Read Online Who Killed Charmian Karslake? by Annie Haynes - Free Book Online

that they knew of rank, or wealth, or culture.
    True, the King and Queen were higher, but then the King and Queen did not come in the way of the Heptonians. Sir Arthur and Lady Penn-Moreton were good enough.
    On the morning after the discovery of Charmian Karslake’s murder, Stoddart and Harbord walked slowly up the village street from the Abbey, glancing curiously from side to side.
    To reach it from the Abbey they had to cross a wide, open space, still known as the Bull Ring. On one side were the schools and the schoolmaster’s house, on the other the church, the Abbey Church, as it had been at the Dissolution. It was little altered now, save in heavy wooden pews which had been put in by laterday Protestants.
    Once past that there were little, old-fashioned shops on one side, with high steps leading up to them. On the other was the butter and poultry market. Heavy oak standards of stout lattice-work at the sides and overhead, the fine old justice-room in which the local magistrates still sat to adjudicate upon the cases of drunkenness or pilfering that might be brought before them.
    The justice-room was well worth the antiquaries’ attention, but Stoddart only bestowed the most cursory glance upon it. All his attention was given to the shops on the other side, or rather to the names upon them.
    By the local Bank he stopped and looked up the village street that led to the almshouses and past them to the open country beyond.
    â€œQuaint old spot, isn’t it?” he said to Harbord. “Matter of fact, Sir Arthur told me it was said to be the original Dickens’ Sleepy Hollow. Well, here we come to the parting of the ways. I will have a look at the shops and then have a glance at the ‘Moreton Arms,’ which seems to be about the biggest pub hereabouts, while you prowl around in the churchyard, get a look at the register if you can, and see if you can meet with the name – names I should say.”
    â€œNames!” Harbord repeated in a puzzled fashion. “Karslake, of course one understands, but –”
    â€œKarslake and Charmian, of course,” the inspector said quietly. “In fact I think the Christian name is the more important, as it is the more distinctive of the two.”
    â€œCharmian Karslake.” Harbord repeated the two words thoughtfully. “Certainly it sounds like an assumed name.”
    â€œThe sort of name an actress assumes,” Stoddart added. “Well, so long, Alfred, we shall meet again at the Abbey.”
    Harbord turned in at the old lych-gate leading to the churchyard, while Stoddart proceeded with his saunter up the narrow street, looking from side to side at the names over the shops, Thompson, Dickenson, Grey, Walker, and other stranger names probably indigenous to the district, Frutrell, Furniger, Thorslett, but no Karslake.
    Evidently there was little business doing this morning. Of customers very few shops had any sign. In many cases, white aproned or black aproned, the tradesmen stood at their doors passing the time of day with the passersby or exchanging remarks with their next-door neighbours.
    Stoddart guessed rightly that nothing but the terrible occurrence at the Abbey would be talked of for many a long day at Hepton. He made his way to the upper part of High Street, and after a lingering glance round turned in at the “Moreton Arms.” The bar was at the right-hand side of the red-bricked passage. A hubbub of conversation arose from within, hushed as Stoddart stood at the door. He went forward to the counter where a buxom-looking barmaid was serving out foaming frothy glasses of ale.
    â€œGood morning, miss,” he said politely, as she glanced at him. “A sherry and bitters, please.”
    She served him quickly and went on to a tall, stout-looking man, who had followed him in. This individual was evidently something of a stranger, like Stoddart himself.
    As he ordered a pint of Bass’s best, he said