“You did?” exclaimed Blick. “What mark?”
“Bit of a cross on the silver band,” said Grimsdale. He winked knowingly at the detective. “I’d know my own mark again—anywhere!”
Blick nodded. Then he glanced round at the men in the far corner of the room.
“Gossiping about all this, I suppose?” he asked.
“Aye!” assented Grimsdale. “Lord bless you!—they’ll talk of nothing else for many a day—unless there’s a four-legged fowl or a calf with three heads comes along! It’s pie to them, all this, Mr. Blick. You being a Londoner, you don’t know what village folk are for talk and gossip!”
“Who’s the biggest gossip in the place?” asked Blick.
“Benny Cripps, the sexton,” replied Grimsdale promptly. “Get talking to him, and he’ll tell you the whole history of Markenmore and every man, woman, and child in it, high and low, rich and poor, since Doomsday—whenever that was, and it must be a long time ago. They say he knows the pedigree of these Markenmores, for instance, better than they do themselves!”
“An interesting old party,” remarked Blick. “Where does he hang out?”
“Next cottage to the churchyard,” replied Grimsdale. “Old, thatched cottage.”
“Well,” said Blick, lifting his elbows off the bar-counter. “I’m going for a stroll—to have a look round. You’ll have supper ready for me about eight?”