“Just one o'clock. We have come down in very decent time. Tidy old bus, isn't it?” John Steadman replaced his watch and looked round with interest as his car slowed down before the “Royal Arms” at Burford. Rather a dilapidated “Royal Arms” to judge by the signboard swaying in the breeze, but quite a picturesque-looking village inn for all that. There was no station within five miles of Burford, which so far had preserved it from trippers. Of late, however, two or three of the ubiquitous chars-à-bancs had strayed through the village and there appeared every prospect of its being eventually opened up. This, with other scraps of information, was imparted by the garrulous landlord to Mr. Steadman and his companion, Inspector Furnival. But, though he talked much of the village and its inhabitants, the inspector did not catch the name for which he was listening. At last he spoke.
“I used to know a man named Hoyle who lived somewhere in this part. I wonder if he is still here?”
“Oh, I should think that would be Mr. Hoyle of Rose Cottage,” the landlord said at once. “A very nice gentleman. He has been here some years. He is an artist, as no doubt you know, sir. And I have heard that some of his paintings have been exhibited in London in the Royal Academy. Oh, we are very proud of Mr. Hoyle down here.”
“He is a good deal away on his sketching expeditions, though, isn't he?” the inspector ventured.
“Well, naturally he is,” the landlord agreed. “Sometimes he's away weeks at a time. But he is generally here on a Sunday to take the collection in church. He is a sidesman and takes a great interest in parish matters. I did hear that he was far away the biggest subscriber to the new parish hall that our vicar is having built. Oh, a very nice gentleman is Mr. Hoyle. Mrs. Wye, his housekeeper, can't say so often enough.”
“I think that must be the man I used to know,” said the inspector mendaciously. “I think we must drive up and pay him a visit, Mr. Steadman. It isn't far, you said, I think, landlord?”
“Get there in ten minutes in the car, sir. Rose Cottage, straight up by the church. You can't miss it. But, there, I doubt if you will find Mr. Hoyle at home. I was at church on Sunday morning and I noticed he wasn't. He usually is when he is at home. I can't always say the same myself!” And the landlord shook his fat sides at his own pleasantry.
“Well, I think we will try anyway,” the inspector concluded. “Perhaps Miss Hoyle may be at home if he isn't.”
“Miss Hoyle?” The landlord looked puzzled for a moment then his face cleared. “Oh, Mr. Hoyle's daughter you mean, sir. No. She is away at school, though Mr. Hoyle did say she would be coming home ‘for keeps’ this year.”
“Anyhow I shall leave a message and Mr. Hoyle will know I have looked him up,” said the inspector pleasantly. “I expect he would think me a good deal altered, for we haven't met for something like twelve years, and we none of us grow younger, you know, landlord.”