“No!” affirmed Pegge. “I’ll not deny that I might ha’ done, just in a casual way, if I hadn’t heard of Mr. Guy Markenmore’s murder that morning. But I did hear of it, very early—earlier than most folks—before either our coachman or the second groom came to the stables—so I said nothing.”
“Who told you of the murder—so early?” asked Blick.
“Our village policeman,” replied Pegge. “I was standing at the end of our east walk when he and Hobbs went up the hill-side to the downs; Hobbs had been to fetch him. I should have gone up with them to Markenmore Hollow if I could have left the cob. I’d just walked along to the edge of our grounds, like, to get a bit of fresh air after being all night in the saddle-room, when the policeman and Hobbs hurried by. And putting one thing to another, I thought I’d hold my tongue. And I have done—till now.”
“And at last you thought you’d tell me? Well, you’ve done right,” said Blick. “No harm’ll come to you, Pegge—you’re safe enough.”
“Well, I’d a reason why I come to you tonight,” remarked Pegge, with a sudden shrewd look. “I reckoned up that it was best.”
“Because this here Baron is off tomorrow morning,” replied Pegge. “Leaving!”
“I’ve orders to drive him to Selcaster railway station to catch the 10.8 express to Victoria,” said Pegge. “We shall leave here at half-past nine.”
“There’s a Mrs. Hamilton there at the Dower House, isn’t there?” asked Blick. “A friend of Mrs. Tretheroe’s? Is she leaving, too?”
“No,” answered Pegge. “Just him. I’m driving him in the dogcart. Only him.”
Blick rose from his chair as a sign that the interview was over.
“Very well, Pegge,” he said. “Now then, just remember this—not a word to any living soul! Just go on as if everything was ordinary. You’ll hear from me. You did right to come, and remember what I say—keep all to yourself!”
When the groom had gone, after taking amusing precautions to make sure that no customer of the Sceptre saw him leave the detective’s sitting-room, Blick thought over what he had just heard. There was no doubt in his mind now that the Baron von Eckhardstein was the second man of the midnight meeting at the Sceptre; Pegge’s story, and his own knowledge that von Eckhardstein had abstracted the pipe from the solicitor’s table at the inquest, convinced him of that. But was that sufficient to make one suspect him of murder? Blick thought not—emphatically not. He could scarcely believe it possible that a man would murder another, remain in close proximity to the scene of the murder, and generally act as von Eckhardstein seemed to have acted. Yet—he might know something; probably did, and whether there was sufficient grounds or not for accusing him of actual guilt or complicity, there were certainly plenty for requesting him to give some account of himself. If such a request were suddenly sprung upon him, there might be revelations.