"Yet he was really Mark Chessingham."
"Very odd. The thing is, how are we going to start our enquiries?"
"There were some houses. Perhaps we could ask there."
"We'll see how it goes."
We left the train and took the small branch line to Croston. Memories came back to me. We walked first to the graveyard and I showed John the tombstone with Edward Compton's name on it.
"What next?" I asked.
"I noticed quite a large house on the common. What if we told them we were trying to trace someone. They might be able to help."
We went to the house, which was obviously the most important in the village. A maid admitted us and John asked if he could see the master or mistress of the house. It says a great deal for his business-like manner and air of respectability that we were granted an interview.
Mrs. Carstairs was a comfortable looking middleaged woman who was clearly a little intrigued to find her callers were strangers. She graciously bade us sit down and state our business. She was clearly impressed by John's urbane manner. He gave her his card with the name of his bank on it.
"We are making enquiries about a man who, we think, may have lived here at some time. Unfortunately we are not sure of his name. It could be Mark Chessingham."
He waited. She gave no sign that she had heard that name. "Or Edward Compton," he added.
"Oh, that must be the family who were at the Manor. There is not a Manor now. It was burned to the ground. There's been talk of rebuilding but they never seem to get round to it. But the Comptons lived there. It was a tragedy. I think that several members of the family were burned to death. There aren't any Comptons now."
"Oh dear," said John. "The trail seems to end. Perhaps there is some branch of the family ...?"
"I've never heard of them. I don't think I can help you. You seem to be talking about people who have been dead long ago."
"You've been most helpful. We knew we had a difficult task."
"You have to live here for centuries to be recognized by the people here. We're looked on as foreigners almost, though it's nearly fifteen years since we came. Oh, wait a minute. There's old Mrs. Clint. She's a know-all. She's lived here all her life and must be about ninety. She'd remember the fire. If you want to know anything about the people who lived here she'd be the one to tell you."
"It's most kind of you to be so helpful. Where could we find her?"
"I'll take you to the door and show you. Her cottage is just across the Green. She's bound to be in. She can't get about much now. Her daughter goes in and does what is necessary."
"Well, thank you very much."
"I'm only sorry I can't be of more help."
She stood at her door and pointed out the cottage across the Green.
"Knock," she said. "She'll call for you to go in. She likes visitors. The trouble is that when she starts to talk she doesn't know when to stop. I hope you've got plenty of time!"
"The whole day," said John.
We walked across the Green.
"-Well," he said, "we didn't draw entirely a blank."
It was as the lady of the house had said. We knocked and were bidden to enter.
Mrs. Clint was in bed, a bright old lady in a white cap from which fine grey hairs straggled; she wore woollen mittens over her claw-like hands.
"I thought it was my daughter dropping in with the broth she's bringing for my dinner," she said. "Who are you?"
"We have to apologize for disturbing you," said John. "But the lady from the big house across the common told us that you might be able to help us."
"That's Mrs. Carstairs from London. They don't belong here. What do you want from me? Give a seat to the young lady and you have that rush chair. Mind, it's a bit weak. Old Bob hasn't been round mending this year. I don't know ... people nowadays. Used to come regular as clockwork. He'd do the chairs and sharpen the scissors. You could rely on him once. What are you looking for?"
"Mark Chessingham or Edward Compton."
"Mark Whatsisname ... no. And if it's Edward Compton you're looking for, the graveyard's the place for you."
"We might have the wrong name," said John. "The man we are looking for is tall and fair. He has a slight accent ... Might have been German. Very faint ... almost unnoticeable."
"Oh yes," I said excitedly. "I remember that. He had. So you noticed."
Mrs. Clint scratched her head through her cap.
"Twenty years or more, the whole house burned down. The children ... It was a blow to the village. But not many remembers now . . only us old ones." She paused. "A bit of an accent you say and he lived here ... I only ever heard a German accent once. My son Jimmy he had an ear for that sort of thing. He was a builder and he went abroad with his master on some big job. When he came back he said the Dowlings had German accents. The mother was German you see. Dowling he wasn't much good. Worked up at the big house at one time. Drink, it was ... His downfall. Never had a job after the Manor went."
"Who had the German accent?" asked John.
"She did. Well, she couldn't speak much English. Couldn't always grasp what she was trying to say. My Jimmy used to say you could understand that with her, but the young ones, born over here .. . brought up over here ... you'd think they'd be different."
"And what was their name, did you say?"
"Dowling."
"Could we see them?"
"If you know where they've gone to you could." She gave a hoarse chuckle. "What'll stop you is, you don't know where they are. They went away ... all of them. There was a boy and a girl ... very handsome both of them. Some said they went to Germany. Old Dowling had gone by then. So had she. He took more than the usual and one night fell down the stairs. He lingered for a few months. Then that was the end. That was years ago. Always together they was ... the brother and sister. They were what you might call a devoted family."
"You have been a great help to us, Mrs. Clint."
"Have I now? I'm glad of that."
"Thank you very much and now we have to be getting on. Good day to you."
"A good morning's work," said John as we came out onto the green.
"So you think we've discovered something?"
"Only that the Dowlings were half German and although Lydia's husband never said that he was, it is in my mind that he must be."
It had been an interesting time and I had enjoyed being with John as I had done before; we had found out very little in Suffolk and we did not even know if that was relevant; the mystery remained as deep as ever; but at least I knew that my stranger had gone from me to Lydia and I constantly asked myself why he had come first to me and then given a false name; and why should it have been that of someone long dead?
It was baffling and somehow alarming to think that he had gone straight to Lydia and disappeared as far as I was concerned without even saying he was going.
It was certainly mysterious and I still had a niggling feeling that he might not have been human, that he was some spirit of doom, the ghost perhaps of that boy-or man-whose life had been cut short and now lay in Croston churchyard. Fanciful thinking, but then the matter was fanciful.
Daisy had welcomed me back and implied, with only the slightest trace of reproach, that I had been missed. After all, it was the half-term holiday and if one could get away one was entitled to do so.
"Eugenie had another bad turn while you were away," she told me. "Charlotte came and wakened me."
"That's rather alarming," I said. "I hope she is not sickening for something."
"It was the same sort of thing ... sickness and giddiness. It was a little worse than last time. I got the doctor in to have a look at her."
"What did he say?"
"Just what I thought. Something she had eaten did not agree with her."