The Z Murders by J Jefferson Farjeon Page B

on!”
    Ruthlessly pressed, the countryman closed his eyes once more, sought inspiration, and reopened them. “’Ow about mad?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s always a possibility,” answered Richard.
    â€œBut, mind ye, not one o’ them madmen ye can tell by the look of ’em. Ordin’ry person. Same as you and me might be, if one of us was mad, sittin’ ’ere and torkin’, and not knowin’ which!” Yes, this countryman undoubtedly had ideas! Richard regarded him quizzically while the ideas ran on: “I knew a feller once, clever as politishun, ’e was, and you’d never know there was screw loose. Poured out tea fer me many a time, ’e did, and ‘One lump fer you, George,’ ’e’d say, ‘I’m not one fer fergettin’.’ And one day ’e goes out and comes back on a cow sayin’ ’e’s Black Prince. Back to the Battle o’ Crecy, ’e was. Well, then, sir, mebbe this other one—one we’re torkin’ about—” He paused and looked down at his newspaper, which had slipped on to the floor of the compartment. “Mebbe this other one, now, thinks ’e’s Crippen?”
    He stooped, and regained the paper.
    â€œAnd mebbe, if ’e does, we’ll soon be readin’ about third murder.” He opened his paper.
    â€œAnd mebbe, again, it isn’t man at all, but girl !”
    This apparently exhausted the countryman of his complete stock of notions, and he buried himself behind his newspaper again to find new ones.
    Richard, staring unprofitably at the newspaper screen, found himself frowning. He wondered why he was frowning.
    Having nothing else to do, he set about trying to discover the reason. One frequently falls into a depressed state without being conscious of the cause, and the depression usually remains until one has unearthed the cause and proved its folly. Richard hoped, by this same process, to dispel his frown and to rid himself of a vague, disturbing sensation.
    Was he annoyed with the countryman for having conversed with him about the murders? Couldn’t be that. The murders were to-day’s bright topics! To-morrow’s would be a Government reverse, and the next day’s a fire in Fleet Street. Was he annoyed with himself for having entered into the conversation and encouraged it? Couldn’t be that, either. He had not committed himself in any way. How could one commit oneself to a simple-minded countryman? …
    â€œWatch yourself, Richard!” he thought. “You’re getting over-sensitive!”
    Was he worried by the countryman’s allusion to lunatics, and did he think the countryman might be one himself? Ridiculous! Was he worried by the countryman’s suggestion that the murderer was a girl?…
    â€œMight be that,” he conjectured, fretfully. “Yes—might be that!”
    But he knew it wasn’t that. He knew it was something far more subtle, something that remained just round the corner of his eye, like an untrappable shadow. A moving shadow. Now with a vague shape. Now with no shape. Now with a shape again. A shape like a horse.…
    Horse? Why, on earth, a horse? Yet it was a horse! There it was, galloping absurdly through Richard’s mind! A black horse. And, on the horse, a prince. A black prince…
    â€œEureka!” thought Richard, galvanically. “The Black Prince! And that Battle of Crecy! That’s what’s worrying me! How the devil does a simple countryman who can’t pronounce his ‘h’s’ know that the Black Prince fought at Crecy?”
    The discovery of the cause did not, in this case, conclude the discomfort. On the contrary, the discomfort was increased, and for several stations Richard revolved the discovery in his mind, trying to ridicule it out of its assumption of significance. If only the countryman had lowered his newspaper and had continued with his