Having closed and locked the door, the landlord conducted him into an old dirty room, black with smoke, which had a wonderful old fireplace whereon a fire was burning, and black beams in the ceiling. A cloth was spread on the table on which was cold beef and bread.
Soon they were sitting by the fire discussing hot grog, which the landlord prepared with practiced skill. He was the descendant of a long line of smugglers, and was not slow in telling Fletcher what he thought about the bungalow town, and its inhabitants.
Fletcher was too tired for conversation, but determined to get on good terms with Southgate the landlord, and so they gossipped on till he felt himself nodding, and with a “good-night” to the landlord, retired for the night.
Chapter VI.
Portham-on-Sea
Fletcher was up early, and after a good breakfast, set out to walk to Bungalow Town. The day was clear, and the events of the night before appeared less sombre, in the light of the morning. Of course, there must be some logical and common-sense explanation for it all. He had all the papers connected with the inquest, and there were several people he wanted to see.
The walk did him good, and his mind was clear when he rounded the headland and came in sight of the bungalows. It was indeed a hideous place. At one end was an unfinished row of gaunt shops of which only a few had been opened. The builder had made some attempt at decoration by planting two rows of palms in tubs along the road, which gave the place a bizarre appearance. The first building he came to was a large corrugated iron bungalow, styled the Club, which all bungalow dwellers were invited to join for a small subscription according to a notice board. It had a withered tennis court, a bathing shed, and a license, and in the summer the place was much patronised. Fletcher made his way along the muddy road, to where a large board bore the legend “Estate Office.”
Entering he found a little, short-sighted man with sandy hair getting thin. He looked up wearily as Fletcher came in.
“Mr. Cook, I believe?” said the latter.
“That is my name,” said he, and waited.
“I came to ask you what bungalows you have for sale?” said Fletcher with that disregard for truth, which seems to be permitted to detectives.