“Nothing whatsoever,” replied the landlord emphatically. “Mind, we didn’t know Morlandson was inside. We expected to find him running round outside chucking water at it from a bucket. However, off we goes, and as we gets close we catches the stink of it. Lord! I shan’t forget it in a hurry. It was like the smell what comes from the pits when they burns carcases when the foot-and-mouth’s about.
“The super he meets us, and I reckon I hollered out when I saw him by the light of the fire. He was black as a sweep, and all the hair singed off his face. Told us he’d been into the cottage, which was burning like a dry rick, and that he couldn’t find Morlandson anywhere. ‘I reckon he’s in there,’ he says, pointing to the lav——labor——what you call it. ‘There’s a horrible smell of burnt flesh about.’
“He was right there, it fair made me sick. But there was nothing to be done. You couldn’t get within fifty yards of the place. We waited till nigh on midnight, but even when the flames went down the walls was red-hot and we weren’t no further for’ard. Super, he stays on all night, and in the morning he finds what’s left of Morlandson, and that’s precious little.”
“Dear me, what a terrible thing!” exclaimed the Professor.
“Aye, that it was,” agreed the landlord. “They brought back what there was of the poor chap in a potato sack, held an inquest on him, and buried him in the churchyard yonder. And that is what happened to the last gent what fancied a lonely life on the heath, sir.”
The landlord glanced up at the clock, the hands of which pointed to five and twenty minutes to three. “Hallo, I must close the bar, or I’ll be getting into trouble,” he said, reluctantly removing his arms from the counter.
“A visit to the scene of the tragedy would provide me with an object for a walk,” said the Professor. “Which is my best way to it?”
“You can’t go wrong, provided you don’t mind a bit of rough going,” replied the landlord. “If you go out of the village towards Wareham, you’ll come upon a railway track, what they runs the trucks of stones along. That goes to Goathorn pier, a matter of six mile away or more. Follow the line for nigh on three mile, and you’ll come to a clay-pit. Then, about a quarter or half a mile away, on your right, you’ll see what’s left of the place, standing up among the gorse and heather. There is a track, but it’s a long way round and plaguey hard to find if you don’t know it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, it’s past closing time.”
Chapter XVII.
The Clay-pit
Dr. Priestley walked out of the inn, and down through the village towards the ruined castle, standing upon its curiously artificial-looking mound. He had attained one of the objects of his visit, corroboration of the story of the death of Dr. Morlandson, and that without asking questions which might have suggested that he had any interest in the matter. Since the landlord had himself volunteered the information, there could be no reason for his having distorted the truth. Morlandson, by the evidence of those best qualified to speak, was dead, and his charred bones were resting in the quiet churchyard which the Professor was at that very moment passing.