The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

an’ I’ll come and fetch ut. But have the letther posted,’ he sez, ‘at wanst. ‘Tis not contagious,’ he sez, ‘bein’ as I’ve dishinfected it mesilf. But kape yez away from the cottage.’ An’ I kept.”

      “And then did he go back to the cottage at once?”

      “He did that, sor, an’ a sore stew was he in to all seemin’—white as paper, and much need, too, the murtherin’ Scutt! An’ him always so much the jintleman an’ all. Well I saw no more av him that day. Next day he laves another letther wid the dirtily’ plates there mid-betwixt the houses, an’ shouts for ut to be posted. ‘Twas for the poor young jintleman’s mother, sure, as was the other wan. An’ the day afther there was another letther, an’ wan for the undhertaker, too, for he tells me it’s all over, an’ he’s dead. An’ they buried him next day followin’.”

      “So that from the time you went for the pail and saw Mr. Rewse writing, till after the funeral, you were never at the cottage at all?”

      “Nivir, sor; an’ can ye blame me? Wid children an’ Terence himself sick wid bronchitis in this house?”

      “Of course, of course, you did quite right—indeed you only obeyed orders. But now think; do you remember on any one of those three days hearing a shot, or any other unusual noise in the cottage?”

      “Nivir at all, sor. ‘Tis that I’ve been thryin’ to bring to mind these four days. Such may have been, but not that I heard.”

      “After you went for the pail, and before Mr. Main returned to the house, did Mr. Rowse leave the cottage at all, or might he have done so?”

      “He did not lave at all, to my knowledge. Sure he might have gone an’ he might have come back widout my knowin’. But see him I did not.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hurley. I think we’ll go across to the cottage now. If any people come will you send them after us? I suppose a policeman is there?”

      “He is, sor. An’ the serjint is not far away. They’ve been in chyarge since Mr. Bowyer wint away last—but shlapin’ here.”

      Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer walked towards the cottage. “Did you notice,” said Mr. Bowyer, “that the woman saw Rewse writing letters? Now what were those letters, and where are they? He has no correspondents that I know of but his mother and sister, and they heard nothing from him. Is this something else?—some other plot? There is something very deep here.”

      “Yes,” Hewitt replied thoughtfully, “I think our inquiries may take us deeper than we have ‘expected; and in the matter of those letters—yes, I think they may he near the kernel of the mystery.”

      Here they arrived at the cottage—an uncommonly substantial structure for the district. It was square, of plain, solid brick, with a slated roof. On the patch of ground behind it there were still signs of the fires wherein Main had burnt Rewse’s clothes and other belongings. And sitting on the window-sill in front was a big member of the R.I.C., soldierly and broad, who rose as they came and saluted Mr. Bowyer.

      “Good-day, constable,” Mr. Bowyer said. “I hope nothing has been disturbed?”

      “Not a shtick, sor. Nobody’s as much as gone in.”

      “Have any of the windows been opened or shut?” Hewitt asked.

      “This wan was, sor,” the policeman said, indicating the one behind him, “when they took away the corrpse, an’ so was the next round the corrner. ‘Tis the bedroom windier they are, an’ they opened thim to give ut a bit av air. The other windy behin’—sittin’-room windy—has not been opened.”

      “Very well,” Hewitt answered, “we’ll take a look at that unopened window from the inside.”

      The door was opened and they passed inside. There was a small lobby, and on the left of this was the bedroom with two single beds. The only other room of consequence was the sitting-room, the cottage consisting merely of these, a small scullery and a narrow closet used as a bath-room, wedged between the bedroom and the sitting-room. They made for the single window of the sitting-room at the back. It was an ordinary sash window, and was shut, but the catch was not fastened. Hewitt examined the catch, drawing Mr. Bowyer’s attention to a bright scratch on the grimy brass. “See,” he said, “that nick in the catch exactly corresponds with the narrow space between the two frames of the window. And look”—he lifted the bottom sash a little as he spoke—“there is the mark of a knife on the frame of the top sash. Somebody has come in by that window, forcing the catch with a knife.”

      “Yes, yes!” cried Mr. Bowyer, greatly excited, “and he has gone out that way too, else why is the window shut and the catch not fastened? Why should he do that? What in the world does this thing mean?”

      Before Hewitt could reply the constable put his head into the room and announced that one Larry Shanahan was at the door, and had been promised half-a-sovereign.

      “One of the men who heard a shot,” Hewitt said to Mr. Bowyer. “Bring him in, constable.”

      The constable brought in Larry Shanahan, and Larry Shanahan brought in a strong smell of whisky. He was an extremely ragged person, with only one eye, which caused him to hold his head aside as he regarded Hewitt, much as a parrot does. On his face sun-scorched brown and fiery red struggled for mastery, and his voice was none of the clearest. He held his hat against his stomach with one hand and with the other pulled his forelock.

      “An’ which is the honourable jintleman,” he said, “as do be burrnin’ to prisint me wid a bit o’ goold?”

      “Here I am,” said Hewitt, jingling money in his pocket, “and here is the half-sovereign. It’s only waiting where it is till you have answered a few questions. They say you heard a shot fired hereabout?

      “Faith, an’ that I did, sor. ‘Twas a shot in this house, indade, no other.”

      “And when was it?”

      “Sure, ‘twas in the afthernoon.”

      “But on what day?”

      “Last Tuesday sivin-noight, sor, as I know by rayson av Ballyshiel fair that I wint to.”

      “Tell me all about it.”

      “I will, sor. ‘Twas pigs I was dhrivin’ that day, sor, to Ballyshiel fair from just beyond Cullanin, sor, I dhropped in wid Danny Mulcahy, that intentioned thravellin’ the same way, an’ while we tuk a thrifle av a dhrink in comes Dennis Grady, that was to go to Ballyshiel similarously. An’ so we had another thrifle av a dhrink, or maybe a thrifle more, an’ we wint togedther, passin’ this way, sor, as ye may not know, bein’ likely a shtranger. Well, sor, ut was as we were just forninst this place that there came a divil av a bang that makes us shtop simultaneous. ‘What’s that?’ sez Dan. ‘Tis a gunshot,’ sez I, an’ ‘tis in the brick house too.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis; ‘nowhere else.’ And we lukt at wan another. ‘An’ what’ll we do?’ sez I. ‘What would yez?’ sez Dan; ‘Tis none av our business.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis again, and we wint on. Ut was quare, maybe, but it might aisily be wan av the jiritlemen emptyin’ a barr’l out o’ windy or what not. An’—an’ so—an’ so Mr. Shanahan scratched his ear, an’ so—we wint.”

      “And do you know at what time this was?”

      Larry Shanahan ceased scratching, and seized his ear between thumb and forefinger, gazing severely at the floor with his one eye as he did so, plunged in computation. “Sure,” he said, “‘twould be—‘twould be—let’s see—‘twould be—” he looked up, “‘twould be half-past two maybe, or maybe a thrifle nearer three.”

      “And