Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant’s unspoken comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then Grant laughed, and turned on his heel.
Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was standing at the door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show. He raised both hands in silent condemnation of Elkin’s childishness, whereupon the horse-dealer jerked a thumb toward Grant’s retreating figure, and went through a rapid pantomime of the hanging process. His crony disapproved again, and went in. Now, both those men were on the jury panel, so, to all appearance, Grant would be judged by at least one deadly enemy, whose animosity might or might not be fairly balanced by the chemist’s impartial mind.
The tenant of The Hollies actually dreaded the loneliness of his dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching celery in the kitchen garden.
“Have ’ee made out owt about un, sir?” inquired that hardy individual, pausing to spit on the handle of his spade.
“No,” said Grant. “The thing is a greater mystery than ever.”
“I’m thinkin’ her mun ha’ bin killed by a loony,” announced Bates.
“Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?”
“Ax me another,” growled Bates.
“Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?”
“’E dussen’t, sir. ’E looks fierce, but ’e’ll ’old ’is tongue. T’super will see to that.”