This apology should come from the fact that on one point all the leading authorities are agreed: to introduce a heroine (whether or not the tale be fact) is bad. Very bad. As Henry Morgan says, you know what I mean: the gray-eyed, fearless Grace Darling with the cool philosophy, who likes to poke her nose into trouble and use a gun as well as the detective, and who requires the whole book to make up her mind whether she is more than casually interested in the hero.
But in extenuation it must be urged, first, that this is a true story, and second — by the splendid grace of God — Patricia Standish had none of the traits just mentioned. She was not cool-headed or strong-minded. She could no more have accompanied the detectives with a gun than she could have brought down the villain with a flying tackle. Quite to the contrary, she was content to leave that sort of thing to the proper people; to beam up at you as though she were saying, "What a man!" — and you threw out your chest, and felt about nine feet tall, and said, "Ha, ha." Nor, in her case, were there all those persistent attempts to freeze or embarrass the hero until the very last. She tumbled into Hugh Donovan's arms from the start, and stayed there, and a very good thing too.
Some magnificent premonition of this stirred in his mind the moment he saw her. She was walking up the brick path, against the dark trees that were now glowing fiery with sunset, and she was in the midst of a small procession. Patricia Standish had her arm through that of the ruddy-faced colonel, who was expounding something to a large man in uniform. Behind them walked two constables and a melancholy medical man who seemed to be thinking glumly about a lost tea.
Against this background she stood out vividly. She was a blonde, but not a fluffy blonde or a statuesque blonde. And she was dexterously made, as though nature had added just that extra touch and fillip to the curves in the right places, for a frock to adhere to. Her air was at once hesitant and vigorous; and her skin seemed to glow with that brownish flesh tint which is so rarely to be seen in real flesh. Dark hazel eyes contemplated you with that interested, rapt, "What-a-man!" look already referred to; her high eyebrows gave her a perpetual air of pleased surprise; and she had a pink, rather broad mouth which always seemed to have just finished smiling.
Thus Hugh Donovan saw her coming hesitantly up the path, in a white tennis frock without sleeves, against the dark fire-edged trees. Along with the bishop, Morley, and Dr. Fell, he had come downstairs to the porch of the Guest House. And there she was, arching her neck to look rather fearfully at the balcony door, while the colonel spoke to Inspector Murch. Then she looked towards the porch, and at Donovan.
His immediate sensation was that of one who goes up a staircase in the dark, and puts his foot down on a nonexistent top step — you know. And this was followed by a sort of stupendous emotional clang: as though he had put a rifle to his shoulder, fired, and hit the loudest bell in the shooting-gallery first shot. Clang — like that, and hot and cold all at once, and a number of other mixed metaphors.
He knew, right then and there.
Furthermore, he knew that she knew also. You can feel that kind of thing emanating from ginches, in waves or vibrations or something, and the person who says you can't is a goof who does not deserve to have the vibrations launched in his direction. Hugh Donovan knew she knew, also, by the way their eyes did not meet. They took a sort of quick flash and slid away from each other. He and Patricia Standish made an elaborate pretense that they were not aware of each other's presence; that they would scarcely be aware of each other's presence after they had been properly introduced; and these are excellent signs indeed. Patricia was contemplating a stone peacock on the roof of the Guest House, her head high and her manner casual.
All these emotional fireworks were not obvious to Colonel Standish. The colonel made noises of satisfaction, and pushed forward Inspector Murch. Inspector Murch was large, and had a aggressive moustache; his method of standing at attention made him look as though he were tilted slightly backwards, and in danger of toppling over if you gave him a shove. His expression of conscientiousness remained fixed; but he seemed pleased with himself.
"Tell 'em, Murch," said the colonel. "Speak out, now. Oh, yes; that's Dr. Fell, and the Bishop of Mappleham, and Mr. Donovan… Inspector Murch, and this is Doctor Fordyce — goin' to take the bullet out now. Oh, yes, h'rrm — I forgot. And my daughter Patricia. Tell 'em, Murch."
Patricia gave a small inclination of her head. The inspector was more conscientious than ever; he fingered his sandy moustache, cleared his throat, and fixed a pale blue satisfied eye on Dr. Fell. He spoke confidentially, in a throaty voice.
"I would like to call this an honor, sir. And I would explain why I was unable to do me duty in being here to welcome you." He took a notebook. "After making investigations here, I took the liberty of going home for me tea. This was not a dereliction of duty, look; I took with me a selection from Mr. Depping's correspondence — letters, sir," he translated, tapping the notebook, "which were revealin'. Meanwhile, I had been making inquiries about the man who visited Mr. Depping last night.
"The landlord of the "Bull' told me that a man answering to the description had been seen frequendy in these parts for more than a week. He was often at the 'Bull,' and asking questions about everybody at The Grange; and news do get about, sir," observed Inspector Murch, shaking his head. "But this man had not been there last night.
" 'Owever, while I was drinking me tea, I received a call on the telephone from Detective Sergeant Ravens, at Hanham, saying he thought the man I wanted was stopping at the Chequers Inn — which I must explain is down Hanham way, by the river, about four miles from here… "
"Interesting," put in the bishop, looking sideways at Dr. Fell. "The man is not dead, then?"
"Dead?" said Murch, blankly. "Dead? Gaawdbless-mes'ul, ho! Why should he be dead?"
"I was only endeavoring to ascertain the facts," said the other, with a negligent gesture and another satisfied look at Dr. Fell. "Go on, Inspector."
Dr. Fell was not at all disconcerted.
"It would seem that for the moment I am in disgrace," he wheezed affably. "rTmf. No matter. Sexton Blake will yet be triumphant. I don't think it matters in the least — did you go over to see him, Inspector?"
"Yes, sir. First I telephoned to The Grange, to ascertain whether Colonel Standish had returned. He had not. I then borrowed a car and drove to the Chequers Inn. At this time I did not know his name was Spinelli, or 'oo the chap was at all.
"He was known at the Chequers as Mr. Travers, and he'd not made any attempt to bolt. I found him sitting out on the porch, drinking his half-pint, as cool as you please.- A very well-spoken person, sir; like a gentleman. In process of law," intoned Inspector Murch, "I cautioned him, informing him he was not under oath, but 'ad better answer such questions as I put in process of law. He made a certain statement, not under oath, which he initialled.1'
Clearing his throat, Murch opened his notebook.
" 'My name is Stuart Travers. I am a theatrical impresorrio, retired. I lived at the Deword, Broadway and Eighty-Sixth Street, New York City. I am travelling in England for pleasure. I do not know Mr. Depping. Yes, I know what happened last night; everybody here knows all about it. Yes; I know I am under suspicion. I was not near the Guest House at any time last night. If the man who called there was seen, they will tell you it was not me. I have nothing to be afraid of. I went to my room last night at half-past nine, and did not leave it until this morning. That is all I have to say until I have consulted my lawyer."
During the reading, Inspector Murch had been leaning farther and farther backwards. Now he looked up with a heavy and crafty smile.
"I had not any warrant," he pursued, "and could not hold the accused until properly identified. I asked him to accompany me 'ere to be identified, and he would not, sir, he said, until he had telephoned to London and talked to his lawyer. Very cool. Afterwards, the accused said he would come gladly, and meantime he would stop in charge of Sergeant Ravens. So he won't run away, sir, look—but,
in secret, I obtained pieces of evidence which is most significant."
"Dashed good work, that" said Colonel Standish approvingly. "Hear that? Listen again. Hang him without a doubt. Eh, Murch?"
"Thank you, sir. We can hope so," replied Murch, with heavy modesty. "Well, sir, to go on. Mr. Travers was not in his room last night at the time indicated as per statement. It is true he be and went there at half-past nine. But he left it, because he was seen at close on ten o'clock, climbing back into the window of 'is room — which is on the ground floor. Funny thing; he was sopping wet, though the rain hadn't started, as wet as though he'd been and fallen in the river…"
"In the river," interrupted Dr. Fell, musingly. "Not bad, not bad. How do you explain that?"
"Well, sir, I don't. But that's not the important thing, you see. Mrs. Kenviss, the landlord's wife at the Chequers, saw him doing it when she was coming back from taking the cloths off all the little tables in a sort of restaurant arbor they have outside. She wondered what was up, and watched… In less than five minutes, out this Mr. Travers climbed again, with 'is clothes changed, and hurried off somewhere. That's the important thing. A good walker could easy cover four miles between the Chequers and this house here in less than an hour. He'd have reached here by eleven o'clock… "
"So he would," agreed Dr. Fell. "In time for a blackmailer to have seen a great deal"
The inspector frowned. "Seen, sir?" he repeated, with a sort of hoarse jocosity. " M! Tisn't what he'd've seen, not much. That's the time he walked straight in that door there, after the lights went out, and upstairs — as we know. And shot poor Mr. Depping. He didn't get back to the Chequers until half-past one. Mrs. Kenviss," the inspector said virtuously, "said it was her bounden duty to sit up, and watch that window, and see what was what. Blessmes’l, she and Mr. Kenviss do get a scare when they learn this morning what's happened!'And they didn't dare speak to Mr. Travers; so she hurries out after Sergeant Ravens, and that's how I know. But," announced Murch, tapping his notebook with heavy emphasis, "we don't give our knowledge away, Ravens and me. To Mr. Travers, I mean. I thought I'd best nip back here straightaway, get that Storer chap, take him and identify Mr. Travers, and we've got him."
He closed his notebook. "My superior officer, the chief constable," he continued, with an air of putting on the final touch, "has made the information against him as being one Louis Spinelli, and that completes it. I have now my warrants for arrest and search."
"Got him, eh?" inquired the colonel, glancing from one to the other of the figures on the porch. "Got him drunk on parade — dead to rights, damme! Sorry to have pulled you down here for nothing, Fell. Still… Hallo, I'm sorry; I forgot!.. Let me introduce, Dr. Fordyce, my daughter Patricia…" He whirled round with an air of inspiration.
"How do you do?" said Hugh Donovan instantly.
"You've already introduced everybody," said the sad-faced medical man with some asperity. "And since the police seem to have finished, Fll be thankful to get on with my postmortem and be off."
"Oh, yes..Carry on, then" said Dr. Fell, with an absentminded air. He waited until the doctor and the two constables had tramped past him into the house. Then he looked round the little group, and fixed Murch with a sombre eye. "So you came back here for an identification of Spinelli from the valet, Inspector?"
"Yes, sir." Murch wheezed out a breath of relief. "And, by Gearge, sir! I'm free to confess how glad I am it was this man Travers, or Spinelli; one of those there gunman chaps, that'd as soon shoot as look at you, like you see in the films; and not one of our own folk. Ah, ah, hell soon learn you can't do that business over here, by Gearge!" Another breath of relief, which agitated the ends of his sandy moustache. "Ah, ay, a good thing. I’m bound to admit I was having ideas, sir."
"Ideas?"
"Ah," agreed the inspector. " Tis nonsense, sir, but there it is." A broader strain had crept into the good inspector's speech now that the burden of an official report had been removed. "Ah, but when an idea cooms to you, blest if you can drive 'ee cot. There he is, and there he stays. Eh zed to meself, Eh zed, by Gearge!" proclaimed Murch, illustrating what he said to himself by sweeping a big arm through the air and snapping his fingers as though he had just thrown a pair of dice, "is that true? Eh zed. Tis queer, when I heard some of the things that are being said hereabouts — hints, like — and had a look at his letters, then I had ideas. Both Mr. Morgan and I had ideas; yon's a clever lad, Mr. Morgan; he helped me this morning. Aa-hh-ha, yes. But Eh zed to meself. Eh, zed, 'Luther Murch, you'm dimp!' And a small matter now, too, with us having the murderer"
He threw out his big hands, dismissing it, but not without a frown. Dr. Fell regarded him steadily.
‘I shall want to hear those ideas, Inspector. H’m, yes. Together with all the evidence you have collected today; we haven't done much but talk. Please come upstairs. I’m afraid I've bad news for you."
The colonel interposed. He said:
"Well, well, what are we waiting for, demmit?" in a querulous tone. "Time we were busy. I've got to drive six miles to a telegraph office, confounded nuisance, just to tell Hadley we've caught our man… Morley! What the devil are you doing here, eh? Come along with me; I can't write telegrams; never could… You, Patricia! Dash it, this is no place for you, you know!" he protested, rather defensively.
She spoke for the first time. It was one of those warm, soft, ginch-like voices also. She looked down from her contemplation of the stone peacock.
"Of course not, Dad," she agreed, with such readiness that the colonel stared at her.
"Eh?" he said.
"Of course not." The hazel eyes grew sombre. They flickered past Hugh, and then looked squarely at him for the first time. They had such an overpowering effect that the shooting-gallery bell clanged six times in rapid succession, and with unnerving noise. Patricia went on in bright helpfulness:
"Shall I take Mr. Donovan up to The Grange and introduce him to Mother? And I'm sure he must be dying for a dr — for something to eat."
She smiled. The colonel caught up with the suggestion with his usual air of inspiration.
"That's it, by Jove!" he assented warmly. "Take him along. Introduce him. Oh, yes; and that reminds me… Patricia, this is Joe Donovan's son. Hugh, my boy, let me present my daughter Patricia. Patricia, this is Hugh Donovan."
"How do you do?" said Donovan obediently.
"Are you sure you've got it clear now?" she inquired. "Right-ho, then! Gome along with me; do."
CHAPTER IX
The Deductions of Old John Zed
That was how, in a few short moments, he found himself walking away beside this lithe, bright-eyed, altogether luscious ginch in the tennis frock — walking rather hurriedly, because he was afraid he would hear his father's stern hail from the porch, bidding him back to duty and the lighthouse. If possible, that last remark of hers drew her closer to him than ever, a powerful, unspoken, dazzling sympathy. "He must be dying for a dri—" She knew. This must be the sort of thing Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote about in the sonnets. It was not only sympathetic feminine intuition on her part, but he realized that the very sight of this girl had made him want to reach for a cocktail; some women have that effect. Such a glamour must have attended all the great sirens of the ages. In its absence there are unfulfilled romances. If, when Dante met Beatrice that famous time on the what's-its-name bridge, Beatrice had smiled at him and whispered, "Look here, I could do with a slug of Chianti," then the poor sap would have tried to find out her address and telephone number, instead of merely going home and grousing about it in an epic.
Here in the twilight coppice the strength and reasonableness of this theory grew on him; and, as he looked down at the hazel eyes which were regarding him inquiringly over her shoulder, he was struck with inspiration.
He burst out suddenly:
There once was a poet named Dante,
Who was fond of imbibing Chianti—
He wrote about hell
And a Florentine gel,
Which distressed his Victorian auntie."
Then he said, "Hah!" in a pleased, surprised tone, and rubbed his hands together as though he were waiting for the gods to throw him another.
"Hullo!" observed Patricia, opening her eyes wide. "I say, that's a nice opening speech from a bishop's son! Your father told me a lot about you. He said you were a good young man."
"It's a contemptible lie!" he said, stung to the depths. "Look here! I don't want you to go believing any such—"
"Oh, I don't believe it," she said composedly. "H'm. What made you think of it? That limerick, I mean?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I think it was you. That is, it was a sort of inspiration — the kind that's supposed to soak you on your first sight of Tintern Abbey, or something of the sort. Then you rush home, and wake up your wife, and write it down."
She stared. "Ooh, you villain! You mean to tell me that looking at me makes you think of a limerick? I don't think that's nice."
"Eh? Why?"
"H’m. Well" she admitted, lifting an eyebrow meditatively, "maybe we weren't thinking of the same limerick… Why do you wake up your wife?"
"What wife?" said Hugh, who had lost the thread of the discourse.
She brooded, her full pink lips pressed together. Again she looked at him over her shoulder, with an air of a suspicion confirmed.
"So you've got a wife, have you?" she said bitterly. "I jolly well might have known it. Secret marriages are all the fashion. I bet you didn't tell your father, did you? One of those forward American hussies, I suppose, who — who let men—h'm?
From experience on both sides of the Atlantic, Donovan was aware that one of the most stimulating qualities of the English girl is her bewildering use of non-sequitur. He wanted wildly to disclaim any foreign entanglement. Yet the statement roused his stern masculine pride.
"I am not married," he replied with dignity. "On the other hand, I have known any number of very pleasant ginches on the other side, who were certainly fond of h’m."
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