“Why that?” asked Gordon.
“To establish your alibi. People are often careless about that.”
“By the way,” asked Carmichael, “did you bring a paper with you down from London? I’m interested to see the verdict in that Stanesby case. The young fellow is connected, I hear, with the Stanesbys of Martington.”
“Afraid I left London at three, and that’s too early for anything but betting tips. I say, you fellows, it’s stopped raining.”
II
In the Rough
The view from the third tee was one which even a golfer might pause to admire. Let the Wordsworthian say what he will, railways ennoble our landscape; they give to our unassuming valleys a hint of motive and destination. More especially, a main line with four tracks pillowed on a sweep of tall embankment, that cannot cross a meandering country stream without a stilt-walk upon vast columns of enduring granite, captivates, if not the eye, at least the imagination. Such was the railway that stretched far into the distance, paralleling the course of your drive on the right: such was the great viaduct, some hundred feet ahead of you, that spanned laboriously, over four giant arches, the little river Gudgeon, most insignificant of streams. Shallow and narrow it ran, fringed by willow-herb and meadow-sweet, a paddling-place for cows and for unoccupied caddies. Here and there it threw out a patch of osiers—one in particular, that nestled at the foot of the railway-arches, was especially dreaded by golfers. In front, just visible above the railway where it receded northwards, were the thatched and tiled roofs of Paston Whitchurch, the next station down the line. To the right lay the old house, in its melancholy grandeur, behind it the village and church of Paston Oatvile. A superb avenue of elms connected the old house with the road between the two villages. The sun had newly come out, showing grass the greener and earth the browner for the late rain; elemental scents of turf and furrow greeted its restoration.
It may be doubted whether Mordaunt Reeves was particularly sensitive to such influences; if he was, it may have been this distraction which made him slice his drive. The ball dwindled down the gradual slope towards the river; cleared in a couple of bounds the tussocks of thick grass that dotted the little valley, and buried itself at last in the osier bed at the foot of the arches. Gordon and he—they were partners—set out at once to retrieve it, distrusting the efforts of an inefficient caddie, who was nearer the spot. It was only a closer view that showed how well-chosen a lair was this for a golf-ball hard pressed in the chase. The ground was all tussocks of rank grass, with hidden runlets that made islands of them; stubborn little shoots of willow arrested the searching club. They might have spent a full half-hour in vain scrutiny, had not Reeves’s eye lighted suddenly on something he never looked to find there, a darker patch among the surrounding green, close to the foot of the first arch. It showed the outlines of a man.
A dog sleeps on the alert, with the visible threat of waking at any moment. A man’s sleep is like the sleep of the horse; it imitates death. Reeves’s first idea was that this man who lay so still must be a tramp who had strayed off the London high-road, and was taking his siesta in the lee of the viaduct. Then a gleam of more than military intelligence assured him that on such an afternoon of downpour a man composing himself to sleep would have been under the arch, not by the side of it. “Hello!” he shouted uneasily to Gordon, “looks as if there was something wrong here.” Together they approached the prostrate body; it lay face downwards, and there was no movement of life. The thrill of distaste with which healthy nature shrinks from the sight of dissolution seized both of them. Gordon had served three years in the army, and had seen death; yet it was always death tricked out in the sacrificial garb of khaki; there was something different about death in a town-coat and striped grey trousers—it was a discord in the clear weather. The sun seemed to lose a shade of its brightness. Together they bent, and turned the body over, only to relinquish it again by a common instinct. Not only did the lolling head tell them that here the architecture of the human frame had been unknit; the face had disappeared, battered unrecognizably by some terrible and prolonged friction. They looked upwards, and knew at once that the sloping buttress of the arch, all of rough granite, must have intercepted a fatal fall, and added to its horror. Little about the head could be distinguished except closely-cut grey hair.
“Poor devil,” said Gordon huskily. “Down from the line, I suppose.”
“I say,” said Reeves, “we mustn’t let the caddie see this. Send him across to fetch the other two.” Marryatt and Carmichael were now close behind them, and came up almost immediately.
“Is there somebody dead?” asked Marryatt. “I say, how awful.” He kept on walking up and down as if thoroughly unnerved, repeating to himself, “How awful.” Carmichael, for once, was dumb. It was a new voice that summed up the situation, in the words, “ ’E’s got ’is properly, ain’t ’e?” and they turned round to find the caddie obviously enjoying a new sensation.
“Look here, we must move this somehow,” suggested Gordon. “What about the tool-house under that arch?”
“I’m not quite sure I could lift it,” said Reeves.
“That’s all right, sir,” said the caddie, “I’ll whistle across to Ginger; in the scouts ’e was; they teach ’em what to do with bodies and that. ’Ere, Ginger!” and as his fellow-caddie approached, “Bloke fell off of the railway-line and smashed hisself up something cruel.” Ginger whistled: “Dead, is ’e?” “Not half ’e ain’t; shamming, that’s what ’e is; go and
