“Friday afternoon?” the man repeated. “I’m just trying to get my bearings a bit. Yes, Friday was the night we had the storm, and Friday was the day I seen this gentleman I’m thinking of.”
“In a grey car?” suggested Crewe.
“In a grey car, as you say, sir. There ain’t so many cars pass along this road this time of year.”
“Then you saw a grey car go past in the direction of Ashlingsea on Friday afternoon?” said Crewe. He put a hand in his trousers pocket and jingled the silver there.
“I did,” exclaimed the other, with the positiveness of a man who had awakened to the fact that he possessed valuable information for which he was to be paid, “I was standing here at this very door after selling two bushels of apples to Mr. Hope, and was just thinking about going back to dig some more taters, when I happened to hear a motor-car coming along. It was the grey car, sure enough, sir. No doubt about that.”
“And was there anyone with my friend—or was he alone in the car?”
This was a puzzling question, because it contained no indication of the answer wanted.
“I can’t say I noticed anybody at the time, cos I was thinking more about my taters—it’s a bit late to be getting up taters, as you know, sir. I’d left ’em over late through having so much thatching to do, there being so few about as can thatch now that the war is on, and not many at the best o’ times—thatching being a job as takes time to learn. My father he was best thatcher they ever did have hereabouts, and it was him taught me.”
“And there was no one but my friend in the car?”
“I couldn’t say that I did see any one, my mind being more on taters, but, mind you, sir, there might have been. Your friend he went past so quickly I didn’t rightly see into the car—not from here. It ain’t reasonable to expect it, is it, sir?”