“It may be, sir, of course,” French admitted. “But I’m glad you agree that we should make sure. In that case there is no object in delay. Will you obtain the necessary exhumation order, or is there anything you wish me to do in the matter?”
“No, I’ll see to it. You may arrange with Kent to get the work done. Let Kent arrange for a magistrate to be present. A representative will be required from the Home Office, of course?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Then you may expect the order in a day or two. I shall be very much interested to hear the result. It will be impossible to keep the affair quiet?”
“I’m afraid so. There will be too many concerned in it.”
“Quite. Well, you must get up some tale about it. What are you going to say?”
“I haven’t thought yet, sir. I’ll dish out something when the time comes.”
When French reached Hellifield on his return journey he found Oxley on the platform.
“You been travelling also, Inspector?” Oxley greeted him. “I’ve just been to Penrith for the day. These connections always make me curse. They’re all arranged to and from Leeds, but people going to or from the north have to kick their heels here for the best part of an hour each way.”
“Can’t please everybody, Mr. Oxley,” French remarked tritely.
“You think not?” Oxley smiled. “Well, how’s the case?”
“Nothing doing for the moment. I was in seeing Dr. Philpot this morning. He seems in a bad way, poor fellow.”
Oxley looked grave.
“It’s a bad case, I fear.” He glanced round and his voice sank. “From what I’ve heard and by putting two and two together I shouldn’t wonder if he’ll only pay two or three shillings in the pound. All gone to the bookies, or nearly all. You know, Inspector, between ourselves, when a man’s in debt all round, as he is, it’s not just the game to go putting his last few pounds on horses.”
“It’s a fact, Mr. Oxley. Of course, one must remember that the gambler plunges in the hope of pulling something off. If he had had some bits of luck he might have put himself square.”
“That’s true, and you can imagine anyone taking the risk. If he wins his whole trouble is over, while if he loses he is little the worse. He may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. But you haven’t told me how the case is getting on.”
It was natural enough that Oxley should be interested in his investigations, but French thought he pushed his curiosity a little too far. They met fairly often—sometimes, he thought, not entirely by accident—and every time Oxley made a dead set at him to learn what he was doing and if he had reached any conclusions. French did not like being pumped, and as a result he became closer than ever. On this occasion it taxed even his skill to put the solicitor off without unpleasantly plain speaking, but he managed it at last and the talk drifted into other channels. Oxley was in his usual state of rather boisterous good humor, and before the train stopped at Thirsby he regaled French with the gossip of the district and told a number of the highly flavoured stories in which his soul delighted.
Coincidence ordained that French should meet at the station the one person whose curiosity as to the progress of the investigation was even keener than Oxley’s—Tarkington’s clerk, Bloxham. Bloxham never lost an opportunity of fishing for information, and French had little doubt that their frequent “unexpected” meetings were carefully prearranged. On the present occasion the man joined French with a “Walking to the hotel, Mr. French? I’m just going that way too,” and immediately began to ask leading questions. But French’s feelings were still somewhat ruffled from his encounter with Oxley, and for once Bloxham received as direct and decisive a reply as his heart could wish.
“Sorry, Mr. French,” he stammered, staring at French in considerable surprise. “I’m afraid we outsiders must bother you a lot. I was interested because of the notes, you understand, but of course if the thing is confidential that’s another matter.”
“That’s all right,” French returned, recovering his temper. “Come and have a drink.”
the exhumation order came, and that same night shortly after a little party emerged from the local police station, and separating at the door, set off by various routes in the direction of the cemetery. Inspector French walked down the High Street with Dr. Laming, the Home Office representative, Sergeant Kent with Colonel Followes, the local magistrate from whom French had obtained the warrant for Whymper’s arrest, went via Cross Lane, while a sturdy policeman armed with tools disappeared down a parallel street.
The night was dark and cloudy, with a cold southwesterly wind which gave promise of early rain. There was a thin crescent moon, though its light penetrated but slightly through the pall of cloud. The men shivered and turned up their collars as they faced the raw damp air.
The five met within the gates of the cemetery, which were opened to them by the caretaker and relocked behind them. Two gravediggers were in attendance. In the darkness and silence the little company moved off, and led by the caretaker, crossed the ground towards its northeasterly corner.
The place was very secluded. It lay on the side of a gently sloping hill whose curving bulk screened it from the town. It was tastefully laid out and well kept, but to the little party, with their minds full of their gruesome mission, it seemed eerie and sinister. The shrubs and bushes which French had so much admired on his previous visit, now presented shadowy and menacing forms which moved and changed their positions as the men passed on. Presently a beam from an acetylene bicycle lamp flashed out and the caretaker called a halt.
“This
