The place did not thrive in spite of doctors' recommendations, cheap fares, and lavish advertisement. Above the hollow wherein nestled the original town stretched a flat, well-wooded country, dotted sparsely with houses, and there was a railway station at Redleigh, three miles away. New Hedgerton, as it was called, consisted of many hastily-built bungalows extending in a lean line along the cliffs, but those were occupied only in summer, and therefore remained empty for the greater part of the year. There was an asphalt esplanade running spaciously from east to west in front of these bungalows, a small bandstand, and a crude hall for public entertainments roofed with galvanised iron. At intervals roads branched at right angles from the esplanade, passing between houses old and new to run finally through woodlands or between the hedges which divided vast meadows from the highway. In spring and summer the country looked very picturesque with the foliage of trees, the blossom of orchards, and the rainbow hue of multitudinous flowers, but the change was marked in autumn and winter. Then the balmy air grew raw and chill; there were damp mists overlying the land morning and evening, while the lack of life gave the place a melancholy aspect. At the fall of the year the inhabitants of the district retired into their houses like rabbits in burrows, as the climate of this particular part of England did not tempt them to lead an out-of-door life. On the whole, therefore, Hedgerton was not a desirable locality either for a pleasure-seeker or for an invalid in summer.
This being the case, the Hedgerton gossips asked one another daily why Sir Hector Wyke had come down to the place during the season of mists and rain, of leafless boughs and ruined orchards. No one was able to give an answer, although it was frequently suggested that the baronet's health was bad. But a man in bad health would scarcely come to so unhealthy a place at so unhealthy a time.
Therefore, there must be some other reason. Everyone tried to learn what it was, and everyone failed. No information was supplied by the tenant of Maranatha, who lived a very secluded life and appeared greatly desirous to be left to himself. He saw no one, and when he took his solitary walks he spoke to no one. Even Mr. Craver was denied admittance when he sought to welcome the stranger to his parish and he returned home to tell his wife that Wyke was probably a misanthropic creature, who disliked his fellow-men.
The description aroused Mrs. Craver's curiosity, and she was even more particular than usual in examining Mrs. Mellin when that spy came to report what had taken place in the parish during the week. The washerwoman could only state, after three weeks watching, that her bills and the bills of the tradespeople were paid regularly, and she saw no one but Mrs. Vence, who as not inclined to be communicative, and that the house appeared to be as neglected now as it was when Sir Hector first went to live in it. It would seem that the mysterious baronet did not so much live in Maranatha as camp in it, since no attempt was made to brush up the residence or improve the garden in any way. Sir Hector, save for occasional walks, stayed indoors, like a snail in a shell, and Mrs. Mellin augured ill from this suspicious retirement. She chiefly blamed the house itself for the doings of its tenant.
"There's a cuss on it," she declared with relish, when Mrs. Craver was speculating as to the meaning of the whole queer business. "If Solomon hisself, as was 'appy with a thousand wives, lived in that 'ouse he'd ha' been miserable within the week. Why, the name tells you what it is, ma'am. What do Maranatha whisper to you but ruin, which there 'as been, and suicide, which 'appened, and bankruptcy, with the elopement of gels--which we know is common there. No ma'am, say what you like, it'll be murder nex'; and 'Eaven be betwixt us and 'arm, save and bless us." Mrs. Mellin always ended these dismal prognostications with the observation that she hoped she would not be called upon to give evidence at the inquest, as murders got on her nerves.
Mrs. Craver was little less fortunate with her son when she asked questions, for all that Edwin could say amounted to nothing. Sir Hector Wyke was a rich man, and a popular man, who had been in the army, and was now a gentleman at large. Edwin had met him in Society, and liked him fairly well although--as he put it--Wyke was not a man he would care to make a chum of.
Mrs. Craver suggested that he should call on the baronet and renew his acquaintance, but this Edwin refused to do. He said that if Wyke wished to improve the acquaintance he could call at the Rectory, and as the recluse showed no disposition to do this, it would be best to leave him alone. The Rector agreed with his son, and Mrs. Craver therefore found herself in the minority. All the same, she remained intensely curious, and frequently wondered what mystery lay behind the whole business. She even questioned, in a delicate way, Hall the postman and Jervis the policeman, but was unable to learn anything from either. Hall simply said that he delivered very few letters, which were received by Mrs. Vence--whom he described as an old hag, while Jervis declared that he saw nothing and knew nothing and heard nothing likely to say why the tenant of Maranatha lived so hermit-like. It was quite painful for brisk little Mrs. Craver to learn that she could discover nothing--she knew the history and daily doings of every soul in Hedgerton.
"I'm sure, George." she said plaintively, to the Rector, "one-half the world does not know how the other half lives."
"Then I'm sure it isn't your fault or Mrs. Mellin's or Miss Pyne's either," retorted her husband, whereat she was offended, and wondered more than ever if she would discover the truth.
To inflame her curiosity still more an event occurred at the end of four weeks which startled her and startled everyone with its far-reaching consequences. Sir Hector had been leading his secluded life for quite a month when the event happened. It began in quite a commonplace way with the delivery of a letter by Hall at Maranatha. About seven o'clock on a foggy November evening Hall was travelling along the esplanade on his red-painted Government bicycle when he alighted to examine his bag. He knew that he had delivered all letters save one, and searched his bag to find the last missive. By the light of the lamp the postman looked at the address, and saw that it was directed to Sir Hector Wyke at Maranatha. With a grunt of satisfaction that his duties for the day would soon be over, Hall was about to mount his machine again when Jervis appeared. The bulky form of the constable loomed portentously through the mists, and Hall guessed who he was.