by Annie Haynes
“Um! Well, I hope you may soon have him back,” the rector said slowly.
Todmarsh smiled for the first time that day.
“Uncle James, I do not believe you appreciate my poor Hopkins any more than those people at Burchester do.”
Mr. Collyer twisted himself about impatiently.
“I really did not know Hopkins at all, Aubrey. I did not take to him, I must confess. Burchester? I did not think that was the name of the place where he was taken.”
“Oh, of course he was taken at Whistone. I suppose Burchester was the nearest gaol,” Aubrey said carelessly. Then with a little more appearance of interest, “Why, do you know Burchester, Uncle James?”
Mr. Collyer shook his head.
“No. My interest has always lain in the North or the Midlands. But Mr. Steadman has got Tony the offer of a post near there. He went down somewhere there the other day with Inspector Furnival. I thought them rather mysterious about it, I must say. I should have enjoyed the ride, for they went down in the car, and it was a lovely day. But I soon found that they did not want a companion.”
“Business, perhaps,” Todmarsh suggested. His face was dull and uninterested now: the enthusiasm so remarkable when he spoke of Hopkins had died out.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so!” Mr. Collyer dissented. “What connection could there be between your Uncle Luke’s death and a quiet little country town such as Burchester? No, Burford was the place they went to—has been described to me to be.”
“Oh, well, as we don’t know who the murderer was, or where he came from, he may just as well have been connected with Burford as anywhere else. Uncle James, who do you think killed Uncle Luke?”
“My dear boy!” The sudden question seemed to embarrass the rector. He took off his pince-nez and rubbed them, replacing them with fingers that visibly trembled. “How can we tell? How can any of us hazard an opinion? Heaven forbid that I should judge any man! The only idea I have formed on the subject can hardly be called original since I know it is shared by your Aunt Madeleine, who has been voicing it much more vehemently than I should ever do.”
“Aunt Madeleine!” Todmarsh looked up quickly. “What does she say! I have not seen her since the interrupted luncheon party. I have called, but she was out. But what can she know?”
“She does not know anything, of course.” The rector hesitated, his face looking troubled and disturbed. “But like myself, dear Aubrey, she was listening very intently to Mrs. Carnthwacke. I may say that my attention was fixed entirely on the lady and it may be that my profession makes me particularly critical and observant. I dare say you have noticed that it does?”
“Naturally!” Todmarsh assented. But as he spoke the fingers of his right hand clenched themselves with a quick involuntary movement of impatience. Observant as Mr. Collyer had just proclaimed himself to be he did not notice how his nephew’s fingers tightened until the knuckles shone white beneath the skin.
“Yes. We parsons so often have to form our own judgments on men and women quite independently of all external things,” the Rev. James Collyer prattled on, while only something in the restrained immobility of his nephew’s attitude might have made a close observer guess at impatience resolutely held in check. “Therefore, as I said, I watched Mrs. Carnthwacke very closely, and formed the opinion—the very strong opinion that, though she was undoubtedly speaking the truth as far as she went, she was not telling us the whole truth. So far I agree with your Aunt Madeleine. But I feel sure that she recognized—I will not say the murderer, the man who was impersonating your Uncle Luke, but I think that she saw something that might give us a clue to him, put the police on his track. And in fact I know that this opinion is that of Mr. Steadman if not of the police. It is from Mrs. Carnthwacke that the identification of the murderer will come, I feel sure. Still, I may be wrong. You, my dear boy—”
A sharp cry from Todmarsh interrupted him. The penknife with which he had been sharpening a pencil had slipped, inflicting for so slight a thing quite a deep gash in his wrist. The blood spurted out.
His uncle looked at him aghast.
“My dear Aubrey! You must have cut an artery. What shall we do? A doctor—”
Todmarsh wrapped his handkerchief hurriedly round his wrist and tied it. He held one end out to the clergyman.
“Pull as tight as you can, I must have cut a vein. Excuse me, Uncle James. I will just get Johnson to make a tourniquet. He is as good as a doctor. I must apologize for making such a mess. If you will just have a look at the papers; you will find them over there,” jerking his head in the direction of the table at which he had been writing when his uncle came in. “I won’t be a minute, and then I shall be quite at your service.” He hurried out of the room.
Mr. Collyer walked over to the writing-table and took up a paper. But he was feeling too restless and excited to read. Events were moving too quickly for the rector of Wexbridge. Hitherto, except for his anxiety over Tony, his had been a calmly ordered life. Now, with his journey to London and subsequent discovery of the loss of the emeralds, he had been plunged into a veritable vortex of horror and bewilderment. Two things alone he held to through all; his faith in Heaven and his faith in Tony. Whoever else might distrust Tony Collyer and think that he had had far more opportunities than anyone else in the world of possessing himself of the emeralds, his father had never doubted him. He had seen a gleam of pity in the eyes of the detective who had brought him the news that the emeralds had been traced, which had told him who was suspected of having taken them. He was thinking of it now, and asking himself for the hundredth time who the culprit could have been, as at last he seated himself in Todmarsh’s chair and reached out for a paper which lay folded at the back of the inkstand. But he drew back with an exclamation of distaste.
There was blood on the writing-table, on the inkstand, on the cover of the blotting-book. The first spurt from Aubrey’s wrist had apparently gone right over them all. The orderly soul of the rector was revolted. He opened the blotting-book and tearing out a sheet proceeded to mop up the blood. He tore up the blotting-paper and took up each spot separately. But when the paper was finished there were still spots of blood scattered over the writing-table. Turning back to the blotting-book he tore out another sheet.
“Wonderful!” he said to himself. “It is wonderful that so slight a thing, a mere slip of the knife, should inflict so much damage. I should not have thought it possible.”
And as he voiced his thoughts, his long, lean fingers were pulling out bits of pink blotting-paper and dabbing them down on the drops of scarlet blood, then rolling them up into damp red pellets and dropping them into the waste-paper-basket. Then all at once a strange thing happened. As his fingers moved swiftly, mechanically over their work, his gaze went back to the open blotter.
There on the leaf, as it had lain beneath the paper he had torn out, was a piece of paper. Just a very ordinary piece of paper with a few lines in a woman’s clear writing scrawled across it.
The Rev. James Collyer read them over with no particular intention of doing so, then as his brain slowly took in the sense of what he read his fingers stopped working. He never knew how long he stood there, staring at that paper, while his lips moved noiselessly, while every drop of colour drained slowly from his face and the stark horror in his eyes deepened. At last he moved. The bits of paper had dropped from his hands and lay in an untidy heap on the table. With a quick, furtive gesture he caught up the piece of paper, and moving quickly he thrust it between the bars of the grate into the sluggish fire inside. It burst into a flame and the rector stood there and watched it burn. When nothing was left but bits of greyish ash he turned away and put up his hands to his forehead. It was wet—great drops of sweat were rolling into his eyes. A few minutes later a messenger, one of the Confraternity, coming down from the room of the Head, found the Rev. James Collyer letting himself out at the front door.
“Mr. Todmarsh desired me to say, sir, that the cut is much deeper than he thought. We
have sent for the doctor, and it may be some time before he is ready to come to you. But, if you will wait, he will be very pleased—”
“No, no! I won’t wait,” said the rector thickly, in tones that none of his parishioners would have recognized as his. “He—he—my business is not important.”
A wild idea that of a certainty the clergyman had been drinking shot through the brain of Todmarsh’s messenger, as he stood at the open door watching the tall, lean figure of the clergyman making its way along the pavement and saw it sway more than once from side to side.
CHAPTER XVII
“You identify these emeralds as yours?”
“No, I can’t. I don’t see how anybody could identify unset stones,” said the rector wearily.
“H’m!” Inspector Furnival stopped, nonplussed. “But these exactly answer to the description that has been circulated, that you yourself supplied to the police.”
Mr. Collyer’s face looked drawn and grey as he turned the stones over with the tip of his finger.
“Yes, yes! But emeralds look the same, and these seem to fit in their settings. I—I really can’t say anything more definite. I thought mine were larger.”
The inspector swept the emeralds in their wadded box into a drawer.
“Well, there is no more to be said. We shall have to rely on expert evidence as to identity. Unless—wouldn’t it be possible that young Mr. Anthony might be able to help us?”
“I should think it extremely unlikely,” said Tony’s father decisively. “In fact I am sure it is impossible. I always took charge of the emeralds. Tony had not seen them for years before their disappearance.”
The inspector pushed the drawer to and locked it.
“That is all that can be done this afternoon, then. I quite understood that you were prepared to be definite with regard to the identification or I would not have troubled you.”
“I am sorry!” the rector said hesitatingly. “Then—then there is nothing more?”
“Nothing more!” the inspector responded curtly.
He and John Steadman were standing against the writing-table, in one drawer of which the emeralds had been deposited. Mr. Collyer paused a moment near the door and looked at them doubtfully. Once he opened his mouth as if to speak, then apparently changing his mind closed it again dumbly.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away on the stone passage outside, Steadman glanced across at the inspector.
“Unsatisfactory, isn’t it?”
“Very,” the inspector returned shortly. “Thank you, sir.” He took a cigarette from the case Steadman held out to him. “Well, fortunately, the cross was exhibited at the Great Exhibition in ’51, so I think we shall be able, with the description then given and the expert evidence of to-day, to reconstruct the cross and make sure about the emeralds. But what can be wrong with the rector?”
“Is anything wrong with him?” Steadman questioned in his turn as he lighted a match.
“He looks like a man who has had some sort of a shock,” the inspector pursued. “I wonder if it means that Mr. Tony—”
“Tony had nothing to do with the loss of the emeralds,” John Steadman said in his most decided tones. “You can put that out of your mind.” The inspector paced the narrow confines of his office in Scotland Yard two or three times before he made any rejoinder. Then as he cast a lightning glance at Steadman he said tentatively:
“I have sometimes wondered what Mrs. Collyer is like.”
“Not the sort of woman to substitute paste for her own emeralds,” Steadman said ironically. “No use. You will have to look farther afield, inspector.”
“I am half inclined to put it down to the Yellow Gang,” the inspector said doubtfully. “But it differs in several particulars from the work of the Yellow Dog, notably the substitution of the paste. But—well, there may have been reasons.”
Still his brow was puckered in a frown as he turned to his notebook.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, I have some one else for you to interview.” He sounded his bell sharply as he spoke. “Show Mr. Brunton in as soon as he comes,” he said to the policeman who appeared in answer.
“He is waiting, sir.”
“Oh, good! Let him come in. This Brunton, Mr. Steadman, is one of the late Mr. Bechcombe’s younger clerks. I do not know whether you knew him.”
John Steadman shook his head.
“No, I have no recollection of any of the clerks but Thompson.”
“He is with Carrington and Cleaver, who are carrying on Mr. Bechcombe’s clients until, if ever, some one takes on the practice,” pursued the inspector. “And I should like you to hear a story he brought to me this morning.”
Almost as the last word left his lips, the door opened again and a lanky, sandy-haired youth was shown in.
The inspector stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brunton. Now I want you just to repeat to this gentleman, Mr. Steadman, what you told me this morning.”
Mr. Brunton coughed nervously.
“I thought I did right in coming to you.”
“Certainly you did,” the inspector reassured him. “Your evidence is most important. Now, from the beginning, please, Mr. Brunton.”
“Well, it was last night. I left the office early because I had an errand to do for Mr. Carrington,” the youth began. He kept his eyes fixed on the inspector—not once did he glance in Steadman’s direction. His hands twisted themselves nervously together. “It took me some time longer than I expected and it was getting late when I started home. You will remember perhaps, inspector, that there was a bit of a fog here, but on the other side of the river where I had to go it was much worse, and the farther I went the denser it became. I got out of the bus at the Elephant, which is not far from my rooms, you know.” He paused.
“I know. Go on, please.”
“Well, I had to walk from there—there’s no bus goes anywhere near. The fog was getting dangerous by then. You couldn’t see your hand before your face, as the saying is. I know the way well enough in the daylight, but in a fog things look so different. It is a regular network of small streets behind there, you know, and one seemed just like the other. I lost my bearings and began to wonder how I was going to get home. There were no passers-by—I seemed to be the only living creature out—and I was just making up my mind to ring the bell at one of the houses and see if anyone could direct me or help me at all, when a strange thing happened; though I hadn’t known there was anyone about, a voice spoke out of the fog close beside me as it seemed. ‘It is the only thing to be done—you can’t make a mistake.’ The rejoinder came in a woman’s voice. ‘But I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be safe. They might follow me. You must shake them off if you have any affection for me.’ The man’s voice said again, ‘If you have any thought for the future you will get it for me. Would you like to see me in prison and worse? Would you like to be pointed at as—’ That was all I heard, sir.” Mr. Brunton turned himself from Mr. Steadman to the inspector, then back again to Steadman. “I was listening for all I was worth, trying not to miss a word, when that horrid fog got down my throat and tickled me, and before I could help myself I had given a great sneeze. There was a sharp exclamation, and I thought I caught the sound of footsteps, deadened by the fog. That was all I could hear, sir—every word,” looking from one to the other.
“Very good, Mr. Brunton,” the inspector said as he stopped. “And now just you tell Mr. Steadman why you listened—why you were anxious to hear.”
The youth glanced at Steadman in a scared fashion. “I—I listened, sir, because I recognized the voices, one voice at least for certain—the man’s. It was Mr. Amos Thompson’s, the late Mr. Bechcombe’s managing clerk.”
John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “You are sure?”
“Quite certain, as certain as I could be of anything,” asseverated Brunton. “I knew Mr. Thompson’s voice too well to make any mistake, sir. I had good reason to, for he was for ever nagging at me when I was at Mr. Bechc
ombe’s. There wouldn’t be one of us clerks who wouldn’t recognize Mr. Thompson’s voice.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows again. “And the other voice—the woman’s?”
Mr. Brunton fidgeted. “I wasn’t so certain of that, sir. I hadn’t had so many opportunities of hearing it, you see. But it sounded like Miss Hoyle’s—Mr. Bechcombe’s secretary. I heard it at the inquest.”
“I understand you saw absolutely nothing to show that you were right in either surmisal,” John Steadman said, his face showing none of the surprise he felt at hearing Cecily’s name.
“Nothing—nothing at all!” Mr. Brunton confirmed. “But, if I ever heard it on earth, it was Mr. Thompson’s voice I heard then. And I don’t think—I really don’t think I was wrong in taking the other for Miss Hoyle’s, as I say I heard it at the inquest, and I took particular notice of it.”
“Um!” John Steadman stroked his nose meditatively. “How long had you been in Mr. Bechcombe’s office, Mr. Brunton?”
Mr. Brunton hesitated a moment.
“Five years, sir. I began as office boy to—to gain experience, you know. I was fourteen then and I am nineteen now.”
“No more?” said Mr. Steadman approvingly.
Mr. Brunton, who had looked distinctly depressed at the mention of his lowly beginning, began to perk up.
“And Mr. Thompson has been managing clerk all the time,” the barrister went on. “No, I don’t think you could very well mistake his voice. But Miss Hoyle had only been a short time with Mr. Bechcombe, you say—you had not seen much of her? At the office, I mean, not the inquest.”
“Not much, sir. Because she never came into our office. She always went into her own by the door next Mr. Bechcombe’s room. Most of the clerks really did not know her by sight at all, let alone recognize her voice. But it was part of my job to go into Mr. Bechcombe’s room with the midday mail, and more often than not she would be there taking down Mr. Bechcombe’s instructions in shorthand. Very often too he would make her repeat the last sentence he had given her before he broke off. It was in that way I got to know her voice a little, for I never spoke to her beyond passing the time of day if we met accidentally, for she was always one that kept herself to herself,” Mr. Brunton concluded, quite out of breath with his long speech.