“Ah, but you don’t know this part of London as I do, sir!” said Barleyfield, with a knowing smile. “If you did, you’d know the Grey Mare well enough—it’s an institution. It’s a real old-fashioned place, between Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill—one of the very last of the old taverns, with a tea-garden behind it, and a bar-parlour of a very comfortable sort, where various old fogies of the neighbourhood gather of an evening and smoke churchwarden pipes and tell tales of the olden days—I rather gathered from what I saw that it was the old atmosphere that attracted Mr. Ashton—made him think of bygone England, you know, Mr. Viner.”
“And you say he went there regularly?” asked Viner.
“I’ve seen him there a great deal, sir, for I usually turn in there for half an hour or so, myself, of an evening, when business is over and I’ve had my supper,” answered Barleyfield. “I should say that he went there four or five nights a week.”
“And no doubt conversed with the people he met there?” suggested Viner.
“He was a friendly, sociable man, sir,” said Barleyfield. “Yes, he was fond of a talk. But there was one man there that he seemed to associate with—an elderly, superior gentleman whose name I don’t know, though I’m familiar enough with his appearance. Him and Mr. Ashton I’ve often seen sitting in a particular corner, smoking their cigars, and talking together. And—if it’s of any importance—I saw them talking like that, at the Grey Mare, the very evening that—that Mr. Ashton died, Mr. Viner.”
“What time was that?” asked Viner.
“About the usual time, sir—nine-thirty or so,” replied Barleyfield. “I generally look in about that time—nine-thirty to ten.”
“Did you leave them talking there?” inquired Viner.
“They were there when I left, sir, at a quarter past ten,” answered Barleyfield. “Talking in their usual corner.”
“And you say you don’t know who this man is?”
“I don’t! I know him by sight—but he’s a comparatively recent comer to the Grey Mare. I’ve noticed him for a year or so—not longer.”
Viner glanced at the two ladies.
“I suppose you never heard Mr. Ashton mention the Grey Mare?” he asked.
“We never heard Mr. Ashton say anything about his movements,” answered Miss Wickham. “We used to wonder, sometimes, if he’d joined a club or if he had friends that we knew nothing about.”
“Well,” said Viner, turning to the florist, “do you think you could take me to the Grey Mare, Mr. Barleyfield?”
“Nothing easier, sir—open to one and all!”
“Then, if you’ve the time to spare, we’ll go now,” said Viner. He lingered behind a moment to tell Miss Wickham of Mr. Pawle’s appointment for the morning, and then went away with Barleyfield in the Notting Hill direction. “I suppose you’ve been at the Grey Mare since Mr. Ashton’s death?” he asked as they walked along.
“Once or twice, sir,” replied Barleyfield.
“And you’ve no doubt heard the murder discussed?” suggested Viner.
“I’ve heard it discussed hard enough, sir, there and elsewhere,” replied the florist. “But at the Gray Mare itself, I don’t think anybody knew that this man who’d been murdered was the same as the grey-bearded gentleman who used to drop in there sometimes. They didn’t when I was last in, anyway. Perhaps this gentleman I’ve mentioned to you might know—Mr. Ashton might have told his name to him. But you know how it is in these places, Mr. Viner—people drop in, even regularly, and fellow-customers may have a bit of talk with them without having the least idea who they are. Between you and me, sir, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Ashton was a man who liked to see a bit of what we’ll call informal, old-fashioned tavern life, and he hit on this place by accident, in one of his walks round, and took to coming where he could be at his ease—amongst strangers.”
“No doubt,” agreed Viner.
He followed his guide through various squares and streets until they came to the object of their pilgrimage—a foursquare, old-fashioned house set back a little from the road, with a swinging sign in front, and a garden at the side. Barleyfield led him through this garden to a side-door, whence they passed into a roomy, low-ceilinged parlour which reminded Viner of old coaching prints—he would scarcely have believed it possible that such a pre-Victorian room could be found in London. There were several men in it, and he nudged his companion’s elbow.
“Let us sit down in a quiet corner and have something to drink,” he said. “I just want to take a look at this place—and its frequenters.”
Barleyfield led him to a nook near the chimney-corner and beckoned to an aproned boy who hung about with a tray under his arm. But before Viner could give an order, his companion touched his arm and motioned towards the door.
“Here’s the gentleman Mr. Ashton used to talk to!” he whispered. “The tall man—just coming in.”
XIII
The Japanese Cabinet
Remembering that Barleyfield had said that the man who now entered had been in Ashton’s company in that very room on the evening of the murder, Viner looked at him with keen interest and speculation. He was a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man, of professional appearance and of a large, heavy, solemn face the evidently usual pallor of which was deepened by his black overcoat and cravat. An eminently respectable, slow-going, unimaginative man, in Viner’s opinion, and of a type which one may see by the dozen in the precincts of the Temple; a man who would be content to do a day’s work in a placid fashion, and who cherished no ambition to set the Thames on fire; certainly, so Viner thought from appearances, not the man to commit a peculiarly daring murder. Nevertheless, knowing what he did, he watched him closely.
The newcomer, on entering, glanced at once at a quiet corner of the room, and seeing
