“That fact adds another attraction to your most comfortable house,” replied the Professor. “It was my doctor who recommended me to come here. He motored through on his way to Swanage last year. He recommends me to take a fairly long walk after every meal. I understand that you have some very beautiful heaths around here?”
“They may be beautiful, but they’re precious lonely,” said the landlord. “They may suit you all right, sir, but for my part I take the bus into Wareham or Swanage when I wants to get out for a bit.”
“I shall not be sorry to enjoy the loneliness of the countryside, after the bustle of London,” replied the Professor. “But I suppose people do live on these heaths, do they not?”
“Well, there’s a few clay pits, and now and then a gravel quarry,” said the landlord. “But, take it all round, you can walk a long way without meeting a living soul, so long as you keep off the main road. It is like that all over Purbeck, whichever way you go. Of course, there’s a few cottages where the clay-workers live, but that is about all, outside the villages, and there ain’t many of them.”
“What an ideal spot on which to build a country retreat!” exclaimed the Professor. “Not one of those villa residences, which are growing up so plentifully all over the country, but just a cottage, in the true sense of the word, where one could enjoy without distraction the glories of nature!”
The landlord looked at the Professor with a curious expression. “You wasn’t thinking of doing anything like that, was you, sir?” he enquired.
“Why, no, not at present, however much the idea might appeal to me,” replied the Professor, artlessly. “I fear that my duties in London would not allow me sufficient leisure.”
“Queer thing, now, that you should say that about a cottage, sir,” said the landlord confidentially. “It puts me in mind of an odd thing that happened in these parts, not so many years ago. All along of another gentleman, about the same age as you might be, sir, coming into this very bar and asking me if I knew of a lonely cottage for sale.”
“Indeed?” replied the Professor casually. “Perhaps you would refill my glass with that most excellent brandy. And if you will do me the honour of taking another glass of gin with me—”
“You’re very kind, sir,” said the landlord, filling up the glasses. “I thought you’d take to that brandy. As soon as I sees you taste it, I says to myself, ‘Here’s a gentleman that knows a good drop of liquor when he sees it.’ ’Tisn’t every gentleman that takes kindly to the drink nowadays, sir. Why, there’s some of them what drops in here for lunch as takes water with it! Can’t say I hold with it myself. Well, here’s your very good health, sir!”
He consumed his glass of gin at a gulp, and stood with his elbows on the counter, looking at the Professor. “Your saying that about the cottage does put me in mind of that other,” he said, reminiscently. “Mind you, sir, not that he was like you at all. Of course I didn’t know who he was when he came in, but I say to myself, ‘That fellow’s no business man, I’ll warrant!’ And, as it turned out, I was right! But you can always tell, can’t you, sir?”
“Usually,” agreed the Professor. “He was not a business man then?”
“Not he!” exclaimed the landlord, contemptuously. “He was one of them scientific chaps, like you reads about in the papers. What good they does I don’t know! Always seems to me as though they’d be better employed doing something useful instead of talking a lot of gibberish decent folks don’t understand. Well, this poor chap suffered for his folly, anyhow.”
“Why, what happened to him?” enquired the Professor without any great show of interest.
“Burnt to death!” replied the landlord, impressively. “Burnt till there wasn’t nothing but a heap of charred bones left, sir. Terrible thing it was, and him all alone out on the heath there. Quiet enough chap he seemed too. Why, I couldn’t believe my ears when the constable told me about him afterwards. You wouldn’t have guessed what the chap was really, not if you was to try for a twelvemonth.”
“I daresay not,” remarked the Professor dryly. “I never was good at guessing. What was he?”
“Ticket o’ leave man!” exclaimed the landlord, leaning over the counter confidentially. “If you’ll believe me, that man had just served fourteen years hard on Dartmoor for murdering a Duke, when he walked into my bar as cool as a cucumber. Oh, he was a deep one, was that Mr. Morlandson! And not a soul bar the super knew a word about it!”
“Burnt to death, was he!” remarked the Professor. “Dear me, what a terrible end. How did it happen?”
“No one knows rightly,” replied the landlord. “He lived all alone on the heath, over yonder towards Goathorn. Built himself a concrete place, I can’t remember what the super said he called it. Word something like lavatory?”
“Laboratory, perhaps?” suggested the Professor.
“Aye, that’s it, sir. You can see the ruins of it still, they tell me. I haven’t been out that way since it happened. Used to lock himself up in this place of his, and fiddle about with all sorts of inflammable stuff. Bound to go up it was, and sure enough it did. Just after closing time one evening, Old George what lives way out towards Studland, comes knocking at my door and says the heath’s on fire. ‘Heath on fire!’ I
