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Updated: May 8, 2025
It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles. But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London.
"Now that my mind is at ease about the immediate future of the biggest rascal in Venezuela I can take an active part in Steynholme affairs once more. When it's all through I'll make a novel of it, dashed if I don't, with the postmaster's daughter in the three-color process as a frontispiece." "But who will be the villain?" said Peters. Hart waved the negro-head pipe at the other three.
"I'm pleased to think you refuse to class me with the gossip-mongers of Steynholme, Doris," was the guarded answer. There had been no reference to the murder during tea, which was served as soon as the chemist came in.
Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the adjourned inquest. "No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through," he vowed. "You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions.
There were subtle and dangerous enemies to be fought and conquered, but Steynholme looked on, keen to learn of any new sensation, of course, but placidly content that the final verdict should be left in the hands of the authorities. The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were almost dull.
I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his hearers. Cré nom d'un pipe! Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they eat!"
The chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will that suit your convenience?" "Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o'clock. We have a guest to tea then." "I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I ask?" "Mr. Siddle, the local chemist." "Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?" "We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme." "Ah.
Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him. For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme. Mr.
He looked exactly what he was, a healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern "conveniences" as gas and electricity.
I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when the time comes?" "Have I ever failed you?" "No. We meet as strangers." Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest "writer up" in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both him and a shrewd news-editor. The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each other.
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