“I’ll walk down about that time, Packer,” said Mr. Gilmore, “and shall be very happy to see his lordship.”
Now the Marquis never sat as a magistrate at the Heytesbury bench, and had not been present on any of the occasions on which Sam had been examined; nor had Mr. Gilmore seen the Marquis since the murder—nor, for the matter of that, for the last twelve months. Mr. Gilmore had just finished breakfast when the news was brought to him, and he thought he might as well walk down and see Fenwick first. His interview with the parson ended in a promise that he, Fenwick, would also look in at the farm.
At twelve o’clock the Marquis was seated in the old farmer’s armchair, in the old farmer’s parlour. The house was dark and gloomy, never having been altogether opened since the murder. With the Marquis was Packer, who was standing, and the Marquis was pretending to cast his eye over one or two books which had been brought to him. He had been taken all over the house; had stood looking at the bed where the old man lay when he was attacked, as though he might possibly discover, if he looked long enough, something that would reveal the truth; had gazed awestruck at the spot on which the body had been found, and had taken occasion to remark to himself that the house was a good deal out of order. The Marquis was a man nearer seventy than sixty, but very hale, and with few signs of age. He was short and plump, with hardly any beard on his face, and short grey hair, of which nothing could be seen when he wore his hat. His countenance would not have been bad, had not the weight of his marquisate always been there; nor would his heart have been bad, had it not been similarly burdened. But he was a silly, weak, ignorant man, whose own capacity would hardly have procured bread for him in any trade or profession, had bread not been so adequately provided for him by his fathers before him.
“Mr. Gilmore said he would be here at twelve, Packer?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And it’s past twelve now?”
“One minute, my lord.”
Then the peer looked again at poor old Trumbull’s books.
“I shall not wait, Packer.”
“No, my lord.”
“You had better tell them to put the horses to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
But just as Packer went out into the passage for the sake of giving the order he met Mr. Gilmore, and ushered him into the room.
“Ha! Mr. Gilmore; yes, I am very glad to see you, Mr. Gilmore;” and the Marquis came forward to shake hands with his visitor. “I thought it better that you and I should meet about this sad affair in the parish;—a very sad affair, indeed.”
“It certainly is, Lord Trowbridge; and the mystery makes it more so.”
“I suppose there is no real mystery, Mr. Gilmore? I suppose there can be no doubt that that unfortunate young man did—did—did bear a hand in it at least?”
“I think that there is very much doubt, my lord.”
“Do you, indeed? I think there is none—not the least. And all the police force are of the same opinion. I have considerable experiences of my own in these matters; but I should not venture, perhaps, to express my opinion so confidently, if I were not backed by the police. You are aware, Mr. Gilmore, that the police are—very—seldom wrong?”
“I should be tempted to say that they are very seldom right—except when the circumstances are all under their noses.”
“I must say I differ from you entirely, Mr. Gilmore. Now, in this case—” The Marquis was here interrupted by a knock at the door, and, before the summons could be answered, the parson entered the room. And with the parson came Mr. Puddleham. The Marquis had thought that the parson might, perhaps, intrude; and Mr. Puddleham was in waiting as a makeweight, should he be wanting. When Mr. Fenwick had met the minister hanging about the farmyard, he had displayed not the slightest anger. If Mr. Puddleham chose to come in also, and make good his doing so before the Marquis, it was nothing to Mr. Fenwick. The great man looked up, as though he were very much startled and somewhat offended; but he did at last condescend to shake hands, first with one clergyman and then with the other, and to ask them to sit down. He explained that he had come over to make some personal inquiry into the melancholy matter, and then proceeded with his opinion respecting Sam Brattle. “From all that I can hear and see,” said his lordship, “I fear there can be no doubt that this murder has been due to the malignity of a near neighbour.”
“Do you mean the poor boy that is in prison, my lord?” asked the parson.
“Of course I do, Mr. Fenwick. The constabulary are of opinion—”
“We know that, Lord Trowbridge.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Fenwick, you will allow me to express my own ideas. The constabulary, I say, are of opinion that there is no manner of doubt that he was one of those who broke into my tenant’s house on that fatal night; and, as I was explaining to Mr. Gilmore when you did us the honour to join us, in the course of a long provincial experience I have seldom known the police to be in error.”
“Why, Lord Trowbridge—!”
“If you please, Mr. Fenwick, I will go on. My time here cannot be long, and I have a proposition which I am desirous of making to Mr. Gilmore, as a magistrate acting in this part of the county.
