"Opened with a key, right enough," he mumbled.
"Here's a fresh scratch in the rust where it slipped. " "Then," snapped the chief constable, "Martin Starberth did open that door, after all?"
"No. No, I don't think so. That was the murderer." Dr. Fell said something else, but it was inaudible because he had stepped through the sheathing ivy out upon the balcony.
The rest of them looked at one another uneasily. Rampole found himself more afraid of that balcony than he had even been of the safe. But he found himself moving forward, with Sir Benjamin at his elbow. The rector, he discovered as he glanced over his shoulder, was intently examining the titles of the calf-bound books in the shelves to the right of the fireplace; he seemed reluctant to drag himself away, though his feet appeared to be moving in the direction of the balcony.
Pushing aside the vines, Rampole stepped out. The balcony was not large; hardly more than a stone shelf about the base of the door, with stone balustrades built waist high. There was little more room than would comfortably accommodate the three of them as he and Sir. Benjamin stepped to either side of the doctor.
Nobody spoke. Over the top of the prison the, morning sun had not yet struck; these walls, the hill, and the Hag's Nook below were still in shadow. Some twenty feet down, Rampole could see the edge of the cliff jutting out in mud and weeds, and the triangle of stone blocks which had once supported the gallows. Through the little door down there they had brought out the condemned from the press-room, where the smith had struck off their irons before the last jump. From up here Anthony had watched it, in his "new suit of scarlet and laced hat." Bending over, Rampole could see the well gaping among the firs; he thought he could discern the green scum upon its water many feet farther down, but it was in heavy shadow.
Only that gaping pit, ringed in spikes, fifty feet below the balcony. Beyond it the northern meadows were sunlit, and starred with white flowers. You could see across the lowlands, cut with hedgerows like a rolling checkerboard; the white road, the stream glimmering, the white houses among trees, and the church spire. Peace. The meadows were not now black with faces to watch a hanging. Rampole could see a hay-wagon dawdling along the road.
"— it seems solid enough," Rampole heard Sir Benjamin saying, "and we've quite a lot of weight on it. I don't like messing about with it, though. Steady! What are you doing?"
Fell was grubbing among the ivy over the black balustrades.
"I've always wanted to examine this," he said, "but I never thought I should have the opportunity. H'm. It wouldn't wear, or would it?" he added to himself. There followed a sound of ripping ivy.