"A dozen years, I should say," the vicar replied.

"And the last tenant--did you know him--or her?" Oleron was conscious of
a tingling of his nerves as he offered the vicar the alternative of sex.

"Him," said the vicar. "A man. If I remember rightly, his name was
Madley; an artist. He was a great recluse; seldom went out of the place,
and--" the vicar hesitated and then broke into a little gush of candour
"--and since you appear to have come for this information, and since it
is better that the truth should be told than that garbled versions should
get about, I don't mind saying that this man Madley died there, under
somewhat unusual circumstances. It was ascertained at the post-mortem
that there was not a particle of food in his stomach, although he was
found to be not without money. And his frame was simply worn out. Suicide
was spoken of, but you'll agree with me that deliberate starvation is, to
say the least, an uncommon form of suicide. An open verdict was
returned."

"Ah!" said Oleron.... "Does there happen to be any comprehensive history
of this parish?"

"No; partial ones only. I myself am not guiltless of having made a number
of notes on its purely ecclesiastical history, its registers and so
forth, which I shall be happy to show you if you would care to see them;
but it is a large parish, I have only one curate, and my leisure, as you
will readily understand ..."

The extent of the parish and the scantiness of the vicar's leisure
occupied the remainder of the interview, and Oleron thanked the vicar,