“From what I hear that won’t be long,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “When I called at the Court, yesterday morning, to enquire, as I do every day, ma’am, I understood from Miss Markenmore that according to the doctors her father might go any time.”
“He’s a very old man, Mr. Fransemmery,” said Mrs. Braxfield. “He was near sixty when he married the second time. However, whether he lasts long or little, Braxfield’ll stop with him till the end.”
“Good old faithful servant, Braxfield,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “Well—when he does retire, ma’am, you’ve got a very cozy nest for him to come to! Lucky man!—pleasant home, delightful surroundings, and—the handsomest woman in the South Country! Eh, ma’am?”
“Lord, Mr. Fransemmery, what a flatterer you are!” said Mrs. Braxfield with a conscious laugh. “Go away with you!—you’ll be turning my head.”
Mr. Fransemmery laughed too, and went. He had a trick of teasing people, and derived great pleasure from it; its exercise kept him in good spirits. He was in high good spirits now, and he began to whistle when he had passed Woodland Cottage and had stepped out on the open downs beyond. But before he had gone far across the springy turf his whistling stopped abruptly. Rounding a corner of the undulating surface Mr. Fransemmery suddenly saw that which made him pause. A hundred yards or so in front, a little to the left of the broad grass-covered foot-track which led from Markenmore Court to Mitbourne, a village on the further side of the downs, lay a deep depression in the land, locally known as Markenmore Hollow. It was, in reality, a long-disused chalk pit of unusual extent, but since its workings had been given up, a hundred years previously, thick under-growth of gorse and bramble had accumulated there beneath a cluster of old Scotch fir, and the place was now a wilderness as lonely as it was wild. But it was not lonely at that moment. Standing by one of the Scotch firs, in close proximity to a great clump of gorse, were men—one of them, from his uniform, Mr. Fransemmery immediately recognized as the Markenmore village policeman; another, from his velveteen coat, as Sir Anthony Markenmore’s gamekeeper; the third was a farm-labourer whom Mr. Fransemmery often met of a morning as the man crossed the downs on his way to work in the village.
But it was not the sight of these three men that made Mr. Fransemmery suddenly halt and stop his blithe whistle and catch his breath. He was familiar with the three men—to his eyes they were known. But as they moved, he saw that at their feet there was lying something that was unknown. That something looked like the figure of a man, supine, motionless, covered by some wrap, a coat or overcoat, thrown carefully across its immobility. And it was with a sudden sense of he scarcely knew what, that Mr. Fransemmery, grave and silent enough by that time, went down into the Hollow.
The village policeman, a sharp-eyed fellow, who had once confided to Mr. Fransemmery that he had ambitions and meant to rise in the force, came towards him. His face betokened a good deal, and he shook his head slightly as he put his fingers to his peaked cap.
“What’s all this?” asked Mr. Fransemmery in a hushed voice. “Something wrong?”
“Something very wrong, sir,” replied the policeman. He drew nearer, and turning, pointed to the shrouded figure. “Gentleman lying there dead, sir. Shot through the head!—but whether its murder or suicide, I can’t say, sir. Murder I think—anyhow, there’s no revolver lying near. And it’s been a revolver.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Why—who was he?”