The Corinthian

by Georgette Heyer

  They entered the George together. Pen went up to bed at a nod from Sir Richard, but Sir Richard rang the bell for a servant. A sleepy waiter came in answer to the summons, and, upon being asked for the direction of the nearest magistrate, said that Sir Jasper Luttrell was the nearest, but was away from home. He knew of no other, so Sir Richard desired him to fetch the landlord to him, and sat down to write a short note to whom it might concern.

  When the landlord came into the parlour, Sir Richard was shaking the sand off the single sheet of paper. He folded it, and sealed it with a wafer, and upon being told that Mr John Philips, of Whitchurch, was the nearest available magistrate, wrote this gentleman’s name on the note. As he wrote, he said in his calm way: ‘I shall be obliged to you if you will have this letter conveyed directly to Mr Philips.’

  ‘To-night, sir?’

  ‘To-night. Mr Philips will, I imagine, come back with your messenger. If he asks for me, show him into this room. Ah, and landlord!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A bowl of rum punch. I will mix it myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!’ said the landlord, relieved to receive such a normal command.

  He lingered for a moment, trying to summon up sufficient resolution to ask the fine London gentleman why he wanted to see a magistrate thus urgently. Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass came up, and the landlord withdrew in haste. The waiter would have followed him, but was detained by Sir Richard’s uplifted forefinger.

  ‘One moment! Who gave you the note which you delivered to me this evening?’

  ‘It was Jem, sir – the tapster. It was when I went up to the bar for a pint of burgundy for a gentleman dining in the coffee-room that Jem gave it to me. It was Captain Trimble who picked it up off the ground, where it was a-laying. It got swep’ off the bar, I dessay, sir, the tap-room being crowded at the time, and Jem with his hands full.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sir Richard. ‘That is all.’

  The waiter went away considerably mystified. Sir Richard, on the other hand, felt that the mystery had been satisfactorily explained, and sat down to await the landlord’s return with the ingredients for a bowl of punch.

  Mr Philips’ residence was situated some five miles from Queen Charlton, and it was consequently some time before the clatter of horses’ hooves in the street heralded his arrival. Sir Richard was squeezing the lemon into the punch-bowl when he was ushered into the parlour, and looked up fleetingly to say: ‘Ah, how do you do? Mr Philips, I apprehend?’

  Mr Philips was a grizzled gentleman with a harassed frown, and a slight paunch.

  ‘Your servant, sir! Have I the honour of addressing Sir Richard Wyndham?’

  ‘Mine, sir, is the honour,’ said Sir Richard absently, intent upon his punch.

  ‘Sir,’ said Mr Philips, ‘your very extraordinary communication – I may say, your unprecedented disclosure – has, as you perceive, brought me immediately to enquire into this incredible affair!’

  ‘Very proper,’ said Sir Richard. ‘You will wish to visit the scene of the crime, I imagine. I can give you the direction, but no doubt the village constable is familiar with the locality. The body, Mr Philips, is – or was – lying in the clearing in the middle of the spinney, a little way down the road.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, sir, that this story is true?’ demanded the magistrate.

  ‘Certainly it is true. Dear me, did you suppose me to be so heartless as to drag you out at this hour on a fool’s errand? Are you in favour of adding the juice of one or of two lemons?’

  Mr Philips, whose eyes had been critically observing Sir Richard’s proceedings, said, without thinking: ‘One! One is enough!’

  ‘I feel sure you are right,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘You know, sir, I must ask you some questions about this extraordinary affair!’ said Philips, recollecting his errand.

  ‘So you shall, sir, so you shall. Would you like to ask them now, or after you have disposed of the body?’

  ‘I shall first repair to the scene of the murder,’ declared Philips.

  ‘Good!’ said Sir Richard. ‘I will engage to have the punch ready against your return.’

  Mr Philips felt that this casual way of treating the affair was quite out of order, but the prospect of returning to a bowl of hot rum punch was so agreeable that he decided to overlook any trifling irregularity. When he returned to the inn, half an hour later, he was feeling chilled, for it was now past midnight and he had not taken his overcoat with him. Sir Richard had caused a fire to be kindled in the wainscoted parlour, and from the bowl on the table, which he was stirring with a long-handled spoon, there arose a very fragrant and comforting aroma. Mr Philips rubbed his hands together, and could not refrain from ejaculating: ‘Ha!’

  Sir Richard looked up, and smiled. His smile had won more hearts than Mr Philips’, and it had a visible effect on that gentleman.

  ‘Well, well, well! I won’t deny that’s a very welcome smell, Sir Richard! A fire, too! Upon my word, I’m glad to see it! Gets chilly at night, very chilly! A bad business, sir! a very bad business!’

  Sir Richard ladled the steaming brew into two glasses, and gave one to the magistrate. ‘Draw up a chair to the fire, Mr Philips. It is, as you say, a very bad business. I should tell you that I am intimately acquainted with the family of the deceased.’

  Mr Philips fished Sir Richard’s note out of his pocket. ‘Yes, yes, just as I supposed, sir. I do not know how you would otherwise have furnished me with the poor man’s name. You know him, in fact. Precisely! He was travelling in your company, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Richard, taking a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘He was staying with a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. The name was, I think, Luttrell.’

  ‘Indeed! This becomes more and more – But pray continue, sir! You were not, then, together?’

  ‘No, nothing of the sort. I came into the West Country in family affairs. I need not burden you with them, I think.’

  ‘Quite, quite! Family affairs: yes! Go on, sir! How came you to discover Mr Brandon’s body?’

  ‘Oh, by accident! But it will be better, perhaps, if I recount my share in this affair from its start.’

  ‘Certainly! Yes! Pray do so, sir! This is a remarkably good bowl of punch, I may say.’

  ‘I am generally thought to have something of a knack with a punch-bowl,’ bowed Sir Richard. ‘To go back, then, to the start! You have no doubt heard, Mr Philips, of the Brandon diamonds?’

  From the startled expression in the magistrate’s eyes, and the slight dropping of his jaw, it was apparent that he had not. He said: ‘Diamonds? Really, I fear – No, I must confess that I had not heard of the Brandon diamonds.’

  ‘Then, I should explain that they make up a certain famous necklace, worth, I dare say, anything you like.’

  ‘Upon my word! An heirloom! Yes, yes, but in what way –’

  ‘While on my way to Bristol with a young relative of mine, a slight accident befell our coach, and we were forced to put up for the night at a small inn near Wroxham. There, sir, I encountered an individual who seemed to me – but I am not very well-versed in these matters – a somewhat questionable character. How questionable I did not know until the following morning, when a Bow Street Runner arrived at the inn.’

  ‘Good God, sir! This is the most – But I interrupt you!’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Sir Richard politely. ‘I left the inn while the Runner was interrogating this individual. It was not until my young cousin and I had proceeded some way on our journey that I discovered in my pocket a purse containing the Brandon necklace.’

  The magistrate sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘You amaze me, sir! You astonish me! The necklace in your pocket? Really, I do not know what to say!’

  ‘No,’ agreed Sir Richard
, rising and refilling his guest’s glass. ‘I was rather taken aback myself. In fact, it was some time before I could think how it came to be there.’

  ‘No wonder, no wonder! Most understandable, indeed! You recognized the necklace?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Richard, returning to his chair. ‘I recognized it, but – really, I am amazed at my own stupidity! – I did not immediately connect it with the individual encountered near Wroxham. The question was then not so much how it came to be in my possession, as how to restore it to Lord Saar with the least possible delay. I could picture Lady Saar’s dismay at such an irreparable loss! Ah – a lady of exquisite sensibility, you understand!’

  The magistrate nodded his comprehension. The rum punch was warming him quite as much as the fire, and he had a not unpleasant sensation of mixing with exalted persons.

  ‘Happily – or perhaps I should say, in the light of future events, unhappily,’ continued Sir Richard, ‘I recalled that Beverley Brandon – he was Saar’s younger son, I should mention – was staying in this neighbourhood. I repaired instantly to this inn, therefore, and, being fortunate enough to meet Brandon just beyond the village, gave the necklace to him without further ado.’

  The magistrate set down his glass. ‘You gave the necklace to him? Did he know that it had been stolen?’

  ‘By no means. He was as astonished as I was, but engaged himself to restore it immediately to his father. I considered the matter satisfactorily settled – Saar, you know, having the greatest dislike of any kind of notoriety, such as must accrue from the theft, and the subsequent proceedings.’

  ‘Sir!’ said Mr Philips, ‘do you mean to imply that this unfortunate young man was murdered for the sake of the necklace?’

  ‘That,’ said Sir Richard, ‘is what I fear may have happened.’

  ‘But this is shocking! Upon my word, sir, I am quite dumbfounded! – what – who can have known that the necklace was in his possession?’

  ‘I should have said that no one could have known it, but, upon consideration, I imagine that the individual who hid it in my pocket may well have followed me to this place, waiting for an opportunity to get it back into his possession.’

  ‘True! very true! You have been spied upon! Yet you have not seen that man in Queen Charlton?’

  ‘Do you think he would – er – let me see him?’ enquired Sir Richard, evading this question.

  ‘No. No, indeed! Certainly not! But this must be looked to!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Sir Richard, pensively swinging his eyeglass on the end of its ribbon. ‘And I think you might, with advantage, look to the sudden disappearance from this inn of a flashy person calling himself Captain Trimble, Mr Philips.’

  ‘Really, sir! This becomes more and more – Pray, what reason have you for supposing that this man may be implicated in the murder?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Richard slowly, ‘some chance words which I let fall on the subject of – ah – waistcoats, sent Captain Trimble off hot-foot to Bristol.’

  The magistrate blinked, and directed an accusing glance towards his half-empty glass. A horrid suspicion that the rum punch had affected his understanding was dispelled, however, by Sir Richard’s next words.

  ‘My acquaintance at the inn near Wroxham wore a catskin waistcoat. A casual reference to this circumstance had the surprising effect of arousing the Captain’s curiosity. He asked me in what direction the man in the catskin waistcoat had been travelling, and upon my saying that I believed him to be bound for Bristol, he left the inn – er – incontinent.’

  ‘I see! yes, yes, I see! An accomplice!’

  ‘My own feeling,’ said Sir Richard, ‘is that he was an accomplice who had been – er – bubbled.’

  The magistrate appeared to be much struck by this. ‘Yes! I see it all! Good God, this is a terrible affair! I have never been called upon to – But you say this Captain Trimble went off to Bristol, sir?’

  ‘He did. But I have since learned, Mr Philips, that he was back at this inn at six o’clock this evening. Ah! I should, I see, say yesterday evening,’ he added with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Mr Philips drew a long breath. ‘Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up – are in fact, of such a nature as to – Upon my word, I never thought – But the murder! You discovered this, sir?’

  ‘I discovered Brandon’s body,’ corrected Sir Richard.

  ‘How came you to do this, sir? You had a suspicion? You –’

  ‘None at all. It was a warm evening, and I stepped out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight. Chance alone led my footsteps to the wood where I found my unfortunate young friend’s body. It is only since making that melancholy discovery that I have pieced together the – er – evidence.’

  Mr Philips had a hazy idea that chance had played an over-important part in Sir Richard’s adventures, but he was aware that the punch he had drunk had slightly clouded his intellect. He said guardedly: ‘Sir, the story you have unfolded is of a nature which – in short, it must be carefully sifted. Yes, indeed. Carefully sifted! I must request you not to remove from this neighbourhood until I have had time – pray do not misunderstand me! There is not the least suggestion, I assure you, of–’

  ‘My dear sir, I don’t misunderstand you, and I have no intention of removing from this inn,’ said Sir Richard soothingly. ‘I am aware that you have, so far, only my word for it that I am indeed Richard Wyndham.’

  ‘Oh, as to that, I am sure – no suggestion of disbelieving – But my duty is prescribed! You will appreciate my position, I am persuaded!’

  ‘Perfectly!’ said Sir Richard. ‘I shall hold myself wholly at your disposal. You, as a man of the world, will, I am assured, appreciate the need of the exercise of – ah – the most delicate discretion in handling this affair.’

  Mr Philips, who had once spent three weeks in London, was flattered to think that the imprint of that short sojourn was pronounced enough to be discernible to such a personage as Beau Wyndham, and swelled with pride. Native caution, however, warned him that his investigation had better be postponed to a more sober moment. He rose to his feet with careful dignity, and set his empty glass down on the table. ‘I am obliged to you!’ he pronounced. ‘I shall wait upon you to-morrow – no, to-day! I must consider this affair. A terrible business! I think one may say, a terrible business!’

  Sir Richard agreed to this, and after a meticulous exchange of courtesies, Mr Philips took his leave. Sir Richard snuffed the candles, and went up to bed, not dissatisfied with his night’s work.

  In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with a gentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: ‘Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!’

  Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.

  He did not. He said: ‘Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shoc
king crime, were you not, young man?’

  ‘Well, not precisely,’ said Pen.

  ‘Oh? How is that?’

  ‘I was, and I wasn’t,’ Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. ‘I didn’t see the body.’

  ‘No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?’

  ‘Well, sir, there was an owl,’ confided Pen unblushingly.

  ‘Come, come! An owl ?’

  ‘Yes: my cousin said that too.’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘Come, come! He is not interested in bird-life.’

  ‘Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?’

  ‘Yes, and also I like to watch birds.’

  Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. ‘Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so you were not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?’

  ‘No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.’