Free Dead Man's Quarry by Ianthe Jerrold Page B

for future use.
    Lovell smiled grimly.
    â€œNot quite so fast, sir. What you say’s possible, but by no means certain. Murderers do make extraordinary mistakes, and of course once he’d pushed the wrong machine over it would be impossible to get it up again. But on the other hand, the mistake may have been Sir Charles’s. He may have walked off with somebody else’s bicycle when he left the inn. Anyhow, our first business is obviously to trace the owner of this machine. That green pump on a black machine ought to make it fairly easy. I beg your pardon, Miss Price?”
    Blodwen had uttered a small sound, as if about to speak. She was looking thoughtfully at the battered machine and seemed to hesitate.
    â€œI seem to think I’ve seen a green pump on a black bicycle somewhere,” she murmured. “Now where? Whose? I think—”
    There was a silence, while they all waited expectantly. Suddenly she drew in her breath with a tiny, sharp hiss.
    â€œNo,” she said slowly. “I don’t think I have seen it before. I was mistaken.”
    Lovell looked at her keenly, and seemed about to protest, but decided to let the matter pass. Blodwen returned his glance calmly, then turned indifferently aside, as if the matter had lost interest for her. John could have sworn that in that silence, when she gave that little start, she had remembered.
    â€œThis looks interesting,” he said to himself. “More and more interesting. Rampson, my friend, we are not going back to London just yet awhile.”
    Lovell shut his notebook with a snap and led the way out of the gloomy shed, carefully closing and barring the door.
    â€œYou will let me know as soon as Mr. Morris returns, won’t you, Miss Price?” he asked courteously. “We can’t fix a day for the inquest until we hear from him. He was apparently one of the last people to speak to Sir Charles.”
    The anxious-faced daughter of the Tram’s proprietor was waiting for them in the garden, idly poking with a stick at a small smouldering bonfire. She intercepted the Superintendent as he went down the path.
    â€œOh, Mr. Lovell, there’s been somebody at my eggs! Seven eggs I’ve had took from the hen-house in the orchard. I don’t know how they gets in there, I don’t! I thought as there was somebody in the backyard yesterday evening as didn’t ought to be there! But I went and looked over the orchard gate and nobody did I see! You’ll bear me out, Mr. Felix, sir, for if you’ll remember the eggs was all hard-boiled at tea, owing to me thinking as I saw somebody! And I thought I’d report the theft to you while you was here, Mr. Lovell, for robbery is robbery, if it is only eggs, and we all has to live, and the robber did ought to be stopped, and—”
    There was a suppressed snigger in the background, and turning John saw the young constable on guard looking portentously solemn.
    Lovell allowed a faint smile to disturb the wintry severity of his features, but answered politely:
    â€œYou shall tell me about it afterwards, Miss Watt. I’m busy now.” He went on towards the inn, followed by Blodwen and the doctor.
    The girl turned her worried face towards John, and encouraged by his sympathetic look, said in an injured voice:
    â€œWell, I know as a murder has to take precedence, as they say, sir, but still it is a bit hard on poor folks to keep losing their goods this way! Them fowls don’t hardly lay up to what they eats, at the best!”
    â€œDon’t you shut your chicken-house at night?”
    â€œWhy, surely, sir! These eggs was took yesterday evening, while I was busy about the house! And there’s been apples took too! One of the boughs is broke through being dragged down rough. And if the police isn’t here to catch robbers, sir, what is they here for? It’s a bit hard on poor folks—”
    Perceiving that nothing but his departure would