The curate took the seat that Malcolm Sage indicated beside him. Silently the six men waited.
A few minutes later Miss Crayne entered, pale but self-possessed. She closed the door behind her. Suddenly she caught sight of the curate. Her eyes widened, and her paleness seemed to become accentuated. A moment later it was followed by a crimson flush. She hesitated, her hands clenched at her side, then with a manifest effort she appeared to control herself and, with a slight smile and inclination of her head, took the chair the schoolmaster moved towards her. Instinctively she turned her eyes toward Malcolm Sage.
“Inspector Murdy,” he said, without raising his eyes, “will you please open two of those packets.” He indicated the pile upon his left. “I should explain,” he continued, “that each of these contains one of the most recent of the series of letters with which we are concerned. Each was sealed up by Mr. Crayne immediately it reached him, in accordance with Inspector Murdy’s request. Therefore, only the writer, the recipient and the vicar have had access to these letters.”
Malcolm Sage turned his eyes interrogatingly upon Mr. Crayne, who bowed.
Meanwhile the inspector had cut open the two top envelopes, unfolded the sheets of paper they contained, and handed them to Malcolm Sage.
All eyes were fixed upon his long, shapely fingers as he smoothed out one of the sheets of paper upon the vicar’s blotting-pad. Then, lifting the steel plate by the handle, he placed it upon the upturned sheet of paper.
The tension was almost unendurable. The heavy breathing of Inspector Murdy seemed like the blowing of a grampus. Mr. Gray glanced across at him irritably. The vicar coughed slightly, then looked startled that he had made so much noise.
Everyone bent forward, eagerly expecting something; yet without quite knowing what. Malcolm Sage lifted the metal plate from the letter. There in the centre of the page, in bluish-coloured letters, which had not been there when the paper was smoothed out upon the blotting-pad, appeared the words:—
Malcolm Sage,
August 12th, 1919.
No. 138.
For some moments they all gazed at the paper as if the mysterious blue letters exercised upon them some hypnotic influence.
“Secret ink!”
It was Robert Freynes who spoke. Accustomed as he was to dramatic moments, he was conscious of a strange dryness at the back of his throat, and a consequent huskiness of voice.
His remark seemed to break the spell. Instinctively everyone turned to him. The significance of the bluish-coloured characters was slowly dawning upon the inspector; but the others still seemed puzzled to account for their presence.
Immediately he had lifted the plate from the letter, Malcolm Sage had drawn a sheet of plain sermon paper from the rack before him. This he subjected to the same treatment as the letter. When a few seconds later he exposed it, there in the centre appeared the same words:—
Malcolm Sage,
August 12th, 1919.
but on this sheet the number was 203.
Then the true significance of the two sheets of paper seemed to dawn upon the onlookers.
Suddenly there was a scream, and Muriel Crayne fell forward on to the floor.
“Oh! father, father, forgive me!” she cried, and the next moment she was beating the floor with her hands in violent hysterics.
***
“From the first I suspected the truth,” remarked Malcolm Sage, as he, Robert Freynes and Inspector Murdy sat smoking in the car that Tims was taking back to London at its best pace. “Eighty-five years ago a somewhat similar case occurred in France, that of Marie de Morel, when an innocent man was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, and actually served eight before the truth was discovered.”
The inspector whistled under his breath.
“This suspicion was strengthened by the lengthy account of the affair written by Miss Crayne, which Murdy obtained from her. The punctuation, the phrasing, the inaccurate use of auxiliary verbs, were identical with that of the anonymous letters.
“Another point was that the similarity of the handwriting of the anonymous letters to Blade’s became more pronounced as the letters themselves multiplied. The writer was becoming more expert as an imitator.”
Freynes nodded his head several times.
“The difficulty, however, was to prove it,” continued Malcolm Sage. “There was only one way; to substitute secretly marked paper for that in use at the vicarage.
“I accordingly went down to Gylston, and the vicar found me keenly interested in monumental brasses, his pet subject, and Norman architecture. He invited me to the vicarage. In his absence from his study I substituted a supply of marked Olympic Script in place of that in his letter-rack, and also in the drawer of his writing-table. As a further precaution, I arranged for my fountain-pen to run out of ink. He kindly supplied me with a bottle, obviously belonging to his daughter. I replenished my pen, which was full of a chemical that would enable me, if necessary, to identify any letter in the writing of which it had been used. When I placed my pen, which is a self-filler, in the ink, I forced this liquid into the bottle.”
The inspector merely stared. Words had forsaken him for the moment.
“It was then necessary to wait until the ink in Miss Crayne’s pen had become exhausted, and she had to replenish her supply of paper from her father’s study. After that discovery was inevitable.”
“But suppose she had denied it?” questioned the inspector.
“There was the ink which she alone used, and which I could identify,” was the reply.
“Why did you ask Gray to be present?” enquired Freynes.
“As his name had been associated with the scandal it seemed only fair,” remarked Malcolm Sage, then turning to Inspector Murdy he said, “I shall leave it to you, Murdy, to see that a proper confession is obtained. The case has had such publicity that Mr. Blade’s innocence must be made equally public.”
“You may trust me, Mr. Sage,” said the inspector. “But why did the curate refuse to say anything?”
“Because he is a high-minded and chivalrous gentleman,” was the quiet reply.
“He knew?” cried Freynes.
“Obviously,” said Malcolm Sage. “It is the only explanation of his silence. I taxed him with it after the girl had been taken away, and he acknowledged that his suspicions amounted almost to certainty.”
“Yet he stayed behind,” murmured the inspector with the air of a man who does not understand. “I wonder why?”
“To minister to the afflicted, Murdy,” said Malcolm Sage. “That is the mission of the Church.”
“I suppose you meant that French case when you referred to the ‘master-key,’ ” remarked the inspector, as if to change the subject.
Malcolm Sage nodded.
“But how do you account for Miss Crayne writing such letters about herself,” enquired the inspector, with a puzzled expression in his eyes. “Pretty funny letters some of them for a parson’s daughter.”
“I’m not a pathologist, Murdy,” remarked Malcolm Sage drily, “but when you try to suppress hysteria in a young girl by sternness, it’s about as effectual as putting ointment on a plaguespot.”
“Sex-repression?” queried Freynes.
Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders; then after a pause, during which he lighted the pipe he had just re-filled, he added:
“When you are next in Great Russell Street, drop in at the British Museum and look at the bust of Faustina. You will see that her chin is similar in modelling to that of Miss Crayne. The girl was apparently very much attracted to Blade, and proceeded to weave what was no doubt to her a romance, later it became an obsession. It all goes to show the necessity for pathological consideration of certain crimes.”
“But who was Faustina?” enquired the inspector, unable to follow the drift of the conversation.
“Faustina,�
� remarked Malcolm Sage, “was the domestic fly in the philosophical ointment of an emperor,” and Inspector Murdy laughed; for, knowing nothing of the marriage or the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, it seemed to him the only thing to do.
The Long Barrow
H.C. Bailey
Henry Christopher Bailey (1878–1961) was a founder member of the elitist Detection Club, founded in 1930 by Anthony Berkeley as a social network for the leading crime writers of the day. Bailey’s literary career had begun with historical fiction, but after the First World War, he turned to crime. Unlike Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Freeman Wills Crofts, and Berkeley, all of whom started to write detective fiction at much the same time, Bailey specialised in longish short stories rather than novels.
Bailey’s principal detective was Reggie Fortune, a doctor who advises Scotland Yard. As Bailey said, Reggie “has an old-fashioned mind. Insofar as this refers to morals, it means that he holds by the standard principles of conduct and responsibility, of right and wrong, of sin and punishment.” Perhaps because Bailey’s literary style was also rather old-fashioned, his reputation declined after the Second World War. Yet as this story illustrates, Reggie was a formidable character, and Bailey was too interesting a writer to deserve the neglect into which he has fallen.
***
Mr. Fortune came back from the Zoo pensive. He had been called to the inquest on Zuleika the lemur—a strange, sad case.
He rang for tea, and was given a lady’s card. Miss Isabel Woodall, who had no address, wished to consult Mr. Fortune: she had been waiting half an hour. Mr. Fortune sighed and went into the ante-room.
Miss Isabel Woodall stood up, a woman who had been younger, still demurely handsome. She was large and fair, but so plainly and darkly dressed that she made little of herself. “Mr. Fortune?” she said with a pleasant shy smile.
“Yes. I’m afraid you didn’t know that I’m not in practice now.”
“But I didn’t come to see you—er—medically. I’m not a patient, Mr. Fortune. I’m not ill. At least I don’t think so. I wanted to consult you about a mystery.”
“Oh! I never go into a mystery except with the police, Miss Woodall.”
“The police won’t do anything. They laugh at us.” She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “I’m frightfully worried, Mr. Fortune. And I don’t know what to do.” She looked at him with large, anxious eyes. “Do you mind hearing about it?”
Reggie Fortune decided that he did not mind. She was good to look at. He opened the door of his consulting-room.
“I’m Mr. Larkin’s secretary,” she explained. “Mr. Joseph Larkin: do you know him?”
“The antiquary?” Reggie Fortune murmured.
“Archaeologist,” Miss Woodall corrected him sharply. “He’s the greatest authority on the Stone Age in England, Mr. Fortune. He has a house down in Dorsetshire, just on the border of the New Forest country, Restharrow, Stoke Abbas.” As she seemed to expect it Reggie made a note. “I’ve been working with him down there. But lately it’s been horrible, Mr. Fortune.” Her voice went up. “As if somebody wanted to drive me away.”
“Yes. Now suppose we begin at the beginning. How long have you been Mr. Larkin’s secretary?”
“Oh, more than six months now.”
“And nobody was ever horrible to you before?”
She stared at him. “Of course not. Nothing ever happened to me before. What do you mean, Mr. Fortune? You don’t think it’s Mr. Larkin, do you?”
“I haven’t begun to think,” said Reggie. “Well, you lived a peaceful life till you became Mr. Larkin’s secretary. And then?”
“Oh yes, and long after that. It was all quite peaceful while we were in London. But in the spring Mr. Larkin took this house at Stoke Abbas. It’s a very lovely place, where the moors meet the downs. Mr. Larkin wanted to study the prehistoric remains about there. There’s lots of them, ancient earthworks and burial places.”
“Yes. Several long barrows on the hills.”
She leaned forward clasping her hands. “That’s it, Mr. Fortune,” she said in a low eager voice. “Mr. Larkin has been making plans to excavate the long barrow above Stoke Abbas. Did you know about it?”
Reggie smiled. “No. No. I’m afraid Mr. Larkin hadn’t attracted my attention.”
She flung herself back in her chair. She gave a little cry of irritation. “Do please be serious! That’s just like the stupid police down there. They only make fun of it all as if I was a nervous fool. But it’s horrible, Mr. Fortune.”
“Why not tell me what it is?” Reggie suggested.
“That is what is so difficult,”—she looked down at herself, arranged the blouse at her bosom. “You see, there isn’t anything definite. It’s as if some one was working against me: as if some one wanted to hurt me. I’m being followed, Mr. Fortune. Whenever I go out alone I’m followed.”
Reggie sighed. Many people have made that complaint to patient doctors and incredulous policemen. “Who follows you?” he said wearily.
“But I don’t know! Only I’m sure there is somebody. I’m being watched.”
“Why should anybody watch you, Miss Woodall?”
“That’s what I want to know,” she cried. “But somebody does, Mr. Fortune. I’ve heard him. I’ve seen his shadow.”
“Oh, you are sure it’s a man,” Reggie smiled.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Miss Woodall was growing angry with him. “That isn’t all. When I go out alone I find dead animals.”
Reggie sat up. “Do you though?”
She thought he was still satirical. “Yes, I do, Mr. Fortune. Real ones. I’ve found two crows and another bird—a jay, I think it was—and a weasel. Horrible.” She shuddered.
“Extraordinary mortality among the animals of Stoke Abbas,” Reggie murmured. “How did they die, Miss Woodall?”
“Good gracious, I don’t know. They were very dead. Just on the path where I was walking.”
“Yes, that’s very interesting,” said Reggie.
“It frightens me, Mr. Fortune. What does it mean?”
“I should rather like to know,” Reggie admitted. “Yes, I’ll look into it, Miss Woodall.”
“You yourself? Oh, thank you so much. If you would! I do so want it cleared up.” She was effusively grateful. She fumbled in her bag. “I really don’t know what your fee is, Mr. Fortune.”
“There isn’t one, Miss Woodall.” He got rid of her. He consulted a book of reference upon Mr. Joseph Larkin. “I wonder,” he said, and rang again for tea.
On the next day he sat down to lunch in that one of his clubs where they understand the virtues of the herring. The chief of the Criminal Investigation Department saw him, and tripped across to his table. Both men love the simple life. They engaged upon a profound discussion whether the herring when pickled is the better for cloves. “In the delights of your conversation, Reginald,” the Hon. Sidney Lomas protested at last, “I’m forgetting that I wanted to speak to you. A quaint old bird came to me this morning, one Joseph Larkin, an archaeologist. He said—”
“He said,” Reggie interrupted, “that he wanted to excavate a long barrow at Stoke Abbas and somebody was interferin’ with the progress of science and nobody loved him, and what are the police for, anyway? Is that right, sir?”
“How do you do it, Reginald? Messages from the spirit-world, or just thought-reading?”
Reggie smiled. “Satan’s Invisible World Displayed: by R. Fortune. No, Lomas, old thing. No magic. The fair Isabel told me her sorrow.”
“That’s Miss Woodall, the secretary? She came to you, did she? The old boy didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, the fair Isabel didn’t tell me Joseph was going to you.”
The two men looked at each other. “Curious lack of confidence about them,” said Lomas.
“Yes. Several curious point
s. Well, what’s Joseph’s story? Is he followed when he goes out alone? Find dead animals in the path?”
“No carcasses for him. They’re kept for Miss Woodall. He’s followed. He hears strange noises at night. They come from outside the house. He’s quite clear about that.”
“Isabel didn’t mention noises,” Reggie murmured.
“No. The old boy said she hadn’t heard them, and he didn’t want to worry her, she was worried quite enough. That’s his chief trouble. He seems rather gone on his fair secretary. What did you make of her, Reginald?”
“She’s got the wind up all right. And she wasn’t born yesterday. Queer case.”
“Simple enough,” Lomas shrugged. “The old boy goes down to this lonely place and wants to dig up an old grave and the country people don’t like it and put up practical jokes to scare him off. That’s what the local police think. I’ve been talking to them on the ’phone this morning.”
“And the local police don’t want to have a fuss with the local people over a couple of strangers.”
“I sympathize,” Lomas smiled. “Anyway, there’s nothing for us.”
“I wonder,” Reggie said. “Why did one come to me and the other to you?”
“Oh, my dear fellow! They’re both scared, and each of them wants to hide it from the other. Each of ’em thinks something horrid may happen to the other and wants protection without making the other more scared.”
“Yes. All very natural. Do you know anything about ’em?”
“Joseph is a man of means. Isabel came to him six months ago. Very highly qualified, he says. Classical scholar. Woman in a thousand for his job.”
Reggie smiled. “His job! My dear fellow, he hasn’t got a job. He’s only a crank. He’s always fussing round here, there and everywhere. Why is he so mighty keen on this particular long barrow? Why is Isabel so mighty nervous about being followed? She’s no chicken and no fool.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting to, Reginald,” Lomas frowned.
“Nor do I. That’s what worries me. I want to go and look at Stoke Abbas. Let me have Underwood.”
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