I obeyed. "But don't tell anyone that I am going to Mootley," said I hastily.
"Right oh. I'll take the Rippler and light out for town at two o'clock. I shall meet you at dinner, and then you can tell me all about the funeral."
So it was arranged, and we made a very good meal. At least the boy did, being unworried with secret disagreeables; but I did not eat much myself. The knowledge of what was hidden in my second portmanteau lay heavily on my mind, and I fear I betrayed my discomfort, for Cannington remarked it. It occurred to me that a murderer would have to possess amazing nerve to conduct himself as an ordinary human being, seeing that I, with no crime on my mind, was so easily discomfited. . . . Of course, under the circumstances, I should have thought of a guilty "she" rather than of a guilty "he"; but I really could not bring myself to believe that Diana of the Ephesians had murdered her old nurse.
Cannington did not waste the Rippler on himself. He invited a cheery subaltern to join him, and the two boys went off in the highest spirits, with his lordship spanchelled between the seat and the wheel. I resisted a kindly-meant invitation of Trent to play stickey, and turned my face in the direction of Mootley, thankful to be by myself. During the few miles to that village I had ample to think about, and could not help wondering at the strange whirl of circumstances which had gathered round me during the last week. I had come out to seek an adventure and had found one with a vengeance. How it would end I could not tell.
The sun came out during the afternoon, so I found the walk--but for disturbing thoughts--extremely pleasant. On passing the field, I congratulated myself that I had emptied it of its incriminating contents. Whatever inquiries Dredge made, on the face of it he could learn nothing, as I alone possessed a tangible clue. And as that clue, so far, led to Miss Gertrude Monk, and a thorough explanation would have to be forthcoming before it could go past her, it was just as well for her own peace of mind, and mine also, that she should give it to a friendly-disposed inquirer. Thinking of this, and wondering how she would explain her flight from the corner shop in my motor car, I drew near the outskirts of Mootley. The famous shop, which had appeared in several illustrated daily papers, was closed, so I did not pause but went on. Directly round the corner I met Mr. Sam Giles, the ex-greengrocer, who greeted me in a most friendly manner.
"You're just too late, sir!" said he, touching his hat, and quite ready to give all information, "she's planted."
"Mrs. Caldershaw?"
"Yes, sir. It was quite a pretty funeral, with plenty of mourners and wreaths for the coffin. We made a holiday of it this morning, and I don't think, sir, that there's much doing this afternoon, as the excitement was too great." I could not help smiling, in spite of the gravity of my errand, at the idea of the villagers extracting pleasure from such a dismal affair as the funeral of a murdered woman. But Giles apparently had the morbid love of his class for such things, and went on supplying information in high spirits.
"A heap of gentlemen of the press came from London," he said importantly, "and they photographed the grave. What with motor cars and bicycles and traps and carts, the place was like a fair. It will advertise Mootley a lot, and I shouldn't wonder if land went up in value hereabouts."
I nodded. "Mrs. Caldershaw has been quite a benefactress to the village, Mr. Giles. By the way, did Miss Monk and Miss Destiny appear at the funeral?"