Yet the only man who could have cleared me, who could have corroborated my statement as to how I spent my time during my absence at lunch, and shown plainly that I had never entered the Strand nor visited the branch post-office next to Exeter Hall, was dead. His lips were for ever sealed.
I went forward, plunged deeply in thought, until passing a small gate I left the park, and found myself in Warnham Churchyard. For a moment I stood on the peaceful spot where I had often stood before, admiring the quaint old church, with its square, squat, ivy-covered tower, its gilded clock face, and its ancient doors that, standing open, admitted air and sunshine. Before me were the plain, white tombs of the departed earls, the most recent being that in memory of the Countess, one of the leaders of London society, who had died during her husband’s absence on his official duties; while across the well-kept lawn stood a quaint old sun-dial that had in silence marked the time for a century or so. From within the church the organ sounded softly, and I could see the Vicar’s daughter, a pretty girl still in her teens, seated at the instrument practising.
Warnham was a quiet Sussex village unknown to the world outside, unspoiled by modern progress, untouched by the hand of the vandal. As presently I passed the lych-gate and entered its peaceful street, it wore a distinctly old-world air. At the end of the churchyard wall stood the typical village blacksmith, brown-faced and brawny, swinging his hammer with musical clang upon his anvil set beneath a great chestnut tree in full bloom; further along stood the schools, from the playground of which came the joyous sound of children’s voices; and across the road was the only inn—the Sussex Arms—where, on more than one occasion, I had spent an hour in the bare and beery taproom, chatting with the garrulous village gossips, the burly landlord and his pleasant spouse. The air was heavy with the scent of June roses and the old-fashioned flowers growing in cottage gardens, whilst the lilacs sent forth a perfume that in my perturbed state of mind brought me back to a realisation of my bitterness. Lilac was Ella’s favourite scent, and it stirred within me thoughts of her. How, I wondered, had she borne the news of Dudley’s tragic and mysterious end? How, I wondered, would she greet me when next we met?
Yet somehow I distrusted her, and as I walked on through the village towards the Ockley road, nodding mechanically to a man I knew, I was seriously contemplating the advisability of never again seeing her. But I loved her, and though I strove to reason with myself that some secret tie existed between her and Beck, I found myself unable to break off my engagement, for I was held in her toils by the fascination of her eyes.
For fully an hour I walked on, ascending the hill swept by the fresh breeze from the Channel, only turning back on finding myself at the little hamlet at Kingsfold. In that walk I tried to form resolutions—to devise some means to regain the confidence of the Earl, and to conjecture the cause of Dudley’s death—but all to no purpose. The blows which had fallen in such swift succession had paralysed me. I could not think, neither could I act.
Re-passing the Sussex Arms, I turned in, dusty and thirsty. In the bare taproom, deserted at that hour, old Denman, a tall, tight-trousered, splay-footed, grey-haired man, who drove the village fly, and acted as ostler and handy man about the hostelry, was busy cleaning some pewters, and as I entered, looked up and touched his hat.
“Well, Denman,” I said, “you don’t seem to grow very much older, eh?”
The man, whose hair and beard were closely-cropped, and whose furrowed face had a habit of twitching when he spoke, grinned as he answered—
“No, sir. People tells me I bear my age wonderful well. But won’t you come into the parlour, sir?”
Declining, I told him to get me something to drink, and when he brought it questioned him as to the latest news in the village. Denman was an inveterate gossip, and in his constant drives in the rickety and antiquated vehicle known as “the fly,” to villages and towns in the vicinity, had a knack of picking up all the news and scandal, which he retailed at night for the delectation of customers at the Sussex Arms.
“I dunno as anything very startling has happened lately in Warnham. The jumble sale came off at the schools last Tuesday fortnight, and there’s a cricket match up at the Lodge next Saturday. Some gentlemen are coming down from London to play.”
“Anything else?”
Denman removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Oh, yes,” he said suddenly. “You knows Mr. Macandrew what’s steward for Mr. Thornbury? Well, last Monday week an old gentleman called at his house up street and asked to see him. His wife asked him into the parlour, and Mr. Macandrew went in. ‘Are you Mr. Macandrew?’ says the old gent. ‘I am,’ says Mr. Macandrew. ‘Well, I shouldn’t ’ave known you,’ says the old man. And it turned out afterwards that this old man was actually Mr. Macandrew’s father, who’s lived ever so many years in America, and hasn’t seen Mr. Macandrew since he wor a boy. I did laugh when I heard it.”
“Extraordinary. Have you had any visitors down from London?” I inquired, for sometimes people took the houses of the better-class villagers, furnished for the season.
“We had a lively young gent staying here in the inn for four days last week. He was a friend of somebody up at the Hall, I think, for he was there a good deal. He came from London. I wonder whether you’d know him.”
“What was his name?”
“Funny name,” Denman said, grinning. “Ogle, Mr. Ogle.”
“Ogle!” I gasped. “What was his Christian name?”
“Dudley, I fancy it was.”
“Dudley Ogle,” I repeated, remembering that he had been absent from Shepperton for four days, and had told me he had been in Ipswich visiting some friends. “And he has been here?”
“Yes, sir. We made him as comfortable as we could, and I think he enjoyed hisself.”
“But what did he do—why was he down here?” I inquired eagerly.
“Do you know him, sir? Jolly gentleman, isn’t he? Up to all manners o’ tricks, and always chaffing the girls.”
“Yes, I knew him, Denman,” I answered gravely. “Tell me, as far as you know, his object in coming to Warnham. I’m very interested in his doings.”
“As far as I know, sir, he came to see somebody up at the Hall. I drove him about a good deal, over to Ockley, to Cowfold, and out to Handcross; and I took him into Horsham every day.”
“Do you know who was his friend at the Hall?”
“No, I don’t, sir. He never spoke about it; but I did have my suspicions,” he answered, smiling.
“Oh! what were they?” I asked.
“I fancy he came to see Lucy Bryden, the housekeeper’s daughter. She’s a good-looking girl, you know,” and the old man winked knowingly.
“What made you think that, eh?”
“Well, from something I was told,” he replied mysteriously. “He was seen walking with a young lady across the park one night, and I ’eard as ’ow it was Mrs. Bryden’s daughter. But next day I ’ad a surprise. A young lady called here for him, and she was dressed exactly as the young woman who had been in the park with him was. But it wasn’t Mrs. Bryden’s daughter.”
“Then who was it?”
“I heard him call her Ella. She came from London.”
“Ella?” I gasped. “What the deuce do you mean, Denman? What sort of a girl was she? A lady?”
“Yes,