Part 8 (1/2)

3. The actual murderers were probably two members of a gang.

4. Gang--if a gang--and murderers were at large, and, if they had secured possession of the secret would be sure to make use of it.

Out of this arose the question--what was the secret? Something, I had no doubt whatever, that related to money. But what, and how? I exercised my speculative faculties a good deal at the time over this matter, and I could not avoid wondering about Mr. Cazalette and the yew-hedge affair. He never mentioned it; I was afraid and nervous about telling him what I had seen. Nor for some time did he mention his tobacco-box labours--indeed, I don't remember that he mentioned them directly at all. But, about the time that the inquests on the two murdered men came to an end, I observed that Mr. Cazalette, most of whose time was devoted to his numismatic work, was spending his leisure in turning over whatever books he could come across at Ravensdene Court which related to local history and topography; he was also studying old maps, charts and the like. Also, he got from London the latest Ordnance Map. I saw him studying that with deep attention.

Yet he said nothing until one day, coming across me in the library, alone, he suddenly plumped me with a question.

”Middlebrook!” said he, ”the name which that poor man mentioned to you as you talked with him on the cliff was--Netherfield?”

”Netherfield,” said I. ”That was it--Netherfield.”

”He said there were Netherfields buried hereabouts?” he asked.

”Just so--in some churchyard or other,” I answered. ”What of it, Mr.

Cazalette?”

He helped himself to a pinch of snuff, as if to a.s.sist his thoughts.

”Well,” said he presently, ”and it's a queer thing that at the time of the inquest n.o.body ever thought of inquiring if there is such a churchyard and such graves.”

”Why didn't you suggest it?” I asked.

”I'd rather find it out for myself,” said he, with a knowing look.

”And if you want to know, I've been trying to do so. But I've looked through every local history there is--and I think the late John Christopher Raven collected every sc.r.a.p of printed stuff relating to this corner of the country that's ever left a press--and I can't find any reference to such a name.”

”Parish registers?” I suggested.

”Aye, I thought of that,” he said. ”Some of 'em have been printed, and I've consulted those that have, without result. And, Middlebrook, I'm more than ever convinced that yon dead man knew what he was talking about, and that there's dead and gone Netherfields lying somewhere in this quarter, and that the secret of his murder is, somehow, to be found in their ancient tombs! Aye!”

He took another big pinch of snuff, and looked at me as if to find out whether or no I agreed with him. Then I let out a question.

”Mr. Cazalette, have you found out anything from your photographic work on that tobacco-box lid?” I asked. ”You thought you might.”

Much to my astonishment, he turned and shuffled away.

”I'm not through with that matter, yet,” he answered.

”It's--progressing.”

I told Miss Raven of this little conversation. She and I were often together in the library; we often discussed the mystery of the murders.

”What was there, really, on the lid of the tobacco-box?” she asked.

”Anything that could actually arouse curiosity?”

”I think Mr. Cazalette exaggerated their importance,” I replied, ”but there were certainly some marks, scratches, which seemed to have been made by design.”

”And what,” she asked again, ”did Mr. Cazalette think they might mean?”

”Heaven knows!” I answered. ”Some deep and dark clue to Quick's murder, I suppose.”