Close by the churchyard and connected with it by a gate in the dividing wall, stood an old, grey stone house—evidently the vicarage. Tanner pushed open the gate, and walking slowly up to the door, knocked.
“Could I see the vicar for a few moments?” he asked courteously, as the door was opened by a trim maid.
He was shown into a comfortable study, and there after a few moments he was joined by an elderly man, clean shaven, white haired, and kindly looking.
“Good morning,” said the latter. “You wished to see me?”
Tanner rose and bowed.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, “for a moment.”
“Sit down, won’t you?” His host waved him to an armchair and seated himself at his desk.
“My business, sir,” went on Tanner, “is, I expect, of a rather unusual kind for you to deal with. My name is Tanner—Inspector Tanner of New Scotland Yard, and I have come to ask your kind help in obtaining some information of which I am in need.”
If the clergyman was surprised he did not show it.
“And what is the nature of the information?” he asked.
Tanner took the photograph from his pocket.
“We have had,” he explained, “to arrest a man on suspicion of a serious crime—murder, in fact. The only clue to his antecedents we have is this photograph. You will see it represents part of your churchyard, and the headstone in the foreground is in memory of John Dale and his wife, Eleanor. We thought if we could find out something about these Dales, it might help us.”
“Is Dale the name of your suspect?”
“No, sir, he is called Douglas, but of course that may not be his real name.”
The clergyman thought for a few moments.
“I fear I cannot tell you very much,” he said at last. “When I came here thirteen years ago there was no one of that name in the parish. I do remember hearing of the family you mention, but they had moved some years previously.”
“You don’t know to where?”
“Unfortunately I do not.”
“Perhaps, sir, some of your remaining parishioners could tell me?”
“That’s what I was going to suggest.” The clergyman again paused. “There is a family called Clayton living close by, gentlemen farmers, who have been here for generations. Old Mr. Clayton is well over seventy, but still remains hale and hearty—a wonderful man for his age. I should think that if anyone could give you your information, he could. He’ll probably be at home now, and if you like, I’ll go down with you and introduce you.”
“I should be more than grateful.”
“Come then,” said the vicar, leading the way.
The Claytons lived on the outskirts of the village in a charming little creeper-covered house, standing in small but perfectly kept grounds. As the two men passed up the rose-bordered path to the door, they were hailed from the lawn behind. An old gentleman with a full white beard, a grey felt hat, and a tweed suit was approaching.
“Mornin’, vicar,” he cried cheerily.
“How are you, Mr. Clayton? Beautiful morning. Can we have a word with you?”
“Delighted, I’m sure. Come in here. It’s always better out of doors than in, eh, Vicar?”
He shook hands with the clergyman, and turned expectantly to Tanner.
“May I introduce Mr. Tanner? Mr. Tanner has just called with me in search of some information which I unfortunately was unable to give him, but which I thought you possibly might.”
“I had better introduce myself more fully, Mr. Clayton,” said Tanner. “I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I am trying to trace a family named Dale, who, I understand, formerly lived here.”
Mr. Clayton led the way to a delightfully situated arbour, and waved his guests to easy chairs, but the vicar excused himself on the ground that his part in the affair was complete. On his departure Tanner produced the photograph and explained his business to his host.
“The Dales? Yes, I knew them well. They lived at the other end of the village for many years, until indeed John Dale, the father, died. Then they moved into Gateshead. They weren’t left too well off, I’m afraid. But I don’t know that any of them are alive now.”
“What did the family consist of?”
“The mother and two sons. She died some years after her husband—you have the date on your inscription.”
“And can you tell me anything about the sons?”
“Yes, I remember them well. They were very like each other—good looking, with taking manners, well dressed and all that, but a couple of rotters at heart. They were always out for what they could get, and there was drink and gambling and worse. When they cleared out they weren’t much loss.”
“Place too hot to hold them?”
“In Edward’s case, I think so. Edward was the younger. He was in debt heavily, I know, and he slipped off quietly one night to the States, and was never heard of again.”
“And the other?”
“The elder brother, Tom, was a bad lot too. He had a tragic end. He was drowned. But I don’t think anyone mourned for him. He had well-nigh broken his young wife’s heart in the three years they were married.”
Tanner was like a bloodhound on a hot scent. This was very interesting. He remembered that Sir William Ponson had married a Mrs. Dale from this part of the country, whose husband had been drowned on his way to Canada. It looked like as if the Tom Dale of whom Mr. Clayton had been speaking might have been this man.
“What was the business of the Dale brothers?” he asked.
“They
