Part 12 (1/2)

”I suppose you hear a good deal in this parlour of yours?” I suggested.

”Nights--yes,” he said. ”A murder's always a good subject of conversation. At first, those who come in here of an evening--regular set there, in from the village at the back of the cliffs--they could talk of naught else, starting first this and that theory. It's died down a good deal, to be sure--there's been naught new to start it afresh, on another tack--but there is some talk, even now.”

”And what's the general opinion?” I inquired. ”I suppose there is one?”

”Aye, well, I couldn't say that there's a general opinion,” he answered. ”There's a many opinions. And some queer notions, too!”

”Such as what?” I asked.

”Well,” said he, with a laugh, as if he thought the suggestion ridiculous, ”there's one that comes nearer being what you might call general than any of the others. There's a party of the older men that come here who're dead certain that Quick was murdered by a woman!”

”A woman!” I exclaimed. ”Whatever makes them think that?”

”Those footmarks,” answered Claigue. ”You'll remember, Mr.

Middlebrook, that there were two sets of prints in the sand thereabouts. One was certainly Quick's--they fitted his boots. The other was very light--delicate, you might call 'em--made, without doubt, by some light-footed person. Well, some of the folk hereabouts went along to Kernwick Cove the day of the murder, and looked at those prints. They say the lighter ones were made by a woman.”

I let my recollections go back to the morning on which I had found Quick lying dead on the patch of yellow sand.

”Of course,” I said, reflectively, ”those marks are gone, now.”

”Gone? Aye!” exclaimed Claigue. ”Long since. There's been a good many tides washed over that spot since this, Mr. Middlebrook. But they haven't washed out the fact that a man's life was let out there! And whether it was man or woman that stuck that knife into the poor fellow's shoulders, it'll come out, some day.”

”I'm not so sure of that,” said I. ”There's a goodly percentage of unsolved mysteries of that kind.”

”Well, I believe in the old saying,” he declared. ”Murder will out!

What I don't like is the notion that the murderer may be walking about this quarter, free, unsuspected. Why, I may ha' served him with a gla.s.s of beer! What's to prevent it? Murderers don't carry a label on their foreheads!”

”What do you think the police ought to do--or ought to have done?” I asked.

”I think they should ha' started working backward,” he replied, with decision. ”I read all I could lay hands on in the newspapers, and I came to the conclusion that there was a secret behind those two men.

Come! two brothers murdered on the same night--hundreds of miles apart! That's no common crime, Mr Middlebrook. Who were these two men--Noah and Salter Quick? What was their past history? That's what the police ought to ha' busied themselves with. If they lost or couldn't pick up the scent here, they should ha' tried far back. Go backward they should--if they want to go forward.”

That was the second time I had heard that advice, and I returned to Ravensdene Court reflecting on it. Certainly it was sensible. Who, after all, were Noah and Salter Quick--what was their life-story. I was wondering how that could be brought to light, when, having dressed for dinner, and I was going downstairs, Mr. Cazalette's door opened and he quietly drew me inside his room.

”Middlebrook!” he whispered--though he had carefully shut the door--”you're a sensible lad, and I'll acquaint you with a matter.

This very morning, as I was taking my bit of a dip, my pocket-book was stolen out of the jacket that I'd left on the sh.o.r.e. Stolen, Middlebrook!”

”Was there anything of great value in it?” I asked.

”Aye, there was!” answered Mr. Cazalette. ”There was that in it which, in my opinion, might be some sort of a clue to the real truth about yon man's murder!”

CHAPTER IX

THE ENLARGED PHOTOGRAPH

I was dimly conscious, in a vague, uncertain fas.h.i.+on, that Mr.

Cazalette was going to tell me secrets; that I was about to hear something which would explain his own somewhat mysterious doings on the morning of the murder; a half-excited, antic.i.p.ating curiosity rose in me. I think he saw it, for he signed to me to sit down in an easy chair close by his bed; he himself, a queer, odd figure in his quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned clothes, perched himself on the edge of the bed.