“I confess I’m unusually curious about what we’re going to hear, Viner,” he said, as he drew out a well-filled cigar-case. “There’s an atmosphere of mystery about our presence and our surroundings that’s like an apéritif to an already hungry man. Ashton, poor fellow, comes over to this quiet, out-of-the-way place; why, we don’t know; what he does here we don’t know, yet—but all the circumstances, up to now, seem to point to secrecy, if not to absolute romance and adventure.”
“Is it going, after all, to clear up the mystery of his death?” asked Viner. “That’s what concerns me—I’m afraid I’m a bit indifferent to the rest of it. What particular romance, do you think, could be attached to the mere fact that Ashton paid a three days’ visit to Marketstoke?”
Mr. Pawle drew out a well-filled cigar-case.
“In my profession,” he answered, “we hear a great deal more of romance than most folk could imagine. Now, here’s a man who returns to this country from a long residence in Australia. The first thing he does, after getting settled down in London, is to visit Marketstoke. Why Marketstoke? Marketstoke is an obscure place—there are at least five or six towns in this very county that are better known. Again, I say—why Marketstoke? And why this, the very first place in England? For what reason? Now, as a lawyer, a reason does suggest itself to me; I’ve been thinking about it ever since that rosy-cheeked lass called at my office this afternoon. What does the man who’s been away from his native land for the best part of his life do, as a rule, when at last he sets foot on it again—eh?”
“I’m not greatly experienced,” replied Viner, smiling at the old solicitor’s professional enthusiasm. “What does he do—usually?”
“Makes his way as soon as possible to his native place!” exclaimed Mr. Pawle, with an expressive flourish of his cigar. “That, usually, is the first thing he thinks of. You’re not old enough to remember the circumstances, my boy, but I have, of course, a very distinct recollection of the Tichborne affair in the early seventies. Now, if you ever read the evidence in that cause célèbre, you’ll remember that the claimant, Orton, on arriving in England, posing as the missing heir, Sir Roger Tichborne, did a certain thing, the evidence of which, I can assure you, was not lost on the jury before whom he eventually came. Instead of going direct to Tichborne, where you’d naturally have thought all his affection and interests rested, where did he go? To Whitechapel! Why? Because the Ortons were Whitechapel folk! The native place called him, do you see? The first thought he had on setting foot on English soil was—Whitechapel!”
“Are you suggesting that Ashton was probably a native of Marketstoke?” asked Viner.
“I mean to find out—no matter what we hear from the landlady—if that name is to be found in the parish register here, anyway,” answered Mr. Pawle. “You can be sure of this—Ashton came to this obscure country town for some special purpose. What was it? And—had it anything to do with, did it lead up to, his murder? That—”
A light tap at the door heralded the approach of Mrs. Summers.
“That,” repeated Mr. Pawle, as he jumped up from his chair and politely threw the door open, “is what I mean to endeavour—endeavour, at any rate—to discover. Come in, ma’am,” he continued, gallantly motioning the old landlady to the easiest chair in the room. “We are very eager, indeed, to hear what you can tell us. Our cigars, now—”
“Pray, don’t mention them, sir,” responded Mrs. Summers. “I hope you are quite comfortable, and that you are having everything you wish?”
“Nothing ma’am, could be more pleasant and gratifying, as far as material comfort goes,” answered Mr. Pawle with conviction. “The dinner was excellent; your wine is sound; this old room is a veritable haven! I wish we were visiting you under less sad conditions. And now about your recollections of this poor gentleman, ma’am?”
The landlady laid a large book on the table, and opening it at a page where at she had placed a marker, pointed to a signature.
“That is the writing of the Mr. John Ashton who came here,” she said. “He registered his name and address the day he came—there it is: ‘John Ashton, 7 Markendale Square, London, W.’ You gentlemen will recognise it, perhaps?”
Mr. Pawle put up his glasses, glanced once at the open book, and turned to Viner with a confirmatory nod.
“That’s Ashton’s writing, without a doubt,” he said. “It’s a signature not to be forgotten when you’ve once seen it. Well, that establishes the fact that he undoubtedly came here on that date. Now, ma’am, what can you tell about him?”
Mrs. Summers took the chair which Viner drew forward to the hearth and folded her hands over her silk apron.
“Well sir,” she answered, “a good deal. Mr. Ashton came here one Monday afternoon, in a motorcar, with his luggage, and asked if I could give him rooms and accommodation for a few days. Of course I could—he had this room and the room I pointed out upstairs, and he stayed here until the Thursday, when he left soon after lunch—the same car came for him. And he hadn’t been in the house an hour, gentlemen, before I wondered if he hadn’t been here before.”
“Interesting—very!” said Mr. Pawle. “Now, why, ma’am did you wonder that?”
“Well, sir,” replied Mrs. Summers, “because, after he’d looked round the house, and seen his room upstairs, he went out to the front door, and then I followed him, to ask if he had any particular wishes about his dinner that evening. Our front door, as you will see in
