drunken mill—but Philmore was not to be led. He offered his virtuous helpmate as sworn witness to his boots having crossed the threshold at the stroke of twelve, and could not be swerved from his purpose.
Mr. Dyer the builder proved most edifying in his communications. He was a square-bodied, powerful individual with a lean and weathered face. He commanded instant respect before Mr. Munro’s panel, as a tradesman with the livelihood of half Alton’s labourers in his pocket. He was little inclined to talk, and answered the questions put to him with a brevity that bordered on the pugnacious. He had indeed used Shafto French in various odd jobs of work that required brute strength but little sense; he could not rely upon the man’s appearance from one day to the next; he had thought nothing of a failure to report for work on the Monday, as no doubt French had been drunk of a Sunday. In these opinions, Mr. Dyer seemed to speak for the entire town.
At Mr. Munro’s further questioning, however, matter of a more serious import was gleaned. Shafto French had been set to work at Chawton Cottage the week immediately preceding our arrival, in digging the new cesspit. Three other labourers, including Bertie Philmore, were engaged, under the direction of Mr. Dyer’s son, William, in blocking up the unfortunate front parlour window and throwing out the new bow overlooking the garden. The keys to Chawton Cottage had thus been in Mr. Dyer’s possession—which the builder purported to have returned to Mr. Barlow at the George, according to previous arrangement with my brother, at the conclusion of his firm’s work.
“And the work was complete on what day?” Mr. Munro then demanded.
Mr. Dyer looked all his discomfort. He had intended the repairs to Chawton Cottage to be finished on Saturday, as his men were expected in Sherborne St. John on Monday; but work on the cesspit, or French himself, had given some trouble. Rains and indolence delayed the business’s conclusion. When Shafto French did not appear as expected Monday morning, Mr. Dyer’s son painted the privy himself and set all in order before handing over the keys to the publican Mr. Barlow’s safekeeping—much relieved to learn that we had arrived at the inn from Kent only that day.
“Your son noticed nothing untoward as he was locking up the house?—A suggestion, as it were, that someone had entered the premises prior to himself?”
“Bill had no cause to go down cellar, nor any of my men neither, being that no repairs were to be done in that part of the cottage,” Mr. Dyer said sharply. “Don’t you be accusing my boy of murder, Mr. Crowner, when all he’s done is another man’s honest day of work.”
Mr. Munro had soothed the builder’s injured feelings, and reverted instead to the matter of the keys. Had Mr. Dyer been assured of their possession throughout the interval between Shafto French’s disappearance on Saturday, and the conclusion of work on Monday?
Mr. Dyer thought that he had. An impression of reserve was given; and at Mr. Munro’s persistence, the builder confessed that it was his son, Bill, who’d been the keeper of the keys—and that Bill was at work today in the aforementioned parish of Sherborne St. John, and must answer later for himself.
“Bertie Philmore or young William Dyer killed the man and hid his body in the cellar,” Henry told me thoughtfully, “or someone unknown to us obtained the builder’s keys through stealth with the intention of committing, and hiding, murder. We can be certain, however, that the deed was done between midnight on Saturday and Monday morning, when the keys were apparently once more in the publican’s possession.”
“If,” I rejoined to Henry’s chagrin, “there is only one set of keys.”
W HEN HE HAD BREAKFASTED, I PREVAILED UPON MY BROTHER to descend the cellar stairs and study the floor there, with a lanthorn held high against whatever spectres might haunt a
Mr. Dyer the builder proved most edifying in his communications. He was a square-bodied, powerful individual with a lean and weathered face. He commanded instant respect before Mr. Munro’s panel, as a tradesman with the livelihood of half Alton’s labourers in his pocket. He was little inclined to talk, and answered the questions put to him with a brevity that bordered on the pugnacious. He had indeed used Shafto French in various odd jobs of work that required brute strength but little sense; he could not rely upon the man’s appearance from one day to the next; he had thought nothing of a failure to report for work on the Monday, as no doubt French had been drunk of a Sunday. In these opinions, Mr. Dyer seemed to speak for the entire town.
At Mr. Munro’s further questioning, however, matter of a more serious import was gleaned. Shafto French had been set to work at Chawton Cottage the week immediately preceding our arrival, in digging the new cesspit. Three other labourers, including Bertie Philmore, were engaged, under the direction of Mr. Dyer’s son, William, in blocking up the unfortunate front parlour window and throwing out the new bow overlooking the garden. The keys to Chawton Cottage had thus been in Mr. Dyer’s possession—which the builder purported to have returned to Mr. Barlow at the George, according to previous arrangement with my brother, at the conclusion of his firm’s work.
“And the work was complete on what day?” Mr. Munro then demanded.
Mr. Dyer looked all his discomfort. He had intended the repairs to Chawton Cottage to be finished on Saturday, as his men were expected in Sherborne St. John on Monday; but work on the cesspit, or French himself, had given some trouble. Rains and indolence delayed the business’s conclusion. When Shafto French did not appear as expected Monday morning, Mr. Dyer’s son painted the privy himself and set all in order before handing over the keys to the publican Mr. Barlow’s safekeeping—much relieved to learn that we had arrived at the inn from Kent only that day.
“Your son noticed nothing untoward as he was locking up the house?—A suggestion, as it were, that someone had entered the premises prior to himself?”
“Bill had no cause to go down cellar, nor any of my men neither, being that no repairs were to be done in that part of the cottage,” Mr. Dyer said sharply. “Don’t you be accusing my boy of murder, Mr. Crowner, when all he’s done is another man’s honest day of work.”
Mr. Munro had soothed the builder’s injured feelings, and reverted instead to the matter of the keys. Had Mr. Dyer been assured of their possession throughout the interval between Shafto French’s disappearance on Saturday, and the conclusion of work on Monday?
Mr. Dyer thought that he had. An impression of reserve was given; and at Mr. Munro’s persistence, the builder confessed that it was his son, Bill, who’d been the keeper of the keys—and that Bill was at work today in the aforementioned parish of Sherborne St. John, and must answer later for himself.
“Bertie Philmore or young William Dyer killed the man and hid his body in the cellar,” Henry told me thoughtfully, “or someone unknown to us obtained the builder’s keys through stealth with the intention of committing, and hiding, murder. We can be certain, however, that the deed was done between midnight on Saturday and Monday morning, when the keys were apparently once more in the publican’s possession.”
“If,” I rejoined to Henry’s chagrin, “there is only one set of keys.”
W HEN HE HAD BREAKFASTED, I PREVAILED UPON MY BROTHER to descend the cellar stairs and study the floor there, with a lanthorn held high against whatever spectres might haunt a
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