Anthony waited in the study. He was sorry that the news of his engagement had sent the Blessed Damozel off into a swoon, but Possett didn’t seem at all alarmed, and perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing that there should be a break in the conversation at this point. He was rather pleased at the way he had presented Shirley as an heiress. Once get Aunt Agnes to see her in this light, and she would—at least he hoped she would—find it too absurd to imagine that she had stolen the emeralds. When she had been sufficiently revived by Possett’s ministrations, he hoped to continue the conversation on these lines.
Meanwhile the emeralds were burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted to get rid of them in some place where they could afterwards be discovered with a reasonable probability of their having been there all the time. To let Shirley out it must look as if they had been in the house all the time. Well, where could they have been? His aunt’s bedroom would be the most convincing place. Danton’s motto came into his mind: “De l’audace, de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace.” If he went straight up now while Possett was still fussing with smelling-salts and hand-slappings, he would with any luck at all be able to find a likely place.
He had the study door open, and had taken a step into the hall, when it came to him forcibly and unpleasantly that the plan was a wash-out because he only had half the emeralds. The whole set had been taken—Mrs Huddleston’s lamentations left no doubt on this point—but he had in his pocket only the headband and one brooch. Someone, somewhere, had the other brooch and the earrings. Shirley would not be cleared by the discovery of half the set. He wondered very much where the other half was, and why it had been kept back.
Yes, why?… His mind stayed at this point, as his body stayed just clear of the study. Why had half the emeralds been kept back? He thought Bessie Wood had taken them under orders to plant them on Shirley. Well, she had only planted half of them—and kept the rest? Was that in her instructions? He thought not. He thought that Pierrette, or Mr Phillips, or whoever it was who had given her those instructions was playing for much too big a stake to take any risk over a common or garden theft. They were out for the Merewether millions and not for Mrs Huddleston’s emeralds. But Bessie, with the emeralds in her hand, might have been tempted to keep half of them back. If that was the way of it, what had she done with them?
What would she be likely to do? Get them out of the house as quickly as possible. But she wouldn’t have been able to get away with them last night, or for that matter to-day, because she was on duty. He had seen her here in the morning, and she had let him in just now. To ask leave to go out would be to invite suspicion, and to go out without asking leave would be to make certain that the invitation was accepted. No, the only way she could get rid of them was through the post. She could post them to a confederate, but that meant a good deal of arrangement and a confederate she could trust. She might have done it, but he somehow didn’t think she had. Thieves don’t trust each other much, and his theory rather rested on the idea of a sudden temptation.
These thoughts were in his mind like quick pictures. He stood for perhaps half a minute and then turned to go back into the study. But he did not cross the threshold, for as he turned he looked down towards the front door and an impression already in his mind became apparent.
He turned back again, looking down the hall and considering this impression. It concerned the hall table and the fern which stood there in a hideous ornamental pot, a really horrible piece of majolica. But the impression did not concern the pot. It was the fern, something about the fern, which he had noticed without noticing when he came in. That is to say, his eye had seen it, but his mind had not regarded it—till now. He now regarded it with a fixed attention rather out of keeping with what might have been considered a trifle. The fern had a drooped and fading look. It had never been a very robust specimen, but it now looked very bad indeed. Anthony gave himself a shake. Ferns wanted a lot of water. If they were not watered they drooped at once. The fern had not been watered—that was all. The house was upset, and the person who ought to have watered the fern hadn’t watered it.
Something went click in Anthony’s mind. It would be Bessie’s job to water the fern. If she hadn’t watered it, why hadn’t she watered it? Not because of being all upset and flustered. If he had ever seen a cold, apathetic fish of a girl in his life it was Bessie Wood. Efficient and methodical withal. Shirley had said so, Aunt Agnes had said so. Then why was the fern denied its daily drink? He thought he would go and see.
He walked over to the hall table, lifted out the fern in its earthenware pot, and looked down into the ornamental abomination. Something had clinked as he lifted the pot. Something sent up a green spark under the electric light. He put in his hand and pulled out Josephine’s emerald earrings—and, for the matter of that, great-grandmamma Robinson’s emerald earrings. The other brooch was down there too. He pricked his finger on it and dropped it back.
His thoughts tumbled over one another racing, laughing, triumphing. He was going to get Shirley clear, and Miss Bessie Wood was going to have the surprise of her life. Out of his trouser pocket came the diamond brooch and the rest of the emeralds. Into the ornamental pot they went, and back on top of them went the drooping fern.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was at this moment that the telephone bell rang. Anthony crossed the hall, lifted the receiver, and heard Shirley’s voice. She said “Hullo!” rather breathlessly, and he said,
“What is it?”
“Anthony, is that you?”
“It is. What’s happened? Why are you ringing up?”
As he spoke, the door which led to the basement was pushed open. Bessie Wood looked out at him and was gone again. The door closed. It was Bessie’s job to answer the telephone. The bell having rung, she arrived. Seeing Mr Leigh, she withdrew. The question was, how far had she withdrawn.
Anthony cursed inwardly. His Aunt Agnes belonged to the generation which invariably put the telephone in the most public place in the house. There was an extension in the drawing-room, but he couldn’t very well ask to use it. Besides, extensions were traps—anyone could listen in on you at the main fixture.
Shirley said, “Anthony—are you there?”
He said, “Yes.” What he would have liked to say was, “Yes—and I think Bessie Wood is on the back stairs with her ear to the crack of the door listening to every word I’m saying.”
Shirley was excited, and exasperated.
“How funny you sound! Listen—things have been happening. Pierrette and the Phillips man came and banged at the door—”
“What door?” If Bessie was listening she couldn’t make anything of that.
“The Mews door. So I told Jas to keep them talking—”
“How do you know it was them?” This wasn’t so safe, but he had to chance it.
“Darling, I told you she was the glittering woman. Of course I knew her at once. Are you in a trance? Do wake up! Well, I left Jas to cope and got out the back way, and when they went, which wasn’t for simply ages, I followed them. Shirley the Sleuth! I think they must have insisted on searching the Mew, they were so long. Or else the glittering female fell for Jas and couldn’t be torn away. I thought they were never coming, but when they did I sleuthed, and I sleuthed them to a private hotel, 18 Mandell Street—rather grim but awfully respectable. He’s staying there, registered as Alfred Phillips. I said I wasn’t sure whether someone I knew had been there, so they let me look at the register.”
“Where are you telephoning from?” said Anthony.
“Call-box in the hotel. I’d better ring off, because one of them might come by and see me. What’s happening your end?”
If he had been sure that Bessie Wood hadn’t got an ear at the crack of the door, he would have said, “I’ve been baiting a mouse-trap.” As it was, Shirley was infuriated by a cool
“I’ll see you later. Better go back. I can’t get away just now—not for a bit.”
“Who’s going back?” she said. “I’m
not!” and hung up the receiver with a bang.
Anthony hung up at his end, and as he did so, Possett came out of the drawing-room. She closed the door behind her and came to him with a deprecatory “If I might speak to you for a moment, sir—”
There was nothing he desired more. When he had shut the study door upon them, the astonished Possett found herself being led as far away from it as the room allowed. When they were up against the curtained windows, Anthony smiled at her and said,
“Can you watch a mouse-hole for a bit, Possett?”
“A mouse-hole, Mr Anthony?”
“No, as you were—a mouse-trap.”
“A mouse-trap?”
He nodded, laughing a little.
“Yes. Do you know who took Mrs Huddleston’s emeralds, Possett?”
“There’s a diamond brooch gone too, sir.”
“Do you know who took the lot?”
“Oh no, sir—and I can’t believe—”
“Well?”
“I can’t believe it was Miss Dale. Oh, sir, I really can’t.”
Anthony looked at her in a way that made her heart beat.
“Thank you, Possett,” he said. And then, “Miss Dale and I are going to be married, you know.”
“Oh, Mr Anthony! I do wish you happy—indeed I do!”
Anthony patted her on the shoulder.
“You mustn’t cry now—there isn’t time. You shall bring six pocket-handkerchiefs to our wedding, but just now—brace up, Possett—just now I want you to get inside the hall cupboard and watch the hall table.”
Possett’s little pink nose pointed up at him. Her eyes, suffused with emotion, gazed bewildered into his.
“The hall cupboard, sir? The hall table?”
“Only till I can get someone else to do it. Someone—someone, Possett, has hidden Mrs Huddleston’s emeralds under the fern on the hall table.”
“Oh, Mr Anthony!”
“Bit of a facer—isn’t it? I want you to watch the pot like a lynx. If anyone comes to collect what they’ve hidden, lie low and let them collect it. Then yell if you like, or come for me. She mustn’t leave the house.”
Possett gulped helplessly.
“She, Mr Anthony? Who?”
“Wait and see,” said Anthony.
She gulped again.
“She’s asking for you, sir, Mrs Huddleston is.”
“All right. Get along into that cupboard, and if her bell rings let it ring. The worst she can do is to give you the sack, but if you come out before I tell you, I shall murder you, so be very careful.”
“Oh, Mr Anthony!” said Possett with a flutter of pink eyelids.
“With a blunt instrument,” said Anthony in a bloodcurdling whisper.
He made sure the back stairs were clear, and saw the cupboard door shut on Possett before he went back into the drawing-room. If she knelt down she could keep her eye to the keyhole, and the keyhole commanded a very good view of the hall table.
He found Mrs Huddleston pale and inclined to tears. When she had cried for a time and dabbed her eyes, she showed a good deal of curiosity about William Ambrose Merewether, and assured him, at first faintly, but with growing conviction, that she had always considered Shirley a very sweet girl—“And I wouldn’t have wished you to marry for money, dear boy—you know me too well for that, I’m sure—I mean, you couldn’t think for a moment that I should wish such a thing, but a charming girl is not less charming because she has a little money of her own. Not, as I say, that you need consider that unduly, because of course poor Edward and Louisa left you very comfortably off, and whatever your uncle left me will go to you when I die. But still, money never comes amiss—does it? And even without it you would, I am sure, be happy with such a sweet girl as Miss Dale.”
Anthony maintained a perfect gravity.
“But you’ll call her Shirley now—won’t you?”
“Dear Shirley!” said Mrs Huddleston, and dabbed her eyes.
Upon this there entered Bessie to make up the fire. Anthony withdrew the hand which his aunt had been holding, wandered away from the sofa, and made a brisk diversion.
“That fern of yours in the hall is looking very droopy Aunt Agnes.”
Bessie put a lump of coal on the fire with a steady hand.
“Droopy?” said Mrs Huddleston vaguely. “Have you noticed it, Bessie?”
Bessie dealt with a second lump of coal.
“It’s been watered every day, but I can give it an extra lot to-night, Madam.” She had a neat, precise way of speech.
“I expect it wants re-potting,” said Anthony. “I’m a dab at re-potting things. I expect I could scratch some decent earth out of your cat-run if Cook will lend me the kitchen shovel.”
Bessie went on putting coal on the fire.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mrs Huddleston. “Perhaps it would be a good thing. Did you mean now? Poor Clara Nicholson gave me the fern, and I shouldn’t like to lose it.”
Bessie stood up, stood waiting. Anthony wondered what she would say if he said “Yes, I’ll do it now.” He felt sure that the cook would be busy, or the shovel not forthcoming just for the moment. He came back to his seat with a casual,
“I’ll do it before I go. We’ll have our talk first.”
Bessie went out of the room as quietly as she had come in—no haste, no sign of fluttered nerves, a well trained maid going unobtrusively about her lawful occasions.
Anthony, with his ear cocked and his attention straining, thanked heaven for the Blessed Damozel’s flow of speech. An attentive look and an occasional smile were all that were required of him. In his mind he followed Bessie into the hall. Had he got away with the tale of the drooping fern, or had he not? If she suspected anything, she wouldn’t go near the pot. If she didn’t, she would be across the hall by now, out of sight of the drawing-room door, looking over her shoulder to make sure that there was no one on the stairs, and then—lifting the pot—snatching the emeralds—
“… and so a rich wife may prove to be a very great blessing.”
Mrs Huddleston was concluding some anecdote of which he had heard nothing. He smiled vaguely, and in the same moment there was a confused noise in the hall, Possett screamed, and something fell with a loud crash.
Anthony leapt up, flung back the door, and raced into the hall. He saw Possett getting up from her knees, and the earth and sherds of the broken pot, and the emeralds scattered. He did not see Bessie Wood, but the cold of the January night blew in at the open door. Possett held by the corner of the table, and shook and sobbed.
“She hit me! She’s gone! Oh, sir—oh, Mr Anthony!”
Anthony ran out into the street and down to the left where a gleam of white looked like Bessie’s apron-strings. He saw her at the next lamp, and then she was round the corner. When he reached the corner she wasn’t anywhere. There was a narrow cut between the houses—she might have gone down that. He could see no sign of her there or anywhere else. She might have a friend in one of the houses and have run down the area steps to the kitchen door. Or she might have boldly rung a bell and pretended a message—she had the nerve for it.
He felt a certain relief as he went back to the house. He had had to give chase, but he hadn’t very much wanted to catch her. She had left the emeralds, and Shirley was clear. The thought of haling a dough-faced young woman through the streets was a singularly unpleasant one. He was not, after all, a policeman.
He found Possett having a very fine fit of hysterics in the hall, whilst the Blessed Damozel, for the moment played quite off the stage, was down on her hands and knees collecting the emeralds.
“Oh, Mr Anthony!” gasped Possett as he came in. “Oh, the wickedness—the double-facedness! Right in the mouth she hit me—and who’d have thought she’d be so strong? And out of the door and down the steps before I could get my breath to scream!”
“You screamed very well,” said Anthony, patting a trembling shoulder.
He helped his aunt to her feet, when s
he promptly dropped the emeralds and he had to pick them up again. After which he shepherded her and Possett into the drawing-room and shut the door.
“Now, Possett, that’s enough—you can cry afterwards. I want you to tell us just what happened. Come along!”
Possett gave a rending sniff.
“Oh, sir—I was in the cupboard like you put me—”
Mrs Huddleston had actually forgotten that she could not stand. She stood now, looking at Anthony with a dazed expression and repeated in an incredulous tone,
“The cupboard—where you put her?”
Anthony slipped his arm round her.
“Yes, the hall cupboard. It’s all right. I wanted someone to watch what Bessie would do.”
“And I did!” said Possett. “Oh, sir, I did—like you told me! And what did I see? Oh, sir!”
“That’s just what we want you to tell us.”
Possett sniffed again.
“There I was, all in the dark and my eye to the keyhole like you said, which is what I’ve never done in my life, Mother having brought us all up most strict not to be tale-tellers nor eaves-droppers nor nothing of the sort, and I wouldn’t have done it, not for anyone else, not if it had been ever so—I wouldn’t indeed, sir!”
Mrs Huddleston looked completely bewildered. Anthony said soothingly,
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. You behaved like a heroine. Now come along and tell us what you saw. You had your eye to the keyhole—”
“And I heard the drawing-room door open, and I saw that Bessie come over to the hall table and stand there, and I thought to myself, ‘She’s going to water that fern, and not before it wants it neither.’ But she wasn’t. Oh, ma’am, I don’t know what I felt like—she took hold of the fern by its leaves as rough as rough and pulled it out pot and all. And then she puts her hand down into the china pot and brings up something and crams it into the pocket of her dress. And she puts her hand back into the pot and brings it up, and starts, and looks at it as if there was an adder fastened on it. And I see what she’d got hold of, and it was Madam’s emerald hairband, and I took and pushed open the door and screamed, and she threw it in my face and hit me and out of the front door before I could stop her, the wicked thieving hussy!”
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