“Bad job, this, sir!” said the landlord, an elderly, serious-faced man, to whom Collingwood had made known his wants, and who had quickly formed the opinion that his guest was of the legal profession. “And a queer one, too! Odd thing, sir, that our old squire, and now the young one, should both have met their deaths in what you might term violent fashion.”
“Accident—in both cases,” remarked Collingwood.
The landlord nodded his head—and then shook it in a manner which seemed to indicate that while he agreed with this proposition in one respect he entertained some sort of doubt about it in others.
“Ay, well!” he answered. “Of course, a mill chimney falling, without notice, as it were, and a bridge giving way—them’s accidents, to be sure. But it’s a very strange thing about this footbridge, up yonder at the Grange—very strange indeed! There’s queer talk about it, already.”
“What sort of talk?” asked Collingwood. Ever since the old woodman had come up to him and Pratt, as they stood looking at the footbridge, he had been aware of a curious sense of mystery, and the landlord’s remark tended to deepen it. “What are people talking about?”
“Nay—it’s only one or two,” replied the landlord. “There’s been two men in here since the affair happened that crossed that bridge Friday afternoon—and both of ’em big, heavy men. According to what one can learn that there bridge wasn’t used much by the Grange people—it led to nowhere in particular for them. But there is a right of way across that part of the park, and these two men as I’m speaking of—they made use of it on Friday—getting towards dark. I know ’em well—they’d both of ’em weigh four times as much—together—as young Squire Mallathorpe, and yet it didn’t give way under them. And then—only a few hours later, as you might say, down it goes with him!”
“I don’t think you can form any opinion from that!” said Collingwood. “These things, these old structures, often give way quite suddenly and unexpectedly.”
“Ay, well, they did admit, these men too, that it seemed a bit tottery, like,” remarked the landlord. “Talking it over, between themselves, in here, they agreed, to be sure, that it felt to give a bit. All the same, there’s them as says that it’s a queer thing it should ha’ given altogether when young squire walked on it.”
Collingwood clinched matters with a straight question.
“You don’t mean to say that people are suggesting that the footbridge had been tampered with?” he asked.
“There is them about as wouldn’t be slow to say as much,” answered the landlord. “Folks will talk! You see, sir—nobody saw what happened. And when country folk doesn’t see what takes place, with their own eyes, then they—”
“Make mysteries out of it,” interrupted Collingwood, a little impatiently. “I don’t think there’s any mystery here, landlord—I understood that this footbridge was in a very unsafe condition. No! I’m afraid the whole affair was only too simple.”
But he was conscious, as he said this, that he was not precisely voicing his own sentiments. He himself was mystified. He was still wondering why Pratt had been so pertinacious in asking the old woodman when, precisely, he had told Mrs. Mallathorpe about the unsafe condition of the bridge—still wondering about a certain expression which had come into Pratt’s face when the old man told them what he did—still wondering at the queer look which Pratt had given the information as he went off into the plantation. Was there, then, something—some secret which was being kept back by—somebody?
He was still pondering over these things when he went back to the Grange, later in the evening—but he was resolved not to say anything about them to Nesta. And he saw Nesta only for a few minutes. Her mother, she said, was very ill indeed—the doctor was with her then, and she must go back to them. Since her son’s death, Mrs. Mallathorpe had scarcely spoken, and the doctor, knowing that her heart was not strong, was somewhat afraid of a collapse.
“If there is anything that I can do—or if you should want me, during the night,” said Collingwood, earnestly, “promise me that you’ll send at once to the inn!”
“Yes,” answered Nesta. “I will. But—I don’t think there will be any need. We have two nurses here, and the doctor will stop. There is something I should be glad if you would do tomorrow,” she went on, looking at him a little wistfully, “You know about—the inquest?”
“Yes,” said Collingwood.
“They say we—that is I, because, of course, my mother couldn’t—that I need not be present,” she continued. “Mr. Robson—our solicitor—says it will be a very short, formal affair. He will be there, of course—but—would you mind being there, too!—so that you can—afterwards—tell me all about it?”
“Will you tell me something—straight out?” answered Collingwood, looking intently at her. “Have you any doubt of any description about the accepted story of your brother’s death? Be plain with me!”
Nesta hesitated for awhile before answering.
“Not of the actual circumstances,” she replied at last—“none at all of what you call the accepted story. The fact is, I’m not a good hand at explaining anything, and perhaps I can’t convey to you what I mean. But I’ve a feeling—an impression—that there is—or was some mystery on Saturday which might have—and might not have—oh, I can’t make it clear, even to myself.
“If you would be at the inquest tomorrow, and listen carefully to everything—and then tell me afterwards—do you understand?”
“I understand,” answered Collingwood. “Leave it to me.”
Whether he expected to hear anything unusual at the inquest, whether he thought any stray word, hint, or suggestion would come up during the proceedings, Collingwood was no more aware than Nesta was certain of her vague ideas. But he was very soon assured that there was going to be nothing beyond brevity and formality. He had never previously been present at an inquest—his legal mind was somewhat astonished at the way in which things were done.
