I’d breathe it to no soul but you.” He looked round as though hehardly dare utter the words. “Don’t you think there might be acase against Mr. Neil Gibson himself?”
“I have been considering that.”
“You’ve not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman inevery way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. Andthese Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It washis pistol, you know.”
“Was that clearly made out?”
“Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had.”
“One of a pair? Where is the other?”
“Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort andanother. We never quite matched that particular pistol—but thebox was made for two.”
“If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it.”
“Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would careto look them over.”
“Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have alook at the scene of the tragedy.”
This conversation had taken place in the little front room ofSergeant Coventry’s humble cottage which served as the localpolice-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-sweptheath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us toa side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate.
A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from aclearing we saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudorand half Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was along, reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriagedrive passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes oneither side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and hepointed to the ground.
“That was where Mrs. Gibson’s body lay. I marked it by thatstone.”
“I understand that you were there before it was moved?”
“Yes, they sent for me at once.”
“Who did?”
“Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and hehad rushed down with others from the house, he insisted thatnothing should be moved until the police should arrive.”
“That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report thatthe shot was fired from close quarters.”
“Yes, sir, very close.”
“Near the right temple?”
“Just behind it, sir.”
“How did the body lie?”
“On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon.
The short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand.”
“Clutched, you say?”
“Yes, sir, we could hardly open the fingers.”
“That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyonecould have placed the note there after death in order to furnish afalse clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short:
“I will be at Thor Bridge at nine o’clock.”
“G. DUNBAR.
Was that not so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was her explanation?”
“Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would saynothing.”
“The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point ofthe letter is very obscure, is it not?”
“Well, sir,” said the guide, “it seemed, if I may be so bold as tosay so, the only really clear point in the whole case.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, itwas certainly received some time before—say one hour or two.
Why, then, was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Whyshould she carry it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it inthe interview. Does it not seem remarkable?”
“Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does.”
“I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and thinkit out.” He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, andI could see his quick gray eyes darting their questioning glances inevery direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to theopposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began toexamine the stonework.
“This is curious,” said he.
“Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it’s been doneby some passer-by.”
The stonework was gray, but at this one point it showed whitefor a space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely onecould see that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.
“It took some violence to do that,” said Holmes thoughtfully.
With his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving amark. “Yes, it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was notfrom above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edgeof the parapet.”
“But it is at least fifteen feet from the body.”
“Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to dowith the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that wehave anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?”
“The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all.”
“Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and lookover these weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on toWinchester, for I should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we gofarther.”
Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw inthe house the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in themorning. He showed us with a sinister relish the formidable arrayof firearms of various shapes and sizes which his employer hadaccumulated in the course of an adventurous life.
“Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knewhim and his methods,” said he. “He sleeps with a loaded revolverin the drawer beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and thereare times when all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poorlady who has passed was often terrified.”
“Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?”
“No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which werenearly as bad—words of cold, cutting contempt, even before theservants.”
“Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life.”
