“Yes, yes; a long time ago. There wasn’t many betterer known than Tom Gabbitas, as I was called afore I got old and folks took to callin’ me Gaffer. Dear me, how it do bring back old times to be sitting here! But it’s all changed, all changed. It’s ten year since I left the village, Muster Wilkins, and went to live in London along o’ my son.”
“Ay, and you were an old man then, Gaffer. Why, you must be a hundred nearly!”
“No, no, Muster Wilkins, though I hope to be, for—thank the Lord!—I’ve all my faculties still; but I ain’t so old as that. I’m only ninety, come next Michaelmas Day.”
“Only ninety.” It almost made me smile to hear the old gentleman talk like that; but he certainly was a wonderful old fellow for his age, for he could see and hear, and he seemed to be pretty strong generally, only a bit feeble when he walked.
“And how many years is it since the murder, Gaffer?” said Mr. Wilkins.
I pricked up my ears at that. Murder! So this old gentleman had something to do with a murder. I understood why Mr. Wilkins had brought him, and why he kept looking across at me, as much as to say, “I’ve got something for you this time, ma’am, and no mistake.”
“Fifty year since the murder,” said the Gaffer. “Quite fifty year; and twenty since they found poor Muster Crunock’s body.”
“Fancy that, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins. “A murder was committed here—two murders—fifty years ago, and one body wasn’t found till thirty years after.”
“Here!” I exclaimed, “not here in this house. You don’t mean to say there was a murder at the ‘Stretford Arms’?”
“No—here—in this village! The murder was at Curnock’s farm, two miles from here—the second murder—but Gaffer’ll tell you all about it; he was in it, weren’t you, Gaffer?”