Holmes's surprising statement was allowed to stand unchallenged for a moment as we were all distracted by a sound in the nearby underbrush.
'A dog, probably,' guessed Witherspoon, 'or more likely, a possum.' The medical examiner's attention returned to Holmes. 'If what you say is true, sir, how did Amos Gridley get on the roof?'
Holmes looked solemn as he assumed his seat in the carriage and I sat alongside him.
'Gridley's being on the roof to begin with never seemed right to me. Another, and more sinister, theory regarding his death presents its grim face. That bruise you noted, Doctor Witherspoon, which was acquired prior to death fits into it rather neatly. A strong man, adept at such questionable practices, could well have sandbagged the old fellow and, while unconscious, carried him to the roof. A shove and the body slides down the incline and falls to the ground. The neck is broken and we have an accidental death as a convenient cloak for murder.'
Witherspoon flicked his reins and the powerful gray set out at a spanking pace, anxious to return to his stall and some oats. There was a silence as we progressed through the peaceful countryside. It suddenly occurred to me that this was unusual. That I would not challenge Holmes's deductions was acceptable, for I had good reason to know of their unerring accuracy through the years. But Witherspoon advanced no objections to my friend's recreation of events even though they would prove most difficult to sustain in a court of law. Actually, I realized that as Holmes had, step by step, delved into the death of the St. Aubrey resident, the doctor had become more and more silent and his somewhat hearty manner had disappeared altogether.
Holmes was not averse to silence. The sleuth's face was placid and I sensed that his mind was happily sorting out random pieces and fitting them into a mosaic of fact. Witherspoon was involved with thoughts of his own and his face seemed strained. I fell victim to the silence and tried to evaluate the incidents uncovered in our journey to this rural hamlet.
That Amos Gridley had been killed, I accepted. Holmes would not have expounded his theory in such detail, if in doubt. But what in the antique dealer's passing by violence had captured the interest of Holmes? Could he have been in Constantinople in the shop of Aben Hassim? It did not seem likely, yet the man had had a lisp, though I did not recall anyone making mention of it in sleepy St. Aubrey.
We were at the top of the rise when Holmes roused himself from his thoughts with a request that startled me indeed.
'Could we stop here a moment, Doctor Witherspoon?'
The medical examiner instinctively reined in his horse with a questioning glance at Holmes.
'Watson and I are, by force of circumstances, much chained to the city. It being not more than three miles back to St. Aubrey, I wonder if you might continue alone. A constitutional in these peaceful surroundings would benefit us greatly.'
Had not Holmes placed me on the alert with a surreptitious nudge, I might have burst out laughing. Bucolic surroundings held scant charm for my friend, but obviously he was up to something and I tried to be of help.
'Capital idea, Holmes. An hour at a brisk pace will stretch our legs.'
Witherspoon had a worried look about him and made an effort to erase it.
'If that is your desire, gentlemen, I'll meet you at The Crossbow on your return.'
When Holmes and I had descended from his carriage, Witherspoon allowed his horse to resume motion. As the vehicle departed down the road, I noticed Witherspoon throw several glances over his shoulder back in our direction. Then a dip in the hill took him from view and Holmes came to a halt.
'Now, Watson, we shall backtrack a bit. The Haven, referred to by the helpful medical examiner as the local den of iniquity, is of interest to me.'
Mystified, I could but follow as his long stride ate up the ground between the road and the country pub.
Its ulterior was unprepossessing. At one end of a long, much-scarred bar, two rough-looking individuals were engaged in a mumbling conversation and paid us no heed at all. Behind the bar was a short, squat, heavy man with a bald head adorned by several scars of a permanent nature. He had a dilapidated shirt buttoned at the neck. His face was round and jowls hung over his collar. A dark vest, shiny with wear, did not totally conceal the stains under his arms. He was chewing on a short cigar with dirty, yellow teeth as he aimlessly polished a glass. He regarded Holmes and myself with small, somewhat bloodshot eyes.
The sleuth had registered on the two customers at the end of the bar and evidently dismissed them.
'Has Lothar Gridley been here today?' he asked the barkeep.
'Who wants ter know?'
'I do,' replied Holmes, in a very quiet tone.
As the worthy removed his cigar from his mouth with a purposeful manner as though eager to stipulate how little importance he attached to that statement, Holmes stepped closer to the bar, his face becoming more visible in the dim exterior. The man surveyed him again and evidentally suffered a change of heart. His raspy voice became almost cordial.
'He be here but awhile ago. Sittin' by the window.' A thumb indicated a grimy frame of glass and a table in front of it. 'Then he ducked out, he did.'
'Possibly to return,' commented Holmes. 'We'll see.'
I followed my friend who crossed to the table and secured two chairs from an adjacent one. Since there was a half-way filled bottle and a tumbler on the plain wooden surface, I felt the seaman would return all right. We were not seated for long before the creaky door behind us opened and a broad-shouldered man with raven hair entered, marching with purpose toward us and then halting as he became aware of our presence. He was tall and his clean- shaven skin was weathered and of that burnished brown produced by sun and salt. He regarded us with a scowl.
'Who be you?' he said, after a pause.
'Two of those just at your late uncle's cottage,' said Holmes. 'We would appreciate a moment of your time.'
'Time's cheap,' was the response.
'You are Lothar Gridley?'
'I'm not ashamed of it.' Gridley resumed his chair and splashed whiskey into his tumbler. He did not offer us any. Considering that our surroundings were far removed from the Criterion Bar, I approved of this lack of hospitality.
'You were watching us a short while ago,' said Holmes.
'And if I was? The cottage will be mine shortly.'
'I fancy so,' replied the sleuth. 'There will be no trouble about the insurance money by the way.'
'Aye, I gave a guess that's why you was nosin' 'round. The idea . . . thinkin' that Amos would do hisself in. Life was dear to him and that's a fact.' With our presence apparently explained, Lothar Gridley unbent and signaled with a hand gesture. The barman materialized with two additional tumblers, which he thumped on the table. I declined somewhat hastily though Holmes allowed a sizeable pouring into his glass. I noted that he did not drink it.
'Will you be returning to the sea?' he inquired pleasantly.
Downing a massive swallow, Gridley shook his head as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His palm was horny with callous. 'No chance, mate. I'll find me a little place like this, though a mite more shipshape, and it's the easy life for me. If I drink up some of me profits, what's to worry?'
Holmes looked dubious. 'Five hundred pounds might not go that far.'
Gridley snapped his fingers with a loose laugh. 'The insurance money, you mean. We'll nay worry 'bout that,'
'I'm glad you are well provided for.'
There was sudden suspicion in the sailor's eyes.
'Did I say that?'
'You did not. But it's another matter I would have words with you about in any case.' Gridley's manner did not indicate that he would appreciate words on any subject but Holmes caught his attention quickly enough.
'We're agreed that your uncle's death was not a suicide. I'm not of a mood to accept it as accidental either.'
There was a pause broken by the sound of Gridley's tumbler coming down on the table.
'Finally, somebody with a smidgen o' sense. I've been tellin' 'em old Amos would never ha' been on that roof.'
