“He did not lave at all, to my knowledge. Sure he might have gone an’ he might have come back widout my knowin’. But see him I did not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hurley. I think we’ll go across to the cottage now. If any people come, will you send them after us? I suppose a policeman is there?”
“He is, sor. An’ the serjint is not far away. They’ve been in chyarge since Mr. Bowyer wint away last—but shlapin’ here.”
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer walked towards the cottage. “Did you notice,” said Mr. Bowyer, “that the woman saw Rewse writing letters? Now what were those letters, and where are they? He has no correspondents that I know of but his mother and sister, and they heard nothing from him. Is this something else?—some other plot? There is something very deep here.”
“Yes,” Hewitt replied thoughtfully, “I think our inquiries may take us deeper than we have expected; and in the matter of those letters—yes, I think they may lie near the kernel of the mystery.”
Here they arrived at the cottage—an uncommonly substantial structure for the district. It was square, of plain, solid brick, with a slated roof. On the patch of ground behind it there were still signs of the fires wherein Main had burnt Rewse’s clothes and other belongings. And sitting on the window-sill in front was a big member of the R.I.C., soldierly and broad, who rose as they came, and saluted Mr. Bowyer.
“Good-day, constable,” Mr. Bowyer said. “I hope nothing has been disturbed?”
“Not a shtick, sor. Nobody’s as much as gone in.”
“Have any of the windows been opened or shut?” Hewitt asked.
“This wan was, sor,” the policeman said, indicating the one behind him, “when they took away the corrpse, an’ so was the next round the corrner. ’Tis the bedroom windies they are, an’ they opened thim to give ut a bit av air. The other windy behin’—sittin’-room windy—has not been opened.”