“I did, sir.”
“Did you notice the name or initials of the makers?”
“Yes, sir. It was one of those L. & Co.’s pipes. I know ’em well enough, Mr. Blick—my old guv’nor, Sir James Marchant, used to smoke ’em. He’s given me one of his old ones, now and again.”
“One of Löewe & Company’s, eh?” said Blick, who had already assured himself of that fact, and only wanted to know if the landlord knew.
“L. & Co.’s sir—that’s what I call ’em; that’s how they’re stamped—on the wood, and on the silver mount—and of course, markings on the silver—a lion and a crown and so on, same as all silver articles are.”
“Did you notice anything else about the pipe?”
“I noticed two things, Mr. Blick—I’m one of those that’s given to noticing. It was a newish pipe; the other was this—there was a slight, very slight chip in the edge of the bowl, as if its owner had knocked out the ashes against something sharp—perhaps against the edge of a fender, or against the heel of his boot, and caught a nail there; I’ve seen many a good pipe chipped that way, however sound the wood is.”
“Good!” said Blick. “You’ve certainly a talent for observation.”
Grimsdale smiled.
“Aye, well!” he said, sinking his voice still lower. “I didn’t say anything about it in that witness-box, but—between you and me—when I learnt all I did about this murder, I put a mark of my own on that pipe!”