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Updated: May 17, 2025
Every Monday morning, when the clock of the old parish church in Scarnham Market-Place struck eight, Wallington Neale asked himself why on earth he had chosen to be a bank clerk.
"But what can I tell you?" she exclaimed. "As I have said, I don't know why Frederick Hollis went to Scarnham! He never mentioned Scarnham to me when he was here last week." "Let me tell you something that is not in the papers yet ma'am," said Starmidge. "I think it will explain matters to you. When we examined Mr.
And what I shall want to find out from them, in that case, is what special purpose? And what had it to do with Scarnham, or anybody at Scarnham? See? And I'll tell you what, Mr. Polke I don't know whether we'll produce that cheque at the inquest on Hollis at first, anyhow.
"Nay!" he said. "There's a gentleman missing from Scarnham yonder, and it's thought he came out this way after dark, Saturday night, and something happened. But, of course, if you wasn't in these parts then " "I wasn't, nor within ten miles of 'em," said Creasy. "Who is the gentleman?" "Mr. Horbury, the bank manager," answered the policeman. "I know Mr.
Now, honour bright, which of these men do you take Godwin Markham to be?" "Gabriel Chestermarke!" answered Starmidge promptly. "It's established that he's constantly in London as much in London as in Scarnham. Gabriel Chestermarke certainly with, no doubt, Joseph in collusion. The probability is that they run that money-lending office in Conduit Street under the name of Godwin Markham.
Neale. Now what could he be doing on this lonely bit of ground? Where does this track lead?" "It's a short cut from Scarnham Bridge corner to the middle of Ellersdeane village," answered Neale, pointing one way and then the other. "And Gabriel Chestermarke lives in Ellersdeane, doesn't he?" asked Starmidge. "Or close by?"
I don't know a single soul in all Scarnham that's ever been inside either. I'm perfectly certain Mr. Horbury was never asked there. Once Joseph's across his thresholds, back or front, there's an end of him till he comes out again!" "But he doesn't live entirely alone, does he?" asked Betty. "As near as can be," replied Neale.
Creasy moved away as he finished speaking, untethered his pony, threw an old saddle across its back, and without further remark rode off in the direction of the village, while Neale and Betty turned back to Scarnham. For a while neither broke the silence which had followed the tinker's practical suggestions; when Betty at last spoke it was in a hushed voice.
"That's the worst of it. Well we shall see." He went away from the house and crossed the Market-Place to the Scarnham Arms, an old-world inn which had suffered few alterations during the last two centuries.
Parkinson, a high-browed, shock-headed young man, who combined the duties of editor and reporter with those of advertisement canvasser and business manager of the one four-page sheet which Scarnham boasted, received the two police officials in a small office in which there was just room for himself and his visitors to squeeze themselves. "I was about coming round to you, Mr. Polke," he said.
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