“Mr. Harry, sir,” answered Braxfield, “was a very good son to his father, especially as Sir Anthony drew near his latter end. He was for ever at his bedside—never left him, except when Miss Valencia took his place.”
“Was he with him when he died?” enquired the Chief Constable, coming at last to the question which Blick desired to have answered.
“He was, sir! Mr. Harry,” said Braxfield, “was with my late master all that night, from the time Mr. Guy went away until Sir Anthony died—which he did in a light sleep. Yes, sir, Mr. Harry has nothing to reproach himself for in respect of his behaviour to his father—and I would have wished, sir, that he had come into the title and estates. But the law, I believe, is the law, sir, as you know better than I do—and all Markenmore, and the old title belongs to the little boy! Strange changes, sir, indeed, but you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—I see our groom waiting for me in our trap, and I’ve still a little shopping to do.”
The old butler hurried away after a polite bow, and the Chief Constable turned to Blick.
“That disposes of any question of Harry Markenmore’s possible guilt,” he murmured. “He spent that night by his father’s bedside. So he couldn’t have been at Markenmore Hollow.”
“Never thought he had,” said Blick. “But I think his automatic pistol was there. And now I’m going back to the Sceptre, to get my much-needed supper, and think a bit.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” observed the Chief Constable.
“I’m aware of it,” replied Blick. “And as I have reason to believe that Sunday, amongst rustic communities, is a great day for gossip, I intend to hear what these Markenmore villagers are saying. I fancy they’re saying a good deal amongst themselves.”
“And how will you get to hear?—a stranger!” asked the Chief Constable with a laugh.
“Easily,” replied Blick. “All village gossip either begins or ends at the village ale-house. I shall hear no end at the Sceptre, I think.”