“No,” said Sir Richard, taking a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “He was staying with a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. The name was, I think, Luttrell.”
“Indeed! This becomes more and more—But pray continue, sir! You were not, then, together?”
“No, nothing of the sort. I came into the west country in family affairs. I need not burden you with them, I think.”
“Quite, quite! Family affairs: yes! Go on, sir! How came you to discover Mr Brandon’s body?”
“Oh, by accident! But it will be better, perhaps, if I recount my share in this affair from its start.”
“Certainly! Yes! Pray do so, sir! This is a remarkably good bowl of punch, I may say.”
“I am generally thought to have something of a knack with a punch bowl,” bowed Sir Richard. “To go back, then, to the start! You have no doubt heard, Mr Philips, of the Brandon diamonds?”
From the startled expression in the magistrate’s eyes, and the slight dropping of his jaw, it was apparent that he had not. He said: “Diamonds? Really, I fear—No, I must confess that I had not heard of the Brandon diamonds.”
“Then, I should explain that they make up a certain famous necklace, worth, I dare say, anything you like.”
“Upon my word! An heirloom! Yes, yes, but in what way—”
“While on my way to Bristol with a young relative of mine, a slight accident befell our coach, and we were forced to put up for the night at a small inn near Wroxhall. There, sir, I encountered an individual who seemed to me—but I am not very well-versed in these matters—a somewhat questionable character. How questionable I did not know until the following morning, when a Bow Street Runner arrived at the inn.”
“Good God, sir! This is the most—But I interrupt you!”
“Not at all,” said Sir Richard politely. “I left the inn while the Runner was interrogating this individual. It was not until my young cousin and I had proceeded some way on our journey that I discovered in my pocket a purse containing the Brandon necklace.”
The magistrate sat bolt upright in his chair. “You amaze me, sir! You astonish me! The necklace in your pocket? Really, I do not know what to say!”
“No,” agreed Sir Richard, rising and refilling his guest’s glass. “I was rather taken aback myself. In fact, it was some time before I could think how it came to be there.”
“No wonder, no wonder! Most understandable, indeed! You recognized the necklace?”
“Yes,” said Sir Richard, returning to his chair. “I recognized it, but—really, I am amazed at my own stupidity!—I did not immediately connect it with the individual encountered near Wroxhall. The question was then not so much how it came, to be in my possession, as how to restore it to Lord Saar with the least possible delay. I could picture Lady Saar’s dismay at such an irreparable loss! Ah—a lady of exquisite sensibility, you understand!”
The magistrate nodded his comprehension. The rum punch was warming him quite as much as the fire, and he had a not unpleasant sensation of mixing with exalted persons.
“Happily—or perhaps I should say, in the light of future events, unhappily,” continued Sir Richard, “I recalled that Beverley Brandon—he was Saar’s younger son, I should mention—was staying in this neighbourhood. I repaired instantly to this inn, therefore, and, being fortunate enough to meet Brandon just beyond the village, gave the necklace to him without further ado.”
The magistrate set down his glass. “You gave the necklace to him? Did he know that it had been stolen?”
“By no means. He was as astonished as I was, but engaged himself to restore it immediately to his father. I considered the matter satisfactorily settled—Saar, you know, having the greatest dislike of any kind of notoriety, such as must accrue from the theft, and the subsequent proceedings.”
“Sir!” said Mr Philips, “do you mean to imply that this unfortunate young man was murdered for the sake of the necklace?”
“That,” said Sir Richard, “is what I fear may have happened.”
“But this is shocking! Upon my word, sir, I am quite dumbfounded!—what—who can have known that the necklace was in his possession?”
“I should have said that no one could have known it, but, upon consideration, I imagine that the individual who hid it in my pocket may well have followed me to this place, waiting for an opportunity to get it back into his possession.”
“True! very true! You have been spied upon! Yet you have not seen that man in Queen Charlton?”
“Do you think he would—er—let me see him?” enquired Sir Richard, evading this question.
“No. No, indeed! Certainly not! But this must be looked to!”
“Yes,” agreed Sir Richard, pensively swinging his eyeglass on the end of its ribbon. “And I think you might, with advantage, look to the sudden disappearance from this inn of a flashy person calling himself Captain Trimble, Mr Philips.”
“Really, sir! This becomes more and more—Pray, what reason have you for supposing that this man may be implicated in the murder?”
“Well,” said Sir Richard slowly, “some chance words which I let fall on the subject of—ah—waistcoats, sent Captain Trimble off hot-foot to Bristol.”
The magistrate blinked, and directed an accusing glance towards his half-empty glass. A horrid suspicion that the rum punch had affected his understanding was dispelled, however, by Sir Richard’s next words.
“My acquaintance at the inn near Wroxhall wore a catskin waistcoat. A casual reference to this circumstance had the surprising effect of arousing the Captain’s curiosity. He asked me in what direction the man in the catskin waistcoat had been travelling, and upon my saying that I believed him to be bound for Bristol, he left the inn—er—incontinent.”
“I see! yes, yes, I see! An accomplice!”
“My own feeling,” said Sir Richard, “is that he was an accomplice who had been—er—bubbled.”
The magistrate appeared to be much struck by this. “Yes! I see it all! Good God, this is a terrible affair! I have never been called upon to—But you say this Captain Trimble went off to Bristol, sir?”
“He did. But I have since learned, Mr Philips, that he was back at this inn at six o’clock this evening. Ah! I should, I see, say yesterday evening,” he added with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Mr Philips drew a long breath. “Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up—are in fact, of such a nature as to—Upon my word, I never thought—But the murder! You discovered this, sir?”
“I discovered Brandon’s body,” corrected Sir Richard. “How came you to do this, sir? You had a suspicion? You—”
“None at all. It was a warm evening, and I stepped out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight. Chance alone led my footsteps to the wood where I found my unfortunate young friend’s body. It is only since making that melancholy discovery that I have pieced together the—er—evidence.”
Mr Philips had a hazy idea that chance had played an over-important part in Sir Richard’s adventures, but he was aware that the punch he had drunk had slightly clouded his intellect. He said guardedly: “Sir, the story you have unfolded is of a nature which—in short, it must be carefully sifted. Yes, indeed. Carefully sifted! I must request you not to remove from this neighbourhood until I have had time—pray do not misunderstand me! There is not the least suggestion, I assure you, of—”
“My dear sir, I don’t misunderstand you, and I have no intention of removing from this inn,” said Sir Richard soothingly. “I am aware that you have, so far, only my word for it that I am indeed Richard Wyndham.”
“Oh, as to that, I am sure—no suggestion of disbelieving—But my duty is prescribed! You will appreciate my position, I am persuaded!”
“Perfectly!” said Sir Richard. “I shall hold myself wholly at your disposal. You, as a man of the world, will, I am assured, appreciate the need of the exercise of—ah—the most delicate discretion in handling this affair.”
Mr Philips, who had o
nce spent three weeks in London, was flattered to think that the imprint of that short sojourn was pronounced enough to be discernible to such a personage as Beau Wyndham, and swelled with pride. Native caution, however, warned him that his investigation had better be postponed to a more sober moment. He rose to his feet with careful dignity, and set his empty glass down on the table. “I am obliged to you!” he pronounced. “I shall wait upon you to-morrow—no, to-day! I must consider this affair. A terrible business! I think one may say, a terrible business!”
Sir Richard agreed to this, and after a meticulous exchange of courtesies, Mr Philips took his leave. Sir Richard snuffed the candles, and went up to bed, not dissatisfied with his night’s work.
In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with a gentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: “Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!”
Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.
He did not. He said: “Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shocking crime, were you not, young man?”
“Well, not precisely,” said Pen.
“Oh? How is that?”
“I was, and I wasn’t,” Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. “I didn’t see the body.”
“No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?”
“Well, sir, there was an owl,” confided Pen unblushingly.
“Come, come! An owl?”
“Yes: my cousin said that too.”
“Said what?”
“Come, come! He is not interested in bird-life.”
“Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?”
“Yes, and also I like to watch birds.”
Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. “Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so you were not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?”
“No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.”
“I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,” said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.
Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. “If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?”
Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. “A young person?” she repeated.
“Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.”
“Oh!” said Pen. “Oh, very well! Thank you!”
She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to—“Wyndham Esq.,” and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.
“Dear Sir,” the letter began, primly enough, “The Unfortunate Being whom you befriended last night, is in Desperate Case, and begs that you will come to the little orchard next to the road at eight o’clock punctually, because it is vital that I should have Private Speech with you. Do not fail. Your obliged servant,
“Lydia Daubenay.”
It was plain that Miss Daubenay had written this missive in considerable agitation. Greatly intrigued, Pen enquired the way to Major Daubenay’s house of a baker’s boy, and set off down the dusty road.
By the time she had reached the appointed rendezvous it was half-past eight, and Miss Daubenay was pacing up and down impatiently. A thick, high hedge shut the orchard off from sight of the house, and a low wall enclosed it from the road. Pen climbed on to this without much difficulty, and was greeted by an instant accusation: “Oh, you are so late! I have been waiting ages!”
“Well, I am sorry, but I came as soon as I had read your letter,” said Pen, jumping down into the orchard. “Why do you wish to see me?”
Miss Daubenay wrung her hands, and uttered in tense accents: “Everything has gone awry. I am quite distracted! I don’t know what to do!”
Pen betrayed no particular solicitude at this moving speech, but critically looked Miss Daubenay over.
She was a pretty child, about the same age as Pen herself, but shorter, and much plumper. She had a profusion of nut-brown ringlets, a pair of fawn-like brown eyes, and a soft rosebud of a mouth. She was dressed in a white muslin dress, high-waisted, and frilled about the ankles, and with a great many-pale-blue bows of ribbon with long fluttering ends. She raised her melting eyes to Pen’s face, and breathed: “Can I trust you?”
Miss Creed was a literal-minded female, and instead of responding with promptness and true chivalry, she replied cautiously: “Well, probably you can, but I am not sure till I know what it is that you want.”
Miss Daubenay seemed a little daunted for a moment, and said in a soft moan: “I am in such a taking! I have been very, very silly!”
Pen found no difficulty in believing this. She said: “Well, don’t stand there wringing your hands! Let us sit down under that tree.”
Lydia looked doubtful. “Will it not be damp?”
“No, of course not! Besides, what if it were?”
“Oh, the grass might stain my dress!”
“It seems to me,” said Pen severely, “that if you are bothering about your dress you cannot be in such great trouble.”
“Oh, but I am!” said Lydia, sinking down on to the turf, and clasping her hands at her bosom. “I do not know what you will say, or what you will think of me! I must have been mad! Only you were kind to me last night, and I thought I could trust you!”
“I dare say you can,” said Pen. “But I wish you will tell me what is the matter, because I have not yet had any breakfast, and—”
“If I had thought that you would be so unsympathetic I would never, never have sent for you!” declared Lydia in tremulous accents.
“Well, it is very difficult to be sympathetic when a person will do nothing but wring her hands, and say the sort of things there really is no answer to,” said Pen reasonably. “Do start at the beginning!”
Miss Daubenay bowed her head. “I am the most unhappy creature alive!” she announced. “I have the misfortune to be secretly betrothed to one whom my father will not tolerate.”
“Yes, I thought you were. I suppose you went to meet him in the wood last night?”
“Alas, it is true! But do not judge me hastily! He is the most unexceptionable—the most—”
“If he is unexceptionable,” interrupted Pen, “why won’t your father tolerate him?”
“It is all wicked prejudice!” sighed Lydia.
“My father quarrelled with his father, and they don’t speak.”
“Oh! What did they quarrel about?”
“About a piece of land,” said Lydia mournfully.
“It sounds very silly.”
“It is silly. Only they are perfectly serious about it, and they do not care a fig for our sufferings! We have been forced to this hateful expedient of meeting in secret. I should tell you that my betrothed is the soul of honour! Subterfuge is repugnant to him, but what can we do? We love each other!”
“Why don’t you run away?” suggested Pen practically.
Startled eyes leapt to hers. “Run where?”
“To Gretna Green, of course.”
“Oh, I could not! Only think of the scandal!”
“I do think you should try not to be so poor-spirited. However, I dare say you can’t help it.”
“You are the rudest boy I ever met!” exclaimed Lydia, “I declare I wish I had not sent for you!”
“So do I, because this seems to me a silly story, and not in the least my concern,” said Pen frankly. “Oh, pray don’t start to cry! There, I am sorry! I didn’t mean to be unkind! But why did you send for me?”
“Because, though you are rude and horrid, you did not seem to me like other young men, and I thought you would understand, and not take advantage of me.”
Pen gave a sudden mischievous chuckle. “I shan’t do that, at all events! Oh dear, I am getting so hungry! Do tell me why you sent for me!”
Miss Daubenay dabbed her eyes with a wisp of a handkerchief. “I was so distracted last night I scarce knew what I was doing! And when I reached home, the most dreadful thing happened! Papa saw me! Oh, sir, he accused me of having gone out to meet P—to meet my betrothed, and said I should be packed off again to Bath this very day, to stay with my Great-Aunt Augusta. The horridest, most disagreeable old woman! Nothing but backgammon, and spying, and everything of the most hateful! Sir, I felt myself to be in desperate case! Indeed, I said it before I had time to recollect the consequences!”
“Said what?” asked Pen, patient but bored.
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