"Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep," continued Eliza. She gave proper emphasis to the concluding words. That a man should be murdered "on his own doorstep" was a feature of the crime that enhanced the tragedy in the public mind. The shooting was bad enough in itself, for rural England is happily free from such horrors; but swift and brutal death dealt out on one's own doorstep was a thing at once monstrous and awe-compelling. Eliza, perhaps, wondered why Mr. Trenholme flushed, but she fully understood the sudden blanching of his face at her tidings, for all Roxton was shaken to its foundations when the facts slowly percolated in that direction.
"Good Lord!" cried he. "Could that be the shot I heard?"
"He was killed at half past nine, sir."
"Then it was! A keeper heard it, too—and a policeman—our Roxton policeman."
"That would be Farrow," said Eliza. "What was he doin', the lazy-bones, that he couldn't catch the villain?"
"What villain?"
"The man who killed poor Mr. Fenley."
"They know who did it, then?"
"Well, no. There's all sorts o' tales flyin' about, but you can't believe any of 'em."
"But why are you blaming Farrow? He's a good fellow. He sings. No real scoundrel can sing. Read any novel, any newspaper report. 'The prisoner's voice was harsh and unmusical.' You've seen those words scores of times."