“The marks of the car wheels ran off the road at this point, bumped into the post, and then ran on to the road again.” Crewe traced the course with his stick. “Brett had a narrower escape than Marsland. It’s a wonder that the impact didn’t knock away that crazy bit of fencing.”
“When Brett is on his trial it will be necessary for the jury to visit this spot,” said Sergeant Westaway solemnly.
“We’ve got to catch the beggar first,” grumbled Gillett. “But let’s get along and see if we can hit upon the spot where the murder was actually committed. How far along is it, Mr. Crewe, to where the countryman you talked to saw him pass?”
“A little more than five miles from here.”
“Then somewhere between the two places the murder must have been committed, I should say.”
“I know the place—approximately,” replied Crewe. “I’ve been over the ground several times, and I’ve been able to fix on it more or less definitely.”
“How did you fix it?” asked Gillett curiously.
“I had several clues to help me,” replied Crewe, in a non-committal voice. “Let us get back to the car and I will drive you to the place.”
They walked back to the car and drove slowly along the winding cliff road. About two miles from the danger post the road turned slightly inland, and ran for a quarter of a mile or more about two hundred yards distant from the edge of the cliff. At this point the downs began to rise above the level of the road, and continued to do so until they were above the heads of the party in the car. It was not a cutting; merely a steep natural inclination of the land, and the road skirted the foot of it for some distance. A ragged fringe of beech-trees grew along the top of the bank; doubtless they had been planted in this bare exposed position of the downs to act as a wind screen for the sheep which could be seen grazing higher up the slope.
Crewe pulled up the car and looked about him, then turned his head and spoke to Gillett: