I interposed just then because I wanted to slow down the story a little. The girl who had visited me last night was named Clevedon—Susan had just told me so—and now there was a Sir Philip Clevedon and a tragedy. I could not help wondering, of course, what connection there could be between the two, but I was determined to feel my way cautiously, resolved not to be hustled or bounced into saying more than I wanted to say. The story, whatever it was, should come from them without any help from me.
“No, Mr. Holt, I dare say you haven’t heard anything yet—not many have,” Sergeant Gamley went on. “As you say, it isn’t in the papers. You are a stranger among us—yes, yes. For the moment I had forgotten that. I knew your late respected aunt very well indeed, Mr. Holt. There was a little matter of a burglary in this very house some four years ago. Mr. Holt”—he turned to his companion—“has been living here only a very short time. He succeeded the late Mrs. Mackaluce, whose nephew he was.”
“Hadn’t you better tell Mr. Holt what has happened at White Towers?” the other man suddenly interrupted, speaking in a small, soft voice that was rather curiously in contrast with his bulk, and without any trace of impatience. He had perhaps been as willing as myself that the conversation should not be hurried.
“You can see White Towers from the upper windows of your own house, Mr. Holt,” Sergeant Gamley continued. “It lies between you and the village, a large house with an outstanding turret and two smaller towers.”
“I have seen it,” I said, “but my housekeeper said it was White Abbey, if that is the place you mean.”
“The good lady is a little mixed,” was Gamley’s reply.
He was proud of his local antiquarian knowledge and delighted to parade it, being, indeed, a frequent contributor to the local papers and regarded as an authority on county history in general and Cartordale in particular.
“White Towers,” he went on, “stands on the site of the old White Abbey. The older name survives, but the present house, of which Sir Philip Clevedon is the owner—was the owner—”
If there is such a thing as an inward smile I indulged in one then. The method was so obvious and I had so often used it myself. Pepster was allowing the other man to go maundering on while he himself kept me under careful observation. I do not, however, allow my thoughts to be written on my face, and I merely listened impassively. Pepster seemed at last to recognise that he was not likely to get much help as things were going, for he brushed Gamley aside and took up the story himself.
“The fact is, Mr. Holt,” he said bluntly, “Sir Philip Clevedon was found dead this morning—stabbed—”