Serpents in Paradise

by Martin Edwards

  “But in that case,” said March frowning, “at what sort of unearthly hour in the morning was the murder really committed? It was barely daylight when I met him at the bridge, and that’s some way above the island.”

  “The answer is very simple,” replied Fisher. “The crime was not committed in the morning. The crime was not committed on the island.”

  March stared at the shining water without replying, but Fisher resumed like one who had been asked a question.

  “Every intelligent murder involves taking advantage of some one uncommon feature in a common situation. The feature here was the fancy of old Hook for being the first man up every morning, his fixed routine as an angler, and his annoyance at being disturbed. The murderer strangled him in his own house after dinner on the night before, carried his corpse, with all his fishing tackle, across the stream in the dead of night, tied him to the tree, and left him there under the stars. It was a dead man who sat fishing there all day. Then the murderer went back to the house, or rather to the garage, and went off in his motor-car. The murderer drove his own motor-car.”

  Fisher glanced at his friend’s face and went on: “You look horrified, and the thing is horrible. But other things are horrible, too. If some obscure man had been hag-ridden by a blackmailer, and had his family life ruined, you wouldn’t think the murder of his persecutor the most inexcusable of murders. Is it any worse when a whole great nation is set free as well as a family?

  “By this warning to Sweden we shall probably prevent war and not precipitate it, and save many thousand lives rather more valuable than the life of that viper. Oh, I’m not talking sophistry or seriously justifying the thing but the slavery that held him and his country was a thousand times less justifiable. If I’d really been sharp I should have guessed it from his smooth, deadly smiling at dinner that night. Do you remember I told you of that silly talk about how old Isaac could always play his fish? In a pretty hellish sense he was a fisher of men.”

  Harold March took the oars and began to row again.

  “I remember,” he said, “and about how a big fish might break the line and get away.”

  The Genuine Tabard

  E.C. Bentley

  Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875–1956) met G.K. Chesterton when they were both pupils at St Paul’s School, and the pair became lifelong friends. When Chesterton died, Bentley succeeded him as President of the Detection Club. Bentley was a journalist, and invented the “clerihew” verse form which bears his middle name, but he is remembered best today for making an outstanding contribution to detective fiction. His debut novel, Trent’s Last Case, set the template for the ingenious whodunit, so popular during the Golden Age of Murder between the wars.

  Philip Trent, the gentlemanly artist and amateur detective who appeared in the novel, was—despite its title—simply too popular a character to be abandoned. Bentley wrote a series of short stories about him, and eventually a second novel, Trent’s Own Case, co-written with H. Warner Allen. He never repeated the extraordinary success of his crime writing debut, but this neat little mystery is one of his most enjoyable tales.

  ***

  It was quite by chance, at a dinner-party given by the American Naval Attaché, that Philip Trent met the Langleys, who were visiting Europe for the first time. During the cocktail-time, before dinner was served, he had gravitated towards George D. Langley, because he was the finest-looking man in the room—tall, strongly-built, carrying his years lightly, pink of face, with vigorous, massive features and thick grey hair.

  They had talked about the Tower of London, the Cheshire Cheese, and the Zoo, all of which the Langleys had visited that day. Langley, so the Attaché had told Trent, was a distant relative of his own; he had made a large fortune manufacturing engineers’ drawing-office equipment, was a prominent citizen of Cordova, Ohio, the headquarters of his business, and had married a Schuyler. Trent, though not sure what a Schuyler was, gathered that it was an excellent thing to marry, and this impression was confirmed when he found himself placed next to Mrs. Langley at dinner.

  Mrs. Langley always went on the assumption that her own affairs were the most interesting subject of conversation; and as she was a vivacious and humorous talker and a very handsome and good-hearted woman, she usually turned out to be right. She informed Trent that she was crazy about old churches, of which she had seen and photographed she did not know how many in France, Germany, and England. Trent, who loved thirteenth-century stained glass, mentioned Chartres, which Mrs. Langley said, truly enough, was too perfect for words. He asked if she had been to Fairford in Gloucestershire. She had; and that was, she declared with emphasis, the greatest day of all their time in Europe; not because of the church, though that was certainly lovely, but because of the treasure they had found that afternoon.

  Trent asked to be told about this; and Mrs. Langley said that it was quite a story. Mr. Gifford had driven them down to Fairford in his car. Did Trent know Mr. Gifford—W. N. Gifford, who lived at the Suffolk Hotel? He was visiting Paris just now. Trent ought to meet him, because Mr. Gifford knew everything there was to know about stained glass, and church ornaments, and brasses, and antiques in general. They had met him when he was sketching some traceries in Westminster Abbey, and they had become great friends. He had driven them about to quite a few places within reach of London. He knew all about Fairford, of course, and they had a lovely time there.

  On the way back to London, after passing through Abingdon, Mr. Gifford had said it was time for a cup of coffee, as he always did around five o’clock; he made his own coffee, which was excellent, and carried it in a thermos. They slowed down, looking for a good place to stop, and Mrs. Langley’s eye was caught by a strange name on a signpost at a turning off the road—something Episcopi. She knew that meant bishops, which was interesting; so she asked Mr. Gifford to halt the car while she made out the weather-beaten lettering. The sign said “Silcote Episcopi ½ mile.”

  Had Trent heard of the place? Neither had Mr. Gifford. But that lovely name, Mrs. Langley said, was enough for her. There must be a church, and an old one; and anyway she would love to have Silcote Episcopi in her collection. As it was so near, she asked Mr. Gifford if they could go there so she could take a few snaps while the light was good, and perhaps have coffee there.

  They found the church, with the parsonage near by, and a village in sight some way beyond. The church stood back of the churchyard, and as they were going along the footpath they noticed a grave with tall railings round it; not a standing-up stone but a flat one, raised on a little foundation. They noticed it because, though it was an old stone, it had not been just left to fall into decay, but had been kept clean of moss and dirt, so you could make out the inscription, and the grass around it was trim and tidy. They read Sir Rowland Verey’s epitaph; and Mrs. Langley—so she assured Trent—screamed with joy.

  There was a man trimming the churchyard boundary hedge with shears, who looked at them, she thought, suspiciously when she screamed. She thought he was probably the sexton; so she assumed a winning manner, and asked him if there was any objection to her taking a photograph of the inscription on the stone. The man said that he didn’t know as there was; but maybe she ought to ask vicar, because it was his grave, in a manner of speaking. It was vicar’s great-grandfather’s grave, that was; and he always had it kep’ in good order. He would be in the church now, very like, if they had a mind to see him.

  Mr. Gifford said that in any case they would have a look at the church, which he thought might be worth the trouble. He observed that it was not very old—about mid-seventeenth century, he would say—a poor little kid church, Mrs. Langley commented with gay sarcasm. In a place so named, Mr. Gifford said, there had probably been a church for centuries farther back; but it might have been burnt down, or fallen into ruin, and replaced by this building. So they went into the church; and at once Mr. Gifford had been delighted with it. He pointed out how the pulpit, the scr
een, the pews, the glass, the organ-case in the west gallery, were all of the same period. Mrs. Langley was busy with her camera when a pleasant-faced man of middle age, in clerical attire, emerged from the vestry with a large book under his arm.

  Mr. Gifford introduced himself and his friends as a party of chance visitors who had been struck by the beauty of the church and had ventured to explore its interior. Could the vicar tell them anything about the armorial glass in the nave windows? The vicar could and did; but Mrs. Langley was not just then interested in any family history but the vicar’s own, and soon she broached the subject of his great-grandfather’s gravestone.

  The vicar, smiling, said that he bore Sir Rowland’s name, and had felt it a duty to look after the grave properly, as this was the only Verey to be buried in that place. He added that the living was in the gift of the head of the family, and that he was the third Verey to be vicar of Silcote Episcopi in the course of two hundred years. He said that Mrs. Langley was most welcome to take a photograph of the stone, but he doubted if it could be done successfully with a hand-camera from over the railings—and of course, said Mrs. Langley, he was perfectly right. Then the vicar asked if she would like to have a copy of the epitaph, which he could write for her if they would all come over to his house, and his wife would give them some tea; and at this, as Trent could imagine, they were just tickled to death.

  “But what was it, Mrs. Langley, that delighted you so much about the epitaph?” Trent asked. “It seems to have been about a Sir Rowland Verey—that’s all I have been told so far.”

  “I was going to show it to you,” Mrs. Langley said, opening her hand-bag. “Maybe you will not think it so precious as we do. I have had a lot of copies made, to send to friends at home.” She unfolded a small typed sheet, on which Trent read what follows:

  Within this Vault are interred

  the Remains of

  Lt.-Gen. Sir Rowland Edmund Verey,

  Garter Principal King of Arms,

  Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod

  and

  Clerk of the Hanaper,

  who departed this Life

  on the 2nd May 1795

  in the 73rd Year of his Age

  calmly relying

  on the Merits of the Redeemer

  for the Salvation of

  his Soul.

  Also of Lavinia Prudence,

  Wife of the Above,

  who entered into Rest

  on the 12th March 1799

  in the 68th Year of her Age.

  She was a Woman of fine Sense

  genteel Behaviour,

  prudent Oeconomy

  and

  great Integrity.

  “This is the Gate of the Lord:

  The Righteous shall enter into it.”

  “You have certainly got a fine specimen of that style,” Trent observed. “Nowadays we don’t run to much more, as a rule, than ‘in loving memory,’ followed by the essential facts. As for the titles, I don’t wonder at your admiring them; they are like the sound of trumpets. There is also a faint jingle of money, I think. In Sir Rowland’s time, Black Rod’s was probably a job worth having; and though I don’t know what a Hanaper is, I do remember that its Clerkship was one of the fat sinecures that made it well worth while being a courtier.”

  Mrs. Langley put away her treasure, patting the bag with affection. “Mr. Gifford said the Clerk had to collect some sort of legal fees for the Crown, and that he would draw maybe seven or eight thousand pounds a year for it, paying another man two or three hundred for doing the actual work. Well, we found the vicarage just perfect—an old house with everything beautifully mellow and personal about it. There was a long oar hanging on the wall in the hall, and when I asked about it the vicar said he had rowed for All Souls College when he was at Oxford. His wife was charming, too. And now listen! While she was giving us tea, and her husband was making a copy of the epitaph for me, he was talking about his ancestor, and he said the first duty that Sir Rowland had to perform after his appointment as King of Arms was to proclaim the Peace of Versailles from the steps of the Palace of St. James’s. Imagine that, Mr. Trent!”

  Trent looked at her uncertainly. “So they had a Peace of Versailles all that time ago.”

  “Yes, they did,” Mrs. Langley said, a little tartly. “And quite an important Peace, at that. We remember it in America, if you don’t. It was the first treaty to be signed by the United States, and in that treaty the British Government took a licking, called off the war, and recognized our independence. Now when the vicar said that about his ancestor having proclaimed peace with the United States, I saw George Langley prick up his ears; and I knew why.

  “You see, George is a collector of Revolution pieces, and he has some pretty nice things, if I do say it. He began asking questions; and the first thing anybody knew, the vicaress had brought down the old King of Arm’s tabard and was showing it off. You know what a tabard is, Mr. Trent, of course. Such a lovely garment! I fell for it on the spot, and as for George, his eyes stuck out like a crab’s. That wonderful shade of red satin, and the Royal Arms embroidered in those stunning colours, red and gold and blue and silver, as you don’t often see them.

  “Presently George got talking to Mr. Gifford in a corner, and I could see Mr. Gifford screwing up his mouth and shaking his head; but George only stuck out his chin, and soon after, when the vicaress was showing off the garden, he got the vicar by himself and talked turkey.

  “Mr. Verey didn’t like it at all, George told me; but George can be a very smooth worker when he likes, and at last the vicar had to allow that he was tempted, what with having his sons to start in the world, and the income tax being higher than a cat’s back, and the death duties and all. And finally he said yes. I won’t tell you or anybody what George offered him, Mr. Trent, because George swore me to secrecy; but, as he says, it was no good acting like a piker in this kind of a deal, and he could sense that the vicar wouldn’t stand for any bargaining back and forth. And anyway, it was worth every cent of it to George, to have something that no other curio-hunter possessed. He said he would come for the tabard next day and bring the money in notes, and the vicar said very well, then we must all three come to lunch, and he would have a paper ready giving the history of the tabard over his signature. So that was what we did; and the tabard is in our suite at the Greville, locked in a wardrobe, and George has it out and gloats over it first thing in the morning and last thing at night.”

  Trent said with sincerity that no story of real life had ever interested him more. “I wonder,” he said, “if your husband would let me have a look at his prize. I’m not much of an antiquary, but I am interested in heraldry, and the only tabards I have ever seen were quite modern ones.”

  “Why, of course,” Mrs. Langley said. “You make a date with him after dinner. He will be delighted. He has no idea of hiding it under a bushel, believe me!”

  ***

  The following afternoon, in the Langley’s sitting-room at the Greville, the tabard was displayed on a coat-hanger before the thoughtful gaze of Trent, while its new owner looked on with a pride not untouched with anxiety.

  “Well, Mr. Trent,” he said. “How do you like it? You don’t doubt this is a genuine tabard, I suppose?”

  Trent rubbed his chin. “Oh yes, it’s a tabard. I have seen a few before, and I have painted one, with a man inside it, when Richmond Herald wanted his portrait done in the complete get-up. Everything about it is right. Such things are hard to come by. Until recent times, I believe, a herald’s tabard remained his property, and stayed in the family, and if they got hard up they might perhaps sell it privately, as this was sold to you. It’s different now—so Richmond Herald told me. When a herald dies, his tabard goes back to the College of Arms, where he got it from.”

  Langley drew a breath of relief. “I’m glad to hear you say my tabard is genu
ine. When you asked me if you could see it, I got the impression you thought there might be something phoney about it.”

  Mrs. Langley, her keen eyes on Trent’s face, shook her head. “He thinks so still, George, I believe. Isn’t that so, Mr. Trent?”

  “Yes, I am sorry to say it is. You see, this was sold to you as a particular tabard, with an interesting history of its own; and when Mrs. Langley described it to me, I felt pretty sure that you had been swindled. You see, she had noticed nothing odd about the Royal Arms. I wanted to see it just to make sure. It certainly did not belong to Garter King of Arms in the year 1783.”

  A very ugly look wiped all the benevolence from Langley’s face, and it grew several shades more pink. “If what you say is true, Mr. Trent, and if that old fraud was playing me for a sucker, I will get him jailed if it’s my last act. But it certainly is hard to believe—a preacher—and belonging to one of your best families—settled in that lovely, peaceful old place, with his flock to look after and everything. Are you really sure of what you say?”

  “What I know is that the Royal Arms on this tabard are all wrong.”

  An exclamation came from the lady. “Why, Mr. Trent, how you talk! We have seen the Royal Arms quite a few times, and they are just the same as this—and you have told us it is a genuine tabard, anyway. I don’t get this at all.”

  “I must apologize,” Trent said unhappily, “for the Royal Arms. You see, they have a past. In the fourteenth century Edward III. laid claim to the Kingdom of France, and it took a hundred years of war to convince his descendants that that claim wasn’t practical politics. All the same, they went on including the lilies of France in the Royal Arms, and they never dropped them until the beginning of the nineteenth century.”