The Deductions of Colonel Gore

by Lynn Brock

  ‘Mr and Mrs Melville to see you, madam. I told them you were engaged, but they insisted on coming in.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mrs Barrington frigidly.

  She turned to Gore when the servant had gone out.

  ‘This, I presume, means that my beloved parents mean to forgive me my sin, now that I have got rid of it,’ she said bitterly. ‘I suppose I must see them. Does this eye of mine look very awful?’

  ‘Personally I shouldn’t have noticed it,’ Gore assured her, ‘if you hadn’t directed my attention to it.’

  ‘Oh, mother will spot it the moment I go into the room. She’ll probably fall on my neck and burst into tears of triumph. However … they’ve made the first move. That’s something. I’m afraid we must interrupt our investigations here, Wick. There is nothing of any importance, is there?’

  ‘I’ll carry on here for a few minutes. I should like to see just how money matters stand. You run along now and see your father and mother. They’re the most important thing just at present. I’ll leave a little memo here for you, if there’s anything of interest.’

  Left alone, his first proceeding was to extract Pickles’s letters from the bundle which contained them and to transfer them to the pockets of his overcoat; his next, to look through the bundle containing names beginning with H, and to detach from it a little wad of letters docketed ‘Heathman, A.’ A glance was sufficient to reveal to him their purport. All of them related to the supply by Barrington of something referred to under the disguise ‘Céleste’—some specifying an hour, presumably of convenient delivery—some protesting against delay or disappointment—some enclosing sums of money whose size opened Gore’s eyes considerably. He tore these communications into small pieces and consigned them to the fire by instalments, without any doubt as to the identity of ‘Céleste’ and the contents of the tobacco-tin, or as to the manner in which that fourth little packet had disappeared. The explanation of Angela Heathman’s sudden and unexpected devotion to Mrs Barrington was perfectly clear. The poor, silly creature, finding her supply cut off, had hoped that some chance would enable her to lay her itching fingers on one of those little packets.

  He stood for some moments regarding the bundles of letters frowningly. Curious reading, no doubt, most of them. The sooner that bonfire happened the better, obviously. He picked up one of the bundles at hazard, and ran his eye over the names which slipped past his finger. The last two letters of that bundle were docketed ‘Wellmore, J.’

  ‘My aunt,’ he mused, ‘is old Jimmy Wellmore at that game, too?’

  Whatever the game with which Wellmore had been amusing himself, it was clear from his letters that he had declined to pay Mr Barrington for it, and had refused altogether to understand why that gentleman should take any interest in it. Both communications were of recent date; that particular deal of Mr Barrington’s had been in its initial stage only when the Fates had interfered. It was no particular business of Gore’s; but since old Wellmore had given him an excellent dinner three days before, he tore up the letters and burnt them then and there.

  He lighted another pipe and seated himself in a comfortable arm-chair with the bank-books. The deposit account showed on October 17th a balance of £923 11s. 4d., which had apparently varied very little during the eighteen months which the entries covered. The pocket in the cover of the book contained some slips, about a dozen in number, pinned together, each initialled at the head, recording sums received or paid—there was nothing to indicate which—on various dates. There was no ‘B.M.’ amongst the initials; though, by a curious coincidence, those on the second slip were ‘W.G.’

  The current account book showed a credit balance on October 31st of £110 2s. 1d. It showed, however, upon a little examination, some details of greater interest than that.

  The entries extended over the period from June, 1921, to October 31st, 1922. During that period the lodgments amounted to nearly four thousand pounds. From whatever source Barrington’s income had been derived, it had worked out at something pretty close to £3000 a year for the period shown.

  The second point of interest was that all the lodgments—many of them for considerable sums—had been made by cash, and that all cheques drawn upon the account had been drawn payable to ‘self.’

  The third point of interest did not intrude itself upon Gore’s attention until he had studied this curiously discreet account for some little while. There was a series of lodgments, made at regular intervals of two months, from the beginning of the period covered by the entries, all for the sum of £250. The last lodgment of this bi-monthly series had been made on September 2nd. No £250 had been lodged at the end of October.

  Knowing, as Gore knew, of that cheque of Cecil Arndale’s for £250, dated November 4th, the discovery of which had perturbed Mrs Barrington, it required no great acumen upon his part to divine the source from which that regular revenue had flowed to Barrington’s banking account. The very obvious, but very amazing conclusion could only be that Arndale—for at all events eighteen months past—had been making payments to Barrington at the rate of fifteen hundred a year.

  Why?

  Another careful examination of the bundles of letters on the table revealed none of Arndale’s amongst them. Gore was standing at the window, looking out into the narrow strip of winter-stricken garden, selecting a site for the bonfire which he had now resolved should be an accomplished fact before he left the house, when Florence ushered into the room a smiling, fresh-coloured, stoutish little man who advanced towards him with an outstretched hand of effusive geniality.

  ‘Mr Frensham, sir,’ the parlourmaid announced. ‘Mrs Barrington thought you would like to see him, as you are here, sir.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Colonel,’ beamed Mr Frensham. ‘Pleased to meet any friend of Mrs Barrington’s, I’m sure. There’s no lady I have a greater regard for, or would do more for, than Mrs Barrington. She’s mentioned my name to you, perhaps. Poor old Cyril was an old pal of mine. Dear old chap. One of the best. Absolutely one of the best. Yes. Rotten bad luck, him getting knocked out so sudden—as you might say, before he’d reached his prime. Rotten bad luck. Yes. You didn’t know him at all, did you?’

  ‘I had met him once,’ Gore replied pleasantly. ‘But, no, I can’t say that I knew him at all.’

  ‘Charming feller,’ said Mr Frensham. ‘Absolutely charming feller. Connected with the Brazenby family, you know, and all that lot. Lord Winshamcote’s mother—the Honourable Violet Brazenby, she was, you know, of course—she was a half-sister of poor old Cyril’s mother’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gore politely. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ said Mr Frensham.

  He lighted his cigarette and blew a cloud and watched its progress towards the window.

  ‘Least … so he said,’ he added; and, after a little beaming glance at Gore’s amiable face, decided upon still greater frankness. ‘Said more than his prayers, of course, poor old Cyril, sometimes—between you and me.’

  Gore smiled the indulgent smile of a man of the world, and maintained it while Frensham’s quick, bright little hazel eyes took minute stock of his person. Frensham’s own personal appearance afforded little clue to his avocation. His neat dark suit and bowler hat were absolutely inexpressive. His fresh, clean-shaven face, with its humorous, quickly-darting eyes, was the face of a music-hall comedian rather than that of an associate of blackmailers and drug-traffickers. Nor was there anything in the least furtive or dubious in his air or manner. His geniality was the ordinary well-intentioned familiarity of the class to which his voice and accent and vocabulary showed that he belonged. So Gore continued to smile at him amiably until, after quite a long pause, he began to talk again.

  ‘Funny me happening to be in Westmouth just when the poor old chap copped out,’ he said, shedding the ash of his cigarette into the grate and turning to take another birdlike view of Gore over his shoulder before he straightened his burly little figure again. ‘Glad I was able to roll
up for his funeral. Can’t say his friends here in Linwood gave him much of a send-off, poor old chap. Wasn’t another soul at it except me and the undertaker’s men. Nasty for her, that, you know, Colonel. Nasty. Wimmen feel things like that, you know, don’t they? Sensitive. Yes.’

  He turned and beamed at the table.

  ‘Been having a look over those things of his, have you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just been through them.’

  ‘Left no will, seemingly.’

  ‘No. So it appears.’

  There was another silence, disturbed only by the slow crackle of the fire. Frensham jerked his head towards the door, coughed, and lowered his voice to mysteriousness.

  ‘She tell you anything about this cheque?’

  ‘Cheque? Oh, yes. Er—I believe you very kindly undertook to see Mr Arndale about a cheque—’

  Again Frensham got rid of his cigarette-ash with elaborate carefulness.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ he said, and nodded reassuringly. ‘It’s all right. That’s what I’ve come back to see her about. But I hear she’s got visitors with her now, eh?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Melville are with her.’

  ‘Ow. Likely to stay long, are they?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Some considerable time, I should say.’

  ‘Ow. Well, I’d better wait. She’s a bit anxious about that cheque, I know.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ smiled Gore. ‘I don’t think there’s any necessity whatever for you to wait and see her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there is,’ said Frensham promptly. ‘I’m in no hurry. I got to explain to her, you see. I’m a chap, when I’ve undertaken to do a thing, I like to do it, see? I’m in no hurry.’

  He turned to the table again, and began to fidget with the contents of the tin box with the abstracted air of a man who beguiles a wait by the fiddling of his fingers. After a moment or two he took out the tobacco-tin.

  ‘What’s this stuff he had in this tin?’ he asked. ‘Had a look at it?’

  As he spoke he removed the lid, and Gore saw his face change. It was the slightest thing—the effect of an instant—a scarcely perceptible flickering of the muscles at the corners of his lips and of his eyes. But for Gore, watching him from the hearth-rug, the warning was quite sufficient. The discovery that one of the four little packets had been removed had completely eclipsed Mr Frensham’s geniality for that tell-tale moment. The beggar knew what the stuff in the tin was …

  Gore walked over to the table and possessed himself of the tobacco-tin good-humouredly but firmly.

  ‘If I were you, Mr Frensham,’ he said quietly, ‘I think I should mind my own business. I’m a very old friend of Mrs Barrington’s—and in that capacity I offer you that advice. Now, you have in your possession, I understand, a cheque of Mr Arndale’s for £250 which Mrs Barrington found amongst her husband’s papers. Will you kindly give it to me?’

  Frensham’s eyes flickered swiftly up and down the tall figure that stood between him and the door. Obviously he was thinking hard. Equally obviously, however, he realised that the odds were all against him; and he fell back instantly upon an injured and surprised respectfulness.

  ‘I should give it to you with pleasure, Colonel, of course, if I had it. But I haven’t got it. I gave it to Mr Arndale.’

  ‘Mr Arndale asked you to give it to him?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel, he did. He said the cheque was his, and that he gave it to Cyril Barrington last Saturday morning to get it cashed for him. So, of course, I gave it to him, then, when he asked for it. Sorry if I haven’t done right, I’m sure, Colonel. Hope I haven’t dropped a brick, have I?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gore. ‘You acted quite rightly.’

  ‘I needn’t tell you, Colonel, it’s no concern of mine. I merely offered to see Mr Arndale about the cheque because Mrs Barrington was so uneasy in her mind, like, about it. I don’t know what she thought. But it seemed to me she thought there was something fishy about it somehow. However, what Mr Arndale told me was that poor old Cyril was out at his place early on Saturday morning, and as he wasn’t coming into Linwood himself on account of him going shooting, he asked Cyril to get it cashed for him. Seemed to me all right. Seems to you all right, Colonel, don’t it?’

  Arndale’s explanation appeared a curiously lame one. But, on the other hand, it was just the kind of explanation which Arndale would have been likely to produce on the spur of the moment, confronted by an absolute stranger with the cheque and asked to account for Barrington’s possession of it.

  ‘Quite,’ said Gore. ‘Where did you see Mr Arndale this afternoon? At his house or at his office?’

  ‘At his house. Nice place he’s got, too, out there.’

  ‘You told him, of course, that Mrs Barrington had asked you to see him about the cheque?’

  ‘Well, Colonel, what do you think? Think I’d walk into a gentleman’s house on my own and say to him, “Here, what about this cheque of yours? What’s the meaning of it? What you been paying two hundred and fifty quid to my pal Cyril Barrington for?” Not hardly likely, is it, Colonel, now I ask you?’

  Upon that point Gore offered no opinion. He stared at Mr Frensham’s rubicund countenance for some moments fixedly. Finally he opened the door of the room.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Frensham. In that case, then, I think we need not take up any more of your valuable time. I will tell Mrs Barrington what you have told me. Good-afternoon.’

  Again Mr Frensham did some quick thinking. But again discretion gained the day.

  ‘Well, hang me,’ he said with good-humoured resentment, ‘you’d think I’d been trying to pinch the damn thing. Blow me if you wouldn’t. Catch me offering to do a good turn for anybody again in a hurry. I don’t think. Damme, I don’t know what you’d think you thought I was. Good-afternoon.’

  Gore watched his aggrieved progress to the hall door with some misgivings. Even then, however, he was still quite unable to decide what to make of him. It was not until late that night that a note from Mrs Barrington, which he found awaiting him upon his return from a theatre-party, enabled him to form that decision.

  ‘Dear Wick,’ Mrs Barrington wrote, ‘I’m awfully worried about that cheque. Mr Arndale rang me up after dinner this evening about it. He says the cheque is all right, and that he gave it to my husband last Saturday to cash for him. But he says Mr Frensham refused to give it to him this afternoon, and kept it, because he said I had instructed him not to part with it. I can’t understand it. What am I to do about it? Mother wants me to go away with her at once—probably to Vence—for a long rest and change. But it’s fearfully awkward about Mr Arndale, isn’t it?’

  Further enlightenment as to the kind of person Mr Frensham was awaited Gore when he went round to Hatfield Place immediately after breakfast next morning. He discovered then that that genial gentleman had not only succeeded in retaining Arndale’s cheque, but had also contrived, in the simplest manner in the world, to obtain possession of Barrington’s bank-books, the three note-books containing names and addresses, and the tobacco-tin.

  After getting rid of him on the previous afternoon, Gore had proceeded forthwith with the burning of the bundles of letters at the end of the garden, much to the mystification of the Kinnairds’ elderly housekeeper, who had watched his operations from an upper window until the dusk had hidden her from his view. Mrs Barrington’s father and mother had still been with her when he had gone back into the house, and he had left without seeing her again, leaving behind him a brief note informing her of the results of Frensham’s visit to Arndale. No doubt Frensham had watched the hall door. For, according to Florence’s account, Colonel Gore had hardly gone when Mr Frensham had returned. He had explained that he had forgotten some papers which Mrs Barrington wanted him to look into, had been shown by the unsuspecting Florence into the room at the end of the hall, where the tin box still lay on the table with Gore’s note on top, had opened the box, taken what he wanted, thanked Florence most politely, and departed. So little had t
he parlourmaid suspected anything amiss in these proceedings that she had not even mentioned them to her mistress until, late at night, Mrs Barrington had asked her to carry the tin box upstairs.

  For Gore the most ominous feature of this raid was the fact that it had paid no attention to the negotiable valuables which the tin box contained. The banknotes and the diamonds had held no interest for Mr Frensham, clearly. The cool, adroit audacity of the thing was in itself significant, too—the trademark of the practised rogue. How many more such ‘pals’ of Barrington’s were there—hovering—waiting for their chance at the offal?

  The devil of the thing was that one could do nothing, and that, of course, Frensham reckoned on that for impunity. Obviously one couldn’t go to the police and say: ‘A box containing half a pound or so of cocaine has been stolen from me by a man called Frensham, who was a friend of my husband’s.’ The police would want to know all about that cocaine—and all about a lot of other things, probably, once they got started on the job. It was quite likely that Frensham had been a partner in the pleasant and lucrative business of blackmail. Quite probably he knew all about Arndale’s cheque—knew enough about Arndale to let loose some filthy scandal if one drove him to it by having him arrested for purloining the cheque. It was an unpleasant conclusion to be forced to—but one was forced to the conclusion that there must be some very serious reason to explain the payment of fifteen hundred pounds a year to a man of Barrington’s character.

  The situation was complicated, too, by Mrs Barrington’s ignorance of the means by which her husband had extracted a livelihood from the world. It was possible that she entertained some vague misgivings on the subject; her uneasiness with regard to the cheque had confessed as much. But it was clear enough that she had no actual knowledge of the sinister business in which Barrington had been engaged. Nor did Gore feel in any way called upon to enlighten her on the point. He contented himself with a strong warning against any further dealings either with Frensham or with any other person who might present himself as a friend of her husband’s, and an equally strong recommendation to shut up her house and get away with her mother to the south of France as quickly as possible.