"It was once the owner of this house I suppose," said Herrick grimly. "Now, it is a piece of carrion. Suicide apparently. Dead over twenty-four hours. Shot through the heart. A steady hand to do that. H'm, left-handed too. Is it suicide, or murder? Here's a damnable discovery to cap the adventure," said Dr. Jim gravely.
From the doorway came a gasp, a tittering laugh. Jim had just time to spring forward when Joyce lunged into his arms. The long expected nerve-storm had come at last.
[CHAPTER II]
DE MORTUIS NIL NISI MALUM
"And sunsets fire, the Saxham spire,
My guide post unto heaven."
So sang midway in the last century a local poet, who died long since and passed, poems and all, into oblivion. But the famous spire in its copper sheathing still catches the sunlight, and glows in the centre of Saxham, a veritable pillar of fire. Those natives who have emigrated, enlisted as soldiers, taken situations in London and elsewhere, shipped before the mast, as some have done, always remember church and spire. The children recall its ruddy blaze when they read Exodus.
Saxham was not a large place. It might have contained a couple of hundred inhabitants, probably less, and these principally agricultural labourers. They worked on the farms and estates which dotted the vast alluvial plain stretching to Beorminster. As the city, like that one mentioned in the Bible, is set upon a hill, the twin towers of the cathedral and Bishop Gandolf's spire can easily be seen from Saxham. But the villagers prefer their own spire and their own parson, rarely venturing the three miles to Beorminster. Those who do go, always return to their beloved hamlet, more convinced than ever as to the superiority of their birthplace. A sturdy stubborn set of rustics, these men and women of Saxham.
The topography of the country as set down in Herrick's map, showed that Saxham was almost the centre of the district, taking Beorminster as the real navel. The great plain was covered with many such hamlets, each clustering round its parent church; but Saxham was the nearest to the city. Far away on the other side was smoky Irongrip the manufacturing town; almost in sight of Marleigh and Heathcroft. Then sixteen miles across Southberry Heath (which Herrick and Joyce had so wearily trodden on the previous night) Southberry Junction roared with perpetual traffic for here, the great main line tapped the local railways which converged from all points. The pine-woods, sheltering Saxham from the chill winds of the moor, also barred it from the outside world, as Southberry was considered to be. Saxham, with its neighbouring hamlets, claimed to belong solely to Beorminster. The folk would have called themselves autochthonous, had they known of such a word and its meaning.
The plan of the village was simple. In its centre was a genuine village green, with a quincunx of immemorial elms. From this ran four streets through the mass of houses, until they passed beyond them altogether and out into the country. On one side stands St. Edith's church in a nest of trees; on the other 'The Carr Arms' an inn of undoubted antiquity. The remaining two sides are occupied by rows of mediæval-looking houses, inhabited by those whom Saxham calls "the best people," by which is meant the tradesmen. There was no doctor or lawyer and the rector representing the gentry in the village itself, dwelt on its outskirts. The country people lived outside the village on their estates and visited it only on business; and as there were no Radicals in Saxham, these were looked upon as more than mortal.
Under the red tiled roof of 'The Carr Arms,' Robin Joyce was still sleeping the next morning when the green was filled with excited people talking of the murder--so they called it. The events of the previous night had so shaken the nerve of the little man, that it was all Herrick could do to get him out of that ghastly mansion, and down to the inn. Dr. Jim, rousing the landlord, had told his story and after seeing Robin to bed, had turned in himself. What did it matter to him, that the great house was still ablaze in the pine-wood, still filled with precious things, and its doors and windows open to thieves? He was too tired almost to think, and the moment his head was on the pillow, he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, which lasted until ten the next morning.