The Silver Bullet. Fergus Hume

of the district, taking Beorminster as the real navel. The great plain was covered with many such hamlets, each clustering round its parent church; but Saxham was the nearest to the city. Far away on the other side was smoky Irongrip the manufacturing town; almost in sight of Marleigh and Heathcroft. Then sixteen miles across Southberry Heath (which Herrick and Joyce had so wearily trodden on the previous night) Southberry Junction roared with perpetual traffic for here, the great main line tapped the local railways which converged from all points. The pine-woods, sheltering Saxham from the chill winds of the moor, also barred it from the outside world, as Southberry was considered to be. Saxham, with its neighbouring hamlets, claimed to belong solely to Beorminster. The folk would have called themselves autochthonous, had they known of such a word and its meaning.

      The plan of the village was simple. In its centre was a genuine village green, with a quincunx of immemorial elms. From this ran four streets through the mass of houses, until they passed beyond them altogether and out into the country. On one side stands St. Edith's church in a nest of trees; on the other 'The Carr Arms' an inn of undoubted antiquity. The remaining two sides are occupied by rows of mediæval-looking houses, inhabited by those whom Saxham calls "the best people," by which is meant the tradesmen. There was no doctor or lawyer and the rector representing the gentry in the village itself, dwelt on its outskirts. The country people lived outside the village on their estates and visited it only on business; and as there were no Radicals in Saxham, these were looked upon as more than mortal.

      Under the red tiled roof of 'The Carr Arms,' Robin Joyce was still sleeping the next morning when the green was filled with excited people talking of the murder--so they called it. The events of the previous night had so shaken the nerve of the little man, that it was all Herrick could do to get him out of that ghastly mansion, and down to the inn. Dr. Jim, rousing the landlord, had told his story and after seeing Robin to bed, had turned in himself. What did it matter to him, that the great house was still ablaze in the pine-wood, still filled with precious things, and its doors and windows open to thieves? He was too tired almost to think, and the moment his head was on the pillow, he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, which lasted until ten the next morning.

      From this much-needed rest, he was awakened by Napper, the landlord, a burly man, with a ruddy face suggestive of beef and beer in large quantities. In no very pleasant humour, Jim sat up, to demand with a growl and an adjective what was wanted. On being informed that Mr. Inspector Bridge of Beorminster waited to see him, the events of the night came back on his still drowsy brain with a rush. Thoroughly awakened, he promised to be down in half an hour, and forthwith tumbled into the largest cold bath Napper could provide. After a douche, and ten minutes' gymnastics, the Doctor hurried into a clean shirt and his homespun suit. While he dressed he meditated on the fact that Napper had lost no time in telling the police what had happened. In a few minutes he looked into Robin's bedroom, and finding his companion still in an exhausted slumber, he went downstairs alone, to face the officer.

      Inspector Bridge was a tall lean man with a serious face, and--what was surprising taken in conjunction with his funereal looks--a jocular manner. The man's humour lurked in his eyes--a grey pair of twinklers, which belied the turned-down corners of his mouth. His movements were slow, his tone was brisk and businesslike. Rather a contradictory personality Herrick thought, and concluded that Bridge resembled nothing so much as an undertaker out for a holiday. His profession would thus account for the solemnity and slowness, and the holiday explain his brisk jocularity.

      This incongruous officer considered the young man with a pursed-up mouth and a humorsome eye. He saw that Herrick was a gentleman, and this opinion being confirmed--in the Inspector's mind--by the sight of a signet ring, he treated him with more deference than he had been prepared to show. Napper's report of the pedestrians had led Bridge to infer that they were of the genus "tramp."

      "Good morning sir," began the Inspector genially. "I have come to see you about this murder of Colonel Carr. My card--Mr.--Mr.--"

      "Dr. Herrick," said Jim, glancing at what he profanely called the official ticket. "Have you breakfasted Mr. Inspector? If not, or if you have--it really doesn't really matter--take the meal with me. I must eat before I can talk."

      Bridge was only too willing, and Herrick went up several degrees in his good opinion. "Napper can cater excellently," said he rubbing his hands. "I have often tested his hospitality."

      Dr. Jim privately thought that the Inspector was not averse to testing anyone's hospitality: but the man seemed decent enough, and Herrick was sufficiently worldly-wise to make himself agreeable to Jack-in-Office. In another half hour the two were seated in a pleasant parlour before a well-spread table. Bridge performed wonders in the way of eating. How he could remain lean with such an appetite, was a wonder to Jim. But the doctor himself was not far behind, and between the two of them, they swept the table clean. Then Herrick lighted his pipe, ensconced himself in a chintz-covered arm-chair near the window, and prepared to answer the Inspector's questions before asking several of his own.

      At the out-set Bridge detailed, all that had been done up to that moment. Three policemen were looking after "The Pines" (so was the house called), and guarding the dead; a doctor was expected from Beorminster to inspect the body; the Coroner to attend to the inquest; and the relatives of the deceased had been notified. Then Mr. Inspector put Herrick through a stiff examination, and took down all he said. When the officer was quite satisfied and his note-book was full, Jim proceeded to make enquiries on his own account. The strangeness of the whole affair, roused his curiosity, and--as Bridge pleasantly observed,--he showed marked symptoms of "detective fever." This was the first time Jim had stumbled across the disease.

      "The dead man was called Colonel Carr?" asked Dr. Herrick, crossing his legs.

      The Inspector nodded. "A well-known county name," said he, "Wilfred Lloyd Carr. You can see it in Burke's Landed Gentry. But what you will not see," added Bridge with a dry cough, "is the name he was known by hereabouts,--wicked Colonel Carr sir. That is what every man woman and child called him, not without reason Doctor."

      "H'm! It does sound as though he had a bad reputation."

      "Bad sir," echoed the Inspector not without pride, "a regular out and out rip. But that he belonged to the gentry, he would have been through my hands I can tell you. And to think of him being murdered. I ain't astonished, no I ain't astonished. He was too wicked to die in his bed as the Christian he wasn't."

      "Why do you say he was murdered?" asked Jim alertly. "The revolver was in his hand. Looks like suicide to me,--at the first glance of course."

      Bridge laughed grimly and shook his head. "Colonel Carr was the last man in the world to take his own life sir,--too much afraid of the burning pit for that. I examined the body this morning, and I say--murder. Certainly my examination was cursory. But if he had shot himself through the heart, the linen over it would have been scorched. There is no mark of powder not even a singe. No sir, that shot was fired at a long range. If you did not alter the position of the body Dr. Herrick, I should say that the shot had been fired from the door."

      "I did not alter the position of the body Mr. Inspector. I merely turned it over, and replaced it. H'm! murder you say. And the assassin placed the revolver in the dead hand to hint at suicide. Clever man or woman Mr. Inspector. Which?"

      "Lord knows," replied Bridge rubbing his grey hair. "The Colonel had heaps and heaps of enemies I can tell you. Whether man or woman, I do not know. But I'll tell you one thing Dr. Herrick, whosoever fired the shot knew the Colonel excellently well."

      "I see what you mean. The assassin knew that his victim was left-handed."

      "Right sir. You've hit it. Now," added Bridge meditatively, "could it have been Frisco?"

      "Frisco. Who is he or her?"

      "Frisco was the servant of Colonel Carr," explained the Inspector, "and as great a mystery as his master; San Francisco, he called himself, and that I take it is the name of a town. The wicked Colonel shortened it to Frisco for short. Yes! Frisco might have killed him!"

      "If you would only give me a concise biography of Carr, I should be less in the dark Mr. Inspector."

      "Oh,