“Do you suppose that no churchyard is ever kept locked unless a murder has ever been committed in it?”
“No. But I think it strange that since I have been here, prowling about, let us say, not only has the gate been mended where it had grown weak in one of the hinges, but two breaches in the wall, by which one could have got into the churchyard without the help of the gate, have been repaired.”
Olivia glanced towards the place where she had got in over the broken wall on a former occasion. The gap had been stopped up, and some of the earth underneath on the outside had been carted away to make a forced entrance more difficult.
“Well,” said she, her cheeks flushing, “and is there anything singular in the fact of a vicar’s having his churchyard wall repaired?”
“When the churchyard is so orderly and so beautifully kept as this one?” added Mr. Mitchell, with a derisive laugh. “Yes, I think there is something singular in it. And what makes it to my mind more singular still is that when I congratulated the Reverend Vernon Brander on these repairs he denied all knowledge of them.”
“Then he certainly knew nothing about them,” said Olivia, promptly.
Mr. Mitchell, for the first time, gave her a glance such as he was accustomed to bestow on the ordinary run of women—a glance full of resigned and lenient contempt.
“Well, you are thorough-going, at least,” he said, at last, patronizingly. “But it is a curiously lucky thing for the vicar, whose house is the only place that commands a view of the churchyard, mind you, that I can be seen wandering about the place one day, and find I can’t get in the next.”
“Very likely his housekeeper saw you, as you say, prowling about, and, considering your manner suspicious, had the repairs made without thinking it worth while to consult her master.”
“Not likely,” said Mr. Mitchell, with a shake of the head. “However, I’ll not keep you here in the rain trying to persuade an old hand like me that black’s white. Do you know that your clothes are wet through?”