"It's the coroner she wants, poor soul, not the doctor," remarked Peters, as he followed him into the room.
A moment's inspection satisfied Mr. Cloudesley that the poor old woman was indeed dead, and had been dead for some hours. On a little table near the bed lay a candlestick with a burned-out candle in it, a quart bottle of whisky, nearly empty, and a breakfast-cup.
"Do you think it's 'feller-deasy,' sir?" inquired Peters.
"Not intentional, but a case of murder, Peters, and there stands the murderer," pointing to the bottle.
"True for you, reverend sir; and not the first murder he's committed—not by many. Pity as he can't be hanged for it! But you see, sir, she is surely dead; and I must lock the door now, and keep things as they are for the coroner. If you'd take my advice, sir, you'd remove the children; the girl will have to appear at the inquest, but she'd be best out of the house now."
"You're quite right there, Peters, if she is fit to be moved, but such a shock may have made her really ill. I can be of no use here, so I shall leave you to do your duty, and see to the children. I must run first to the Blue Bear, and beg for a little soup for the boy."
"Don't you let any one in, sir, and send some one to the station for the sergeant, and I will keep the people out until you get the children off. Any of the boys out there will run to the station for you."
Any of the boys! No, but all the boys; for when Mr. Cloudesley made it plain that he really did not mean to admit any of them to the mysterious house, the next best thing, in the estimation of the youth of Fairford, was to run to the police station in a long, straggling, vociferating procession. Every boy there had his own private theory as to what had happened, and every boy roared out that theory at the policemen as loud as he could yell. And consequently the whole available police force of Fairford (consisting of two men, and the wife and baby of the absent Peters) rushed up the hill to the scene of action, under the impression that Mrs. Cricklade had poisoned Ruth and Oliver Garland, stuck a knife into old Mr. Trulock and Peters the policeman, and driven Mr. Cloudesley from the house in terror of his life!
Meantime Mr. Cloudesley had procured a fine bowl of good soup from good-natured Mrs. Hawes, and had returned to the children's attic. He found Ruth much recovered, though still faint and weak. A few spoonfuls of soup they persuaded her to swallow, but she shivered and seemed hardly able to do so. What did her far more good was to watch Ollie—who was quite "over" the measles, and very hungry—absorbing the good soup with much satisfaction.
"I like a soup," said the little Frenchman.