"Here's someone who'll probably be able to help us," said Marsden. "Just pull up a moment, and we'll ask him."
They came to a standstill alongside the stranger, who blinked at them suspiciously from under his shaggy eyebrows.
Marsden leaned over and addressed him with a friendly nod.
"Good evening, uncle," he said. "I wonder if you can tell us whether there's a house called 'The Firs' anywhere around this neighbourhood."
With considerable deliberation the veteran unshipped his pitchfork.
"Whoy, yees, mister," he replied. "There be a 'ouse o' that name sure enough. There aren't no one there though, not as I knows on."
"That doesn't matter," said the Inspector. "We only want to have a look at the outside of it."
"You don't 'ave to go far for that," was the encouraging reply. "You'll find it on the right-'and side of the road soon as you've passed the nex' turnin'."
"I suppose you don't happen to know who owns the place?" inquired Marsden.
"Well, I 'ave 'eard that it's a rich gen'leman in London. Party o' the name o' Fenton. 'E don't use it much though, an' that's a fact; only comes down 'ere for an odd day or two now an' then."