The Coroner had reason for saying that he had no idea of the evidence which Grimsdale had volunteered to give. The truth was that nobody in that room had any idea. And of all the people there who regarded the landlord with curiosity the police regarded him with most—for a good reason. In the course of the enquiries which they had made in the village and the neighbourhood Blick and his satellites had visited the Sceptre, and had interviewed Grimsdale as to whether he knew anything. Grimsdale, in his shrewd, knowing, reserved fashion had told Blick that he did know something—maybe a good deal—and would tell what he knew . . . at the right time and in the proper place. Blick had exerted all his powers of persuasion in an effort to find out what Grimsdale knew, and had failed, utterly; Grimsdale, always hinting that he knew a lot, had steadfastly refused to say one word until the inquest on Guy Markenmore came off; he would only speak before the Coroner and the jury. Blick, defeated, had set the Chief Constable on to Grimsdale then; the Chief Constable had met with no better luck. Not one word, said Grimsdale, would he say until he got into the witness-box; then, he added, with a knowing wink, they’d be more than a bit surprised, on hearing his evidence. And now here he was, at last, before them, and every police official in the room, from the Chief Constable downwards, was all agog to learn what he had to tell.
Grimsdale in the box, thought more than one keen-eyed observer, looked like a man that knows the importance of his own testimony. There was an expression in his eye, and about his lips, which seemed to indicate that all that had already taken place was nothing—what really was of importance was his story. He was the coolest hand, thought the barrister, that he had ever set eyes on; the sort of witness whom nothing whatever will move: whose testimony, once given, nothing will shake. His entire appearance and calm attitude made the whole roomful of people more attentive than to any previous witness; there was that about him which made everybody feel that at last something vitally important was going to be heard.
The Coroner took this witness in hand, eliciting from him a few formal facts. Charles Grimsdale, formerly groom in the service of Sir James Marchant; now landlord and licensee of the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore. Had lived in the neighbourhood of Markenmore all his life—born in the village. Knew every member of Sir Anthony Markenmore’s family. Knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore particularly well from the time he was a mere child until he left home seven years ago.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Guy Markenmore since he left home, Grimsdale?” asked the Coroner. He was somewhat at a loss as to what questions to put to the witness, and thought it best to get to useful facts. “I mean—recently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When, then?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At my house—the Sceptre.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore came to your house, the Sceptre Inn, on Monday night?”
“Mr. Guy, sir, was at my house, the Sceptre Inn, from five minutes to twelve on Monday night until a quarter-past three on Tuesday morning.”
“He came there?”
“He came there, sir, at the time I’ve mentioned.”
“Did he come alone?”
“He came alone, sir. But he wasn’t alone for the rest of the time.”
“Who was with him?”
“From twelve o’clock until two, sir, one gentleman. From two o’clock until three, two gentlemen.”
“He saw two gentlemen at your house? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know? But—I suppose you saw them?”
“I saw one of them, sir. I didn’t see the other. At least, I only saw his back—some little distance off, too.”
The Coroner looked at the jury and from them to the legal practitioners. From them he turned to the witness-box.
“I think, Grimsdale, you’d better tell us what you know—about whatever it was that happened at your house on Monday night and Tuesday morning—in your own way. Just give us a plain, straightforward account of things.”
“Yes, sir. About nine o’clock on Monday night, I was standing in the hall of my house. A gentleman suddenly came in by the front door. He was a tall, well-made, fine-looking man; I should say about fifty years of age. Slightly grey of hair and moustache; fresh-coloured; an active sort of gentleman. Very well dressed in a grey tweed suit; one of those big slouch hats that gentlemen wear nowadays: grey, with a black band; no overcoat, carried a gold-mounted cane. He asked me if I was the landlord; I said I was, at his service, and showed him into a private parlour that I keep for better-class sort of customers. He then said that he wanted to book a room for the night, as he had business in the village. I told him I could give him a very good room, and offered to show it. He said that would be all right: he was sure it would be comfortable, and added that the Sceptre had been highly recommended to him. He then told me that he expected a gentleman to call on him, late that evening, on business, and asked me if I could prepare supper for two in a private room—a cold supper, he said, would do. I said I could give them a cold chicken and a fine tongue, some tart, and a prime old Stilton cheese, and they could have that room—there was a good fire in it, then, and I would have it made up. He then asked if eleven o’clock would suit me for the supper? I said any time he liked would suit me. We fixed on eleven. He then told me to put a bottle of my very best Scotch whisky and some bottles of soda-water on the side-board, and that I could lay the supper whenever I pleased, for, after he’d had a drink, he was going out for an hour or so, to see some one. I got him a Scotch whisky and soda. While he was drinking it he pulled out a five-pound note, gave it to me, said that he’d probably be in a hurry in the morning, so would I settle his bill that night and give him the change at breakfast, which he wanted at seven-thirty sharp. He then went out. I made up the fire, saw that all was comfortable and ready, and about half-past ten, after I’d closed the house for the night, I laid the supper myself, as my wife wasn’t well and had gone to bed early in the evening. At five minutes to eleven he came back.”
“Alone?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes, sir, alone. He remained alone, in that parlour, until an hour later. Then, at five minutes to twelve, I heard a knock at the door. I went and opened it, and found Mr. Guy Markenmore there.”
“You knew who he was?—you recognized him?”
“Oh yes, sir—I knew Mr. Guy well enough in the old days. He hadn’t altered much.”
“Had you any conversation with him?”
“Just a bit, sir. He said, ‘Hullo, Grimsdale, how are you? I heard you’d blossomed into a full-blown landlord,’—that sort of thing, sir—he was always a gentleman for his joke.”
“Did he seem in good spirits?”
“The best, sir! He stood in the hall, laughing and talking a bit about old times, when I used to see him in the hunting field. Then he said, sudden-like, ‘I believe you’ve got a gentleman here who’s expecting me?’ I said we had, and took him straight to the parlour where the strange gentleman was waiting. I showed him in and closed the door on them.”
“Did you hear any greeting exchanged between them, Grimsdale?”
“Well, sir, I just heard the strange gentleman say, ‘Hello, Markenmore!’ and I heard Sir Guy say, ‘Hello, old chap, sorry to be so late.’ That was all, sir.”
“You didn’t hear Mr. Guy mention the other man’s name?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither then nor at any other time?”
“I never had any further chance, sir. I never went into the room again. The supper was all ready for them. I’d taken in the bottle of whisky and the soda-water which the gentleman had ordered, and the fire was made up. The gentleman had told me, when he came in the second time, that he and the friend he was expecting would very likely sit up very late, as they’d a lot of business to talk over, and he said that if I wanted to go to bed he’d let his friend out, and see that the front door was fast and the parlour lights turned out.”
“Did you go to bed?”
“No, sir, I did not. I sit up late myself, as a rule, and I thought that what he meant by late would perhaps be half-past one, or so. I’d my own supper to get, too, and after I’d had it I sat up smoking in the bar.”
“Did you hear anything of the two men in the parlour?”
“Well, sir, I once or twice crossed the hall, and I could hear them talking.”
“Just ordinary tones, I suppose? What I mean is you didn’t hear any sounds of quarrelling—high voices, or anything of that sort?”
“Oh no, sir! Just ordinary tones.”
“Very well. Now then, you said just now that there was one man with Guy Markenmore until two o’clock, and after that there were two men with him until three. What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Well, sir, this. I told you that my wife was poorly that night and had gone to bed early. About two o’clock in the morning I went upstairs to see how she was getting on. She was sleeping all right, so I went down again. As I passed the parlour door, I thought I heard three voices instead of two. I stopped and listened, and I distinctly heard three voices. So I knew then that another man had joined the strange gentleman and Mr. Guy.”
“But—that seems a strange thing, Grimsdale! How could the third man get into your house without your knowledge? At that hour of the night I suppose all your doors were fast, eh?”
“They were all fast, sir—locked. But this third man could get in easy enough. I think you’re familiar with the Sceptre, sir? Well, you know that we’ve a flower garden and lawn in front of the house—between the road and the house. Now, the parlour that these gentlemen were using opened on to the garden and lawn by a French window. They could admit anybody from outside by that—there’d be no need to open any door.”
The Coroner looked round at the jury and the lawyers.
“That would look as if some appointment had been made between these two—Guy Markenmore and the first man—with a third man,” he remarked. “Grimsdale,” he continued, turning to the witness, “you’re sure that the strange man who came to your house at nine o’clock on Monday night didn’t mention that he was expecting two visitors?”
“Positive, sir! He only spoke of one.”
“And you’re equally positive that after two o’clock he had two men with him?”
“Certain of it, sir. I made out distinctly that there were three men talking in the parlour, and afterwards I saw them—all three!”
“In the parlour?”
“No, sir—outside.”
“What did you see—exactly?”
“Well, sir, after hearing three voices I went back to my easy chair in the bar. I thought that Mr. Guy, having come home again, had asked somebody to slip down to see this friend of his, and that they had heard him come in at our garden gate—they’d opened the French window, and brought him into the parlour in that way. Of course, as the first gentleman had taken a room for the night that was all right—he could have in whoever he pleased. And as Mr. Guy was there, I knew things would be satisfactory. So I didn’t bother myself as to who it was—I thought it might be Mr. Harry—the third man, I mean. As it got toward three o’clock, I began to doze in my chair in front of the fire, and I think I fell asleep. I was awakened by hearing the garden gate clash. I jumped up and looked out of the window. I saw three men in the road outside. They——”
“Stop a bit, if you please,” interrupted the Coroner. “This is likely to be a very important point. Now, do you know—precisely—what time this was, Grimsdale?”
“Yes, sir! I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece—an uncommon good timekeeper, sir—as I rose from my chair to pull aside the blind and look out of the window. It was precisely seventeen minutes past three.”
“That,” observed the Coroner, with a glance at the jury, “is about an hour and a half before sunrise. Now, Grimsdale, how could you see at that time of the early morning?”
“Well, sir, it was a clear night, there was a bit of a moon, and altogether it was a good night for seeing—grey light, you might term it. I could see our stables on the other side of the road clear enough, and the trees round about there, and the road. And I saw those three gentlemen—their figures, I mean—plainly.”
“What were they doing?”
“Walking slowly away from the Sceptre up the road towards Greycloister and Mitbourne, sir.”
“Could you distinguish them, one from the other?”
“Yes, sir. I knew which was Mr. Guy, and which was the first man who came to the Sceptre. Mr. Guy was walking in the middle; the gentleman who came at nine o’clock was on his left-hand side; the third man was on his right.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“A tall man, sir—a good six foot.”
“Did you recognize his figure as that of anybody belonging to this neighbourhood?”
For the first time since his appearance in the witness-box, Grimsdale began to show signs of hesitation. He paused, shaking his head.
“Well, sir, you’ll bear in mind, if you please, that it was not as light as it might have been,” he answered. “It’s difficult, at that time of morning.”
“Did you form any idea at the time as to who the man was?” enquired the Coroner.
“Well, I certainly did have a notion—a sort of thought,” admitted Grimsdale.
“What was it?”
Grimsdale hesitated again.
“It was only a notion,” he said at last. “Just—just the sort of thing that comes into one’s mind, like. I’d rather not say!”
“I’m afraid you must say, Grimsdale. You evidently, on seeing him, had some notion as to the identity of the third man. Now, what was it?”
“Well, sir, if I must, I must! I wondered—only wondered, mind you, gentlemen—if it wasn’t Mr. Harborough.”
“You wondered if the third man, the man walking on Guy Markenmore’s right hand up the road was not Mr. John Harborough. You thought you recognized his figure?”
“Yes, sir. But it was only because the man was very tall, had just about Mr. Harborough’s build, and because the three of ’em were going in the direction of Grey cloister, Mr. Harborough’s house, and then you see, sir, I’d heard that Mr. Harborough was home again, and—well, maybe I’d got him in mind a bit. I—I shouldn’t like to let it go out that I say it was Mr. Harborough, because I don’t!”
“You couldn’t swear that the third man was Mr. Harborough?”
“No, sir—certainly I could not!”
“But he was a man of just about Mr. Harborough’s height, build, and personal appearance?”
“Just that, sir.”
“Well, about the first man—the man who had taken a room at the Sceptre. What time did he come back there, after this?”
“He never did come back, sir!”
“What!—never came back at all?”
“Never at all, sir! Never set eyes on him since! I’ve got three pound fourteen shillings change belonging to him, sir—the bill came to one pound six. But as I say, he never came back. I went into the parlour after seeing them in the road—the French window was slightly open, and the two lamps had been turned down. I thought then that I wouldn’t bother about going to bed—and I set to work clearing away the supper things and tidying up the parlour. Of course, I expected the gentleman back any minute—my idea was that he’d just strolled up the road a bit with the other two. But he never came—never seen nor heard of him since, sir.”
The Coroner looked down at the officials and the lawyers. His manner became that of a man who after following various tortuous ways, suddenly finds himself in a cul-de-sac.
“It is very evident that this is going to be a protracted enquiry,” he remarked. “The police must get on the track of the two men who were with the deceased at the Sceptre Inn on Monday midnight and early on Tuesday morning. I think we had better adjourn now.”
“I should like to put one or two questions to the witness,” interrupted the barrister. “Grimsdale, you said that the man who came to you at nine o’clock on Monday evening, and booked a room for the night gave you a five-pound note, out of which you were to pay yourself. Have you still got that note?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Grimsdale, pulling out an old-fashioned purse. “Here, sir.”
“That note must be handed over to the police,” said the barrister. “Now, another question—‘What sort of man was the stranger? Was he an Englishman?’”
“My impression, sir,” replied Grimsdale, “was that he was one of them Americans—from his speech, sir. When I was in Sir James Marchant’s service I saw a lot of American gentlemen: I took this to be one.”
“Very good—now just one more question. When you tidied up your parlour, did you find anything, any small article that any of these men might have left? Guests do leave things behind, you know, sometimes.”
Grimsdale thrust his hand into another pocket and drew something out.
“I did, sir—I meant to mention it. I found this, lying on the supper table.”
And having first held it aloft, so that every one present could see it, the landlord laid on the edge of the witness-box a silver-mounted briar-wood tobacco pipe.