“We hadn’t been there more than a minute when the constable comes along. ‘What’s up yonder?’ I says. ‘Morlandson’s place on fire,’ says he. ‘Super he’s gone off on his bike. You chaps best come along and see what you can do.’
“Well, sir, it weren’t no manner of good to take the engine. She’s only one of them hand concerns, and last time we’d had her out to practice, she pumped back’ards like into the river instead of out of it. Joe Stiggs, him what looks after her, said he found he’d put the valves in the wrong way. Besides, it would have taken us best part of an hour to push her out there, there ain’t no regular road. And, what’s more, all the water out at Morlandson’s place was a well what ran dry every summer.”
“Then there was nothing to be done?” commented the Professor.
“Nothing whatsoever,” replied the landlord emphatically. “Mind, we didn’t know Morlandson was inside. We expected to find him running round outside chucking water at it from a bucket. However, off we goes, and as we gets close we catches the stink of it. Lord! I shan’t forget it in a hurry. It was like the smell what comes from the pits when they burns carcases when the foot-and-mouth’s about.
“The super he meets us, and I reckon I hollered out when I saw him by the light of the fire. He was black as a sweep, and all the hair singed off his face. Told us he’d been into the cottage, which was burning like a dry rick, and that he couldn’t find Morlandson anywhere. ‘I reckon he’s in there,’ he says, pointing to the lav—labor—what you call it. ‘There’s a horrible smell of burnt flesh about.’
“He was right there, it fair made me sick. But there was nothing to be done. You couldn’t get within fifty yards of the place. We waited till nigh on midnight, but even when the flames went down the walls was red-hot and we weren’t no further for’ard. Super, he stays on all night, and in the morning he finds what’s left of Morlandson, and that’s precious little.”
“Dear me, what a terrible thing!” exclaimed the Professor.
“Aye, that it was,” agreed the landlord. “They brought back what there was of the poor chap in a potato sack, held an inquest on him, and buried him in the churchyard yonder. And that is what happened to the last gent what fancied a lonely life on the heath, sir.”
The landlord glanced up at the clock, the hands of which pointed to five and twenty minutes to three. “Hallo, I must close the bar, or I’ll be getting into trouble,” he said, reluctantly removing his arms from the counter.
“A visit to the scene of the tragedy would provide me with an object for a walk,” said the Professor. “Which is my best way to it?”
“You can’t go wrong, provided you don’t mind a bit of rough going,” replied the landlord. “If you go out of the village towards Wareham, you’ll come upon a railway track, what they runs the trucks of stones along. That goes to Goathorn pier, a matter of six mile away or more. Follow the line for nigh on three mile, and you’ll come to a clay-pit. Then, about a quarter or half a mile away, on your right, you’ll see what’s left of the place, standing up among the gorse and heather. There is a track, but it’s a long way round and plaguey hard to find if you don’t know it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, it’s past closing time.”
XVII
The Clay-Pit
Dr. Priestley walked out of the inn, and down through the village towards the ruined castle, standing upon its curiously artificial-looking mound. He had attained one of the objects of his visit, corroboration of the story of the death of Dr. Morlandson, and that without asking questions which might have suggested that he had any interest in the matter. Since the landlord had himself volunteered the information, there could be no reason for his having distorted the truth. Morlandson, by the evidence of those best qualified to speak, was dead, and his charred bones were resting in the quiet churchyard which the Professor was at that very moment passing.
He felt a great desire to see the site of the tragedy, but his natural caution prevented him from walking to it immediately. He was most anxious to avoid any suspicion that Mr. Deacon, the City merchant, was in any way interested in the fate of the ex-convict. But, on the other hand, there was no reason why he should not visit the ruins of the castle, the scene of the murder of King Edward the Martyr, three-quarters of a century before the Conquest. It was the show place of the district, the natural magnet for any casual visitor like himself.
The Professor climbed slowly up the steep slopes of the natural earthwork, which stands like a fortress guarding the only gap in the long range of the Purbeck hills, and listened attentively while the guide, delighted at finding a sympathetic audience so early in the year, recounted the history of the stronghold and indicated its more prominent features. Then, his inspection over, he sat down on the grass on the northeastern slope of the hill, and drew his ordnance map from his pocket.
His horizon was bounded by the high land on the southern side
