The Chestermarke Instinct. Fletcher Joseph Smith
is the man?" asked Neale, glancing at the fire, whose flames made a red spot amongst the bushes.
"Most likely a travelling tinker chap, sir, that comes this way now and again," answered the policeman. "Name of Creasy – Tinner Creasy, the folks call him. He's come here for many a year, at odd times. Camps out with his pony and cart, and goes round the villages and farmsteads, seeing if there's aught to mend, and selling 'em pots and pans and such-like. Stops a week or two – sometimes longer."
"And poaches all he can lay hands on," added the gamekeeper. "Only he takes good care never to go off this Hollow to do it."
"Have you made any inquiry of him?" asked Neale.
"We were just thinking of doing that, sir," replied the policeman. "He roams up and down about here at nights, when he is here. But I don't know how long he's been camping this time – it's very seldom I ever come round this way myself – there's naught to come for."
"Let's go across there and speak to him," said Neale.
He and Betty followed the two men down the side of the promontory and across the ups and downs of the Hollow, until they came to a deeper depression fringed about by a natural palisading of hawthorn. And as they drew near and could see into the dingle-like recess which the tinker had selected for his camping-ground they became aware of a savoury and appetizing odour, and the gamekeeper laughed.
"Cooking his supper, is Tinner Creasy!" he remarked. "And good stuff he has in his pot, too!"
The tinker, now in full view, sat on a log near a tripod, beneath which crackled a bright fire, burning under a black pot. The leaping flames revealed a shrewd, weather-beaten face which turned sharply towards the bushes as the visitors appeared; they also lighted up the tinker's cart in the background, the browsing pony close by, the implements of the tinner's trade strewn around on the grass. It was an alluring picture of vagabond life, and Neale suddenly compared it with the dull existence of folk who, like himself, were chained to a desk. He would have liked to sit down by Tinner Creasy and ask him about his doings – but the policeman had less poetical ideas.
"Hullo, Tinner!" said he, with easy familiarity. "Here again, what? I thought we should be seeing your fire some night this spring. Been here long?"
The tinker, who had remained seated on his log until he saw that a lady was of the party, rose and touched the edge of his fur cap to Betty in a way which indicated that his politeness was entirely for her.
"Since yesterday," he answered laconically.
"Only since yesterday!" exclaimed the policeman. "Ah! that's a pity, now. You wasn't here Saturday night, then?"
The tinker turned a quizzical eye on the four inquiring faces.
"How would I be here Saturday night when I only came yesterday?" he retorted. "You're the sort of chap that wants two answers to one question! What about Saturday night?"
The policeman took off his helmet and rubbed the top of his head as if to encourage his faculties.
"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. Horbury," remarked Creasy, with a glance at Neale and Betty. "I've talked to him a hundred-and-one times on this waste. So it's him, is it? Well, there's one thing you can be certain about."
"What?" asked Betty eagerly.
"Mr. Horbury wouldn't happen aught by accident, hereabouts," answered the tinker significantly. "He knew every inch of this Hollow. Some folks, now, might take a header into one o' them old lead-mines. He wouldn't. He could ha' gone blind-fold over this spot."
"Well – he's disappeared," observed the policeman. "There's a search being made, all round. You heard naught last night, I suppose?"
Creasy gave Neale and Betty a look.
"Heard plenty of owls, and night-jars, and such-like," he answered, "and foxes, and weasels, and stoats, and beetles creeping in the grass. Naught human!"
The policeman resumed his helmet and sniffed audibly. He and the keeper moved away and talked together. Then the policeman turned to Neale.
"Well, we'll be getting back to the village, sir," he said. "If so be as you see our super, Mr. Neale, you might mention that we're out and about."
He and his companion went off by a different path; at the top of a rise in the ground the policeman turned again.
"Tinner!" he called.
"Hullo?" answered Creasy.
"If you should hear or find aught," said the policeman, "come to me, you know."
"All right!" assented Creasy. He picked up some wood and replenished his fire. And glancing at Neale and Betty, who still lingered, he let fall a muttered whisper under his breath. "Bide a bit – till those chaps have gone," he said. "I've a word or two."
He walked away to his cart after this mysterious communication, dived under its tilt, evidently felt for and found something, and came back, glancing over his shoulder to see that keeper and policeman had gone their ways.
"I never tell chaps of that sort anything, mister," he said, giving Neale a sly wink. "Them of my turn of life look on all gamekeepers and policemen as their natural enemies. They'd both of 'em turn me out o' this if they could! – only they know they can't. For some reason or other Ellersdeane Hollow is No Man's Land – and therefore mine. And so – I wasn't going to say anything to them – not me!"
"Then there is something you can say?" said Neale.
"You were here on Saturday!" exclaimed Betty. "You know something!"
"No, miss, I wasn't here Saturday," answered the tinker, "and I don't know anything – about what yon man asked, anyway – I told him the truth about all that. But – you say Mr. Horbury's missing, and that he's considered to have come this way on Saturday night. So – do either of you know that?"
He drew his right hand from behind him, and in the glare of the firelight showed them, lying across its palm, a briar tobacco-pipe, silver-mounted.
"I found that, last night, gathering dry sticks," he said. "It's letters engraved on the silver band – 'J. H. from B. F.' 'J. H.' now? – does that mean John Horbury? – you see, I know his Christian name."
Betty uttered a sharp exclamation and took the pipe in her hand. She turned to Neale with a look of sudden fear.
"It's the pipe I gave my uncle last Christmas!" she said. "Of course I know it! Where did you find it?" she went on, turning on Creasy. "Do tell us – do show us!"
"Foot of the crag there, miss – right beneath the old tower," answered Creasy. "And it's just as I found it. I'll give it to you, sir, to take to Superintendent Polke in Scarnham – he knows me. But just let me point something out. I ain't a detective, but in my eight-and-forty years I've had to keep my wits sharpened and my eyes open. Point out to Polke, and notice yourself – that whenever that pipe was dropped it was being smoked! The tobacco's caked at the surface – just as it would be if the pipe had been laid down at the very time the tobacco was burning well – if you're a smoker you'll know what I mean. That's one thing. The other is – just observe that the silver band is quite bright and fresh, and that there are no stains on the briar-wood. What's that indicate, young lady and young gentleman? Why, that that pipe hadn't been lying so very long when I found it! Not above a day, I'll warrant."
"That's very clever of you, very observant!" exclaimed Betty. "But – won't you show us the exact place where you picked it up?"
Creasy cast a glance at his cooking pot, stepped to it, and slightly tilted the lid. Then he signed to them to go back towards the tower by the path by which they had come.
"Don't want my supper to boil over, or to burn," he remarked. "It's the only decent meal I get in the day, you see,