look much loike gypsies either from t’ little as Ah can see of ’em in this tomfool loight. Wait a bit till Ah scoop up an armful o’ leaves and throw ’em on the embers o’ fire yon.”
He did so forthwith; and the moment the dry leaves fell on the remnants of the fire which the caravanners had used to cook their evening meal there was a gush of aromatic smoke, a sudden puff, and then a broad ribbon of light rushed upward and dispelled every trace of darkness. And by the aid of that ribbon of light Mr. Nippers saw something which made him almost collapse with astonishment and chagrin.
The great of the world may, and often do, forget their meetings with the small fry, but the small fry never cease to remember their meetings with the great, or to treasure a vivid remembrance of that immortal day when they were privileged to rub elbows with the elect.
Five years had passed since Mrs. Maverick Narkom, seeking a place wherein to spend the summer holidays with the little Narkoms and their nurses, had let her choice fall upon Winton-Old-Bridges and had dwelt there for two whole months. Three times during her sojourn her liege lord had come down for a week-end with his wife and children, and during one of these brief visits, meeting Mr. Ephraim Nippers, the village constable in the public highway, he had deigned to stop and speak to the man and to present him with a sixpenny cigar.
Times had changed since then; Mr. Nippers was now head constable for the district, but he still kept that cigar under a glass shade on the drawing-room whatnot, and he still treasured a vivid recollection of the great man who had given it to him and whom he now saw sitting on the ground with his coat off and his waistcoat unbuttoned, his moustache uncurled, wisps of dried grass clinging to his tousled hair, and all the dignity of office conspicuous by its absence.
“Oh, lummy!” said Mr. Nippers with a gulp. “Put down the hammers of them guns, you two—put ’em down quick! It’s Mr. Narkom—Mr. Maverick Narkom, superintendent at Scotland Yard!”
“Hullo!” exclaimed Mr. Narkom, shading his eyes from the firelight and leaning forward to get a clearer view of the speaker. “How the dickens do you know that, my man? And who the dickens are you, anyway? Can’t say that I remember ever seeing your face before.”
Mr. Nippers hastened to explain that little experience of five years ago; but the circumstance which had impressed itself so deeply upon his memory had passed entirely out of the superintendent’s.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said he. “Can’t say that I recall the occasion; but Mrs. Narkom certainly did stop at Winton-Old-Bridges some four or five summers ago, so of course it’s possible. By the way, my man, what caused you to make this sudden descent upon us? And what are these chaps who are with you bearing arms for? Anything up?”
“Oh, lummy, sir, yes! A murder’s just been committed—leastwise it’s only just been discovered; but it can’t have been long since it was committed, Mr. Narkom, for Miss Renfrew, who found him, sir, and give the alarm, she says as the poor dear gentleman was alive at a quarter to eight, ’cause she looked into the room at that time to ask him if there was anything he wanted, and he spoke up and told her no, and went on with his figgerin’ just the same as usual.”
“As usual?” said Cleek. “Why do you say ‘as usual,’ my friend? Was the man an accountant of some sort?”
“Lummy! no, sir. A great inventor is what he is—or was, poor gentleman. Reckon you must ’a’ heard of un some time or another—most everybody has. Nosworth is the name, sir—Mr. Septimus Nosworth of the Round House. You could see the tower of it over yon if you was to step out into the road and get clear of these trees.”
Cleek was on his feet like a flash.
“Not the great Septimus Nosworth?” he questioned eagerly. “Not the man who invented Lithamite?—the greatest authority on high explosives in England? Not that Septimus Nosworth, surely?”
“Aye—him’s the one, poor gentleman. I thought it like as the name would be familiar, sir. A goodish few have heard of un, one way and another.”
“Yes,” acquiesced Cleek. “Lithamite carried his name from one end of the globe to the other; and his family affairs came into unusual prominence in consequence. Widower, wasn’t he?—hard as nails and bitter as gall. Had an only son, hadn’t he?—a wild young blade who went the pace: took up with chorus girls, music hall ladies, and persons of that stripe, and got kicked out from under the parental roof in consequence.”
“Lummy, now! think of you a-knowin’ about all that!” said Mr. Nippers, in amazement. “But then, your bein’ with Mr. Narkom and him bein’ what he is—why, of course! Scotland Yard it do know everything, I’m told, sir.”
“Yes—it reads the papers occasionally, Mr. Nippers,” said Cleek. “I may take it from your reply, may I not, that I am correct regarding Mr. Septimus Nosworth’s son?”
“Indeed, yes, sir—right as rain. Leastwise, from what I’ve heard. I never see the young gentleman, myself. Them things you mention happened before Mr. Nosworth come to live in these parts—a matter of some four years or more ago. Alwuss had his laboratory here, sir—built it on the land he leased from Sir Ralph Droger’s father in the early sixties—and used to come over frequent and shut hisself in the Round House for days on end; but never come here to live until after that flare-up with Master Harry. Come then and built livin’ quarters beside the Round House and, after a piece, fetched Miss Renfrew and old Patty Dax over to live with un.”
“Miss Renfrew and old Patty Dax? Who are they?”
“Miss Renfrew is his niece, sir—darter of a dead sister. Old Patty Dax, she war the cook. I dunno what her be now, though—her died six months ago and un hired Mistress Armroyd in her place. French piece, her am, though bein’ widder of a Lancashire man, and though I doan’t much fancy foreigners nor their ways, this I will say: her keeps the house like a pin and her cookin’s amazin’ tasty—indeed, yes.”
“You are an occasional caller in the servants’ hall, I see, Mr. Nippers,” said Cleek, serenely, as he took up his coat and shook it, preparatory to putting it on. “I think, Mr. Narkom, that in the interests of the public at large it will be well for some one a little more efficient than the local constabulary to look into this case, so, if you don’t mind making yourself a trifle more presentable, it will be as well for us to get Mr. Nippers to show us the way to the scene of the tragedy. While you are doing it I will put a few ‘Headland’ questions to our friend here if you don’t mind assuring him that I am competent to advise.”
“Right you are, old chap,” said Narkom, taking his cue. “Nippers, this is Mr. George Headland, one of the best of my Yard detectives. He’ll very likely give you a tip or two in the matter of detecting crimes, if you pay attention to what he says.”
Nippers “paid attention” forthwith. The idea of being in consultation with any one connected with Scotland Yard tickled his very soul; and, in fancy, he already saw his name getting into the newspapers of London, and his fame spreading far beyond his native weald.
“I won’t trouble you for the full details of the murder, Mr. Nippers,” said Cleek. “Those, I fancy, this Miss Renfrew will be able to supply when I see her. For the present, tell me: how many other occupants does the house hold beyond these two of whom you have spoken—Miss Renfrew and the cook, Mrs. Armroyd?”
“None, sir, but the scullery maid, Emily, and the parlour maid, Clark. But both of them is out to-night, sir—havin’ went to a concert over at Beattie Corners. A friend of Mistress Armroyd’s sent her two tickets, and her not bein’ able to go herself,
