now, my girl, is—you!”
“Then don’t bother,” said Avice. “I’m going to stay with Mrs. Northrop. They’ve insisted on it.”
Brereton was going out of the cell, leaving father and daughter together, when he suddenly turned back.
“You’re a man of sense, Harborough,” he said. “Come, now—have you got anything to suggest as to how you can be helped?”
Harborough smiled and gave his counsel a knowing look.
“Aye, sir!” he answered. “The best suggestion you could get. If you want to find out who killed Kitely—go back! Go back, sir—go inch by inch, through Kitely’s life!”
X
The Hole in the Thatch
Bent, taking his guest home to dinner after the police-court proceedings, showed a strong and encouraging curiosity. He, in common with all the rest of the townsfolk who had contrived to squeeze into the old courthouse, had been immensely interested in Brereton’s examination of Miss Pett. Now he wanted to know what it meant, what it signified, what was its true relation to the case?
“You don’t mean to say that you suspect that queer old atomy of a woman!” he exclaimed incredulously as they sat down to Bent’s bachelor table. “And yet—you really looked as if you did—and contrived to throw something very like it into your voice, too! Man, alive!—half the Highmarket wiseacres’ll be sitting down to their roast mutton at this minute in the full belief that Miss Pett strangled her master!”
“Well, and why not?” asked Brereton, coolly. “Surely, if you face facts, there’s just as much reason to suspect Miss Pett as there is to suspect Harborough. They’re both as innocent as you are, in all probability. Granted there’s some nasty evidence against Harborough, there’s also the presumption—founded on words from her own lips—that Miss Pett expects to benefit by this old man’s death. She’s a strong and wiry woman, and you tell me Kitely was getting somewhat enfeebled—she might have killed him, you know. Murders, my dear fellow, are committed by the most unlikely people, and for curious reasons: they have been committed by quite respectable females—like Miss Pett—for nothing but a mere whim.”
“Do you really suspect her?” demanded Bent. “That’s what I want to know.”
“That’s what I shan’t tell you,” replied Brereton, with a good-humoured laugh. “All I shall tell you is that I believe this murder to be either an exceedingly simple affair, or a very intricate affair. Wait a little—wait, for instance, until Mr. Christopher Pett arrives with that will. Then we shall advance a considerable stage.”
“I’m sorry for Avice Harborough, anyway,” remarked Bent, “and it’s utterly beyond me to imagine why her father can’t say where he was last night. I suppose there’d be an end of the case if he’d prove where he was, eh?”
“He’d have to account for every minute between nine and ten o’clock,” answered Brereton. “It would be no good, for instance, if we proved to a jury that from say ten o’clock until five o’clock next morning, Harborough was at—shall we say your county town, Norcaster. You may say it would take Harborough an hour to get from here to Norcaster, and an hour to return, and that would account for his whereabouts between nine and ten last night, and between five and six this morning. That wouldn’t do—because, according to the evidence, Kitely left his house just before nine o’clock, and he may have been killed immediately. Supposing Harborough killed him at nine o’clock precisely, Harborough would even then be able to arrive in Norcaster by ten. What we want to know, in order to fully establish Harborough’s innocence is—where was he, what was he doing, from the moment he left his cottage last night until say a quarter past nine, the latest moment at which, according to what the doctor said, the murder could have been committed?”
“Off on one of his poaching expeditions, I suppose,” said Bent.
“No—that’s not at all likely,” answered Brereton. “There’s some very strange mystery about that man, and I’ll have to get at the truth of it—in spite of his determined reticence! Bent!—I’m going
