Blick left him at the cross-roads and turned into the Sceptre. Remembering Crawley, and not averse to a friendly chat before retiring, he looked into the bar-parlour and asked for him. Grimsdale, reading a paper behind his bar, shook his head.
“Never been back, Mr. Blick,” he answered. “He ordered his dinner for seven o’clock, but he didn’t come in for it. Ain’t set eyes on him since he went out just after breakfast; I suppose he’s altered his mind and gone elsewhere. Don’t signify, neither—he paid his bill!”
CHAPTER XIX
UNDER PRESSURE
The bodies of Sir Anthony Markenmore and his elder son were duly laid to rest in the family burial ground in Markenmore churchyard next day at noon, in the presence of a crowd whose members had flocked into the old village from all parts of the surrounding country. Folk of all sorts and conditions assembled in the church itself and under the ancient elms and yews that fenced in its grey walls; the last ceremonies over they split up into groups, discussing the latest news appertaining to the fortunes of the Markenmore family. By that time everybody in the place knew that Guy Markenmore had left a son, and that he had come into the title and estates: many of the onlookers had hurried to the churchyard in hopes of seeing the new baronet. But all they saw was Harry Markenmore and two or three kinsmen; no women of the family were present, and there was nothing remarkable nor spectacular: the curtain went down on this act of the drama quietly and uneventfully, and when those present had seen the last of Guy Markenmore, laid side by side with his father, and in close proximity to his many dead and gone ancestors, they fell back on the oft-repeated question—who was responsible for his tragic end?
Blick saw nothing of these obsequies. He was not concerned with the dead. His one object was to lay hands on a living person—the murderer of Guy Markenmore. That person was somewhere; possibly far off by that time; possibly closer at hand than he knew. It was a difficult chase, and the quarry was clear out of sight and the scent poor, but Blick was casting round, and by perseverance, aided by luck, he hoped to get on the trail. And certainly he had got something to go on in the strange revelation of yesterday, and in the fortunate discovery of the automatic pistol. Full of thoughts and speculations about one, and with the other in his pocket, he set out for Selcaster as soon as his early breakfast was over, and by ten o’clock was closeted with the Chief Constable. To him he detailed all the news gained since the previous morning.
The Chief Constable listened and wondered. Like Blick, his thoughts turned to the question: Had these revelations about Guy Markenmore’s secret marriage of seven years ago anything to do with his murder? He discussed the likelihood and probabilities of this for some time, but suddenly turned off to a more pertinent subject.
“That, however, is all mere speculation; though, as you say, Blick, there may be a good deal in it,” he remarked. “But the finding of that automatic pistol, so near the scene of the murder, is quite a different matter. Now, how on earth did it come to be in that burrow, or hole, or whatever it is?”
“You mean—how did it come to be there unless it was put there!” said Blick. “Of course, it was dropped in there by somebody who wanted to get rid of it!—how else could it have come there? Let’s suppose that that somebody was the actual murderer. He came away from the scene of his crime, crossed the hill-side in front of Woodland Cottage——”