by Q. Patrick
After a quick, short clasp of his father’s hand he ran down the steps again and started the motor hastily. As the Morris Cowley roared away into the park, the eleventh baronet turned wearily on his heel and pushed open the great door. It closed behind him, slowly, ponderously, and left the steps empty again save for a few sparrows who gathered there to enjoy the fast-fading warmth of the late sun.
As Norris and the Archdeacon took a brief stroll down the village street that evening the still air was heavy with the fragrance of June roses. The Archdeacon communed humbly with himself while he noted the characters who had, in their own particular ways, played some part in this tragic drama of frustration and death.
Will Cockett was there, walking slowly home to his lonely supper, probably little dreaming that he too had figured in the Archdeacon’s lists, and that the shadow of the Law had been hanging over him. He only knew, after his simple, dogged fashion, that he had lost the woman he loved—and that was all.
A happier sight was Vivien Darcy, who came striding along in the twilight beside Jo Hoskins. They paused together for a word with the detectives, as both of them were anxious for news of their friends. The Archdeacon smiled serenely and even a little apologetically as he introduced them to Norris. “No conviction,” he explained. “Oh, yes, Lucy Lubbock is quite cleared. Mrs. Crosby, I should say—they were married this afternoon.”
“Married!” exclaimed Vivien and Hoskins in one breath.
“Then they’ve beaten us to it,” the girl went on. “But we’re headed that way too. Father’s seen daylight at last, and here we are ‘Walking out’ with divine parental sanction. Thanks for your tact, Inspector. By the way, who did do it?”
“Doubtlessly Crosby will tell you,” said the Archdeacon. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“All right, all right,” said Hoskins with a broad smile. “You detectives know your jobs, I suppose. I must say, though, you’d be more use to Vivien and me at the moment if you were the clergyman you look like!”
“Or even a horse dentist,” said Vivien demurely.
“What’s that?” asked Hoskins, looking puzzled.
“Oh, just a little joke the Inspector told me. Good night, Inspector. Good luck to you.”
“Good night, Miss Darcy. Good night, Dr. Hoskins.”
Norris and the Archdeacon stood alone in the village street. As they glanced about them they were moved by the beauty of the scene; the grey, cool dusk, the draining west, and the one high, luminous star above the dim cottages and trees of Crosby-Stourton. Nevertheless, the thoughts of both of them were home thoughts of London.
As they retraced their steps to the Crosby Arms they glimpsed again one or two familiar faces. Miss Coke was just putting up the shutters of her little shop when they passed. She had done a roaring trade that day, and had remarked over and over again that “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good….” Indeed, the commercial value of publicity had never before been realized in Crosby-Stourton.
Even Mrs. Greene’s stock of gingerbread and barley sugar had been exhausted, and she had sold more stamps on that day than during the previous six months of the year. Perhaps she was contemplating a personal letter to His Majesty to ask for an “increase of stipend,” as she stood outside her cottage door chatting affably (for her) with Buss, who had become larger and more magnificent than ever since his quelling of the “mobs” that morning.
The Archdeacon beckoned to him as he passed, and whispered in his ear. The awed and mysterious Constable returned to the postmistress who was goggling with curiosity.
“The Inspector has made his seductions,” he said solemnly, “but there will be no confliction, for Death has triumvirated. …”
Meanwhile Norris and the Archdeacon walked on. By the time they reached their inn the summer twilight had deepened to its limit; and the Archdeacon, lingering in the doorway for a final glimpse of Crosby-Stourton, saw that the west was now sombre, and that night, indeed, had come.
THE END
About the Author
Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick, and Jonathan Stagge were pen names under which Hugh Callingham Wheeler (1912–1987), Richard Wilson Webb (1901–1966), Martha Mott Kelley (1906–2005), and Mary Louise White Aswell (1902–1984) wrote detective fiction. Most of the stories were written together by Webb and Wheeler, or by Wheeler alone. Their best-known creation is amateur sleuth Peter Duluth. In 1963, the story collection The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow was given a Special Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1931 by Roland Swain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3682-5
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Q. PATRICK
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