“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere around. It’s what anyone might do if they found themselves up to the hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter, and got into a panic over it.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence.
“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to take charge of things up there.”
“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Sir Clinton put the subject aside.
“Now, Inspector, let me remind you of what’s wanted:
What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where, How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share?
You put it down as murder?”
“Or manslaughter,” corrected Armadale. “And we know When, How, and Where, at any rate.”
“Do we?” Sir Clinton rejoined. “Speak for yourself. I’m not so sure about When and Where yet, and How is still a dark mystery so far as I’m concerned. I mean,” he added, “so far as legal proof goes.”
The Inspector was about to say something further when a knock at the door was heard and a constable appeared in answer to Sir Clinton’s summons.
“The Ravensthorpe head keeper wants to see you, Sir Clinton, if you can spare him a moment. He says it’s important.”
The Chief Constable ordered the keeper to be admitted.
“Well, Mold, what’s your trouble?” he inquired, when the man appeared.
“It’s this way, Sir Clinton,” Mold began. “Seein’ the queer sort o’ things we’ve seen lately, it seemed to me that maybe another queer thing that’s happened might be important. So I thought it over, and I made bold to come and tell you about it.”
He seemed to lose confidence a little at this point; but Sir Clinton encouraged him by a show of interest.
“Last night,” he went on, “I was goin’ through the wood at the back o’ the house—about eleven o’clock it was, as near as I can make it. At the back o’ the house there’s a strip of woodland, then a little bit of a clearin’, and then the rest of the wood. I’d come out o’ the bigger bit o’ the wood and got most o’ the way across the clearin’ when it happened. I can tell you just where it was, for I was passin’ the old ruin there—the Knight’s Tower they call it.”
He paused for a moment or two, evidently finding continuous narrative rather a strain.
“The moon was well up by that time. It’s just past the full these days; and the place was as clear as day. Everythin’ was quiet, except an old owl that lives in a hollow tree up by there. I could hear the swish of my feet in the grass and mighty little else; for the grass was dewy and made a lot o’ noise with my stepping through it. Well, as I was goin’ along, all of a sudden I heard a shot. It sounded close by me; an’ I turned at once. There’s a poachin’ chap that’s given me a lot o’ trouble, an’ I didn’t put it past him to think he might be tryin’ to give me a scare. But when I turned round there was nothin’ to be seen. There was nothin’ there at all; an’ yet that shot had come from quite close by.”
“Did it sound like the report of a shot-gun?” Sir Clinton asked.
Mold seemed to be in a difficulty.
“Shot-gun sounds I know fairly well. ’T weren’t from a shot-gun. More like a pistol-shot it sounded, when I’d had time to think over it. An’ yet it weren’t altogether like a pistol-shot, neither. That’s a sharp sound. This was more booming-like, if you understand me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it yet, Mold,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I know how difficult it is to describe sounds, though. Have another try. Did it remind you of anything?”
A light seemed to flicker for a moment in Mold’s memory.
“I know!” he exclaimed. “It was like this. I’ve got it! Did you ever stand at the door of our Morris-tube range in the village while there was firin’ goin’ on inside? Well, this was somethin’ like that, only more so. I mean as if they’d fired somethin’ a bit heavier than a miniature rifle. That’s it! That’s just how it sounded.”
He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt simile.
“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story about lately . . .”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us what you did at that moment.”
