“And confoundedly important at that. Angela, you are a trump! We’ve got Leyland down, both ears touching. He himself said that his theory about Simmonds would break down if it could be proved that Simmonds did know about the codicil, did know that he’d been cut out of the will. And it can be proved; we can prove it! It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it, that all this should have happened a fortnight ago or thereabouts? Obviously, it was hearing about the codicil which made Simmonds offer to free ‘Raight-ho’ from her engagement, and jolly sporting of him, I consider.”
“Candour compels me to admit that I’ve been rather efficient. But, Miles dear, the thing doesn’t make sense yet. We know now that Simmonds wasn’t expecting anything from his uncle’s will, and therefore had no motive for murdering him, unless it was mere spite. Then, why has Simmonds got the wind up so badly? You aren’t as frightening as all that.”
“Yes; it still looks as if Simmonds had got something on his mind. And we know that Brinkman’s got something on his mind. Perhaps Brinkman will react on this morning’s conversation and let us know a little more about it.”
Almost as he spoke, Brinkman came out from the door of the inn. He came straight up to Bredon as if he had been looking for him, and said, “Oh, Mr. Bredon, I was wondering if you would care to come for a bit of a walk. I shall get no exercise this afternoon, with the funeral to attend, and I thought perhaps you’d like a turn round the gorge. It’s considered rather a local feature, and you oughtn’t to leave without seeing it.”
It was clumsily done. He seemed to ignore Angela’s presence, and pointedly excluded her, with his eyes, from the invitation. It seemed evident that the man was determined on a tête-à-tête. Angela’s glance betrayed a surprise which she did not feel, and perhaps a pique which she did, but she rose to the occasion. “Do take him out, Mr. Brinkman. He’s getting dreadfully fat down here. Instead of taking exercise, he comes out and chats to me in public, more like a friend than a husband—and he’s making me drop my stitches.”
“Aren’t you coming?” asked Bredon, with a wholly unnecessary wink.
“Not if I know it. I’m not dressed for gorge inspecting. You may buy me a picture post-card of it, if you like, on the way back.”
The two strolled off up the valley. Bredon’s heart beat fast. It was evident that Brinkman was taking advantage of the overheard conversation, and was preparing to make some kind of disclosure. Was he at last on the track of the secret? Well, he must be careful not to betray himself by any leading questions. The post of the amiable incompetent, which he had already sustained with Brinkman, would do well enough.
“It’s a fine thing, the gorge,” said Brinkman. “It lies just below the Long Pool; but fortunately Pulteney isn’t fishing the Long Pool to-day, so we shan’t be shouted at and told to keep away from the bank. I really think, apart from the fishing, Chilthorpe is worth seeing, just for the gorge. Do you know anything about geology and such things?”
“You can search me. Beats me how they do it.”