Chapter XIV: Twinkling William's Diary

Saturday, June 6th, and eleven o'clock of a glorious sunny morning. Jerry Mitchell, being a woman of leisure, ought to have been out in the Park, but instead, she leant against the window-sill in the tiny sitting-room of her flat in 60 Quebec Street. In her hand she held a receipted bill; a bill for a week's board and lodging.

A whole week! It was seven days since she had left the Hampstead house. And yet in some ways it seemed more. They had not been uneventful, those seven days. Jerry smiled suddenly. No house that contained Milly could ever be uneventful. She herself had fallen for Milly on sight, and when she had listened to her first instalment of the Local News at breakfast, she had realised that she was going to enjoy herself in this strange place.

'Mr. Doone, 'im wot lives underneath 'ere, 'e's a one, an' no mistake! Thinks 'e's a woman-'ater, 'e does, but 'e'll learn 'is error in time. Comes from the Cannibal Islands, er some such. Ever ser nice 'e is, reely, but 'e wants tickin' orf at times. You know! It ain't that 'e's forward, as you might say, but it's jest that 'is manners are a bit orf. 'Owever, we're learnin' 'im, by degrees.'

'I'm all for good manners,' approved Jerry.

'So'm I, Miss Mitchell, an' wot I ses is, if they ain't got none, you got ter learn 'em, that's all. 'Tain't their fault, arf the time. It's the way they bin brought up. 'E useter frighten me at first, Mr. Doone did. Set there on 'is sofa, 'e did, an' scowl suthink orful. 'E does it still, sometimes, but all you got ter say is: "Now, then, no narsty temper, please!" an' 'e'll smile as sunny as anythink.'

Jerry chuckled, as she remembered how soon she had had proof of Milly's statement. That same evening her electric light had gone out. Mrs. Briggs had told her, when she first inspected the flat, that the light was run on a shilling-in-the-slot-meter. Jerry found the machine, but in the dark could not discover how it worked. After several efforts, and the useless expenditure of a shilling, she rang the bell. There was no reply. She waited a few minutes and then rang it again, with the same result. Rather nervously, feeling herself a stranger in an unknown country, she went out onto her landing and listened, hoping to hear the sound of Milly's racing feet. Below her all was dark. She waited in the gathering dusk, and at last heard hasty footsteps ascending the stairs.

'Is that you, Milly?' she called.

A second's silence, and then a man's voice, curtly 'No.' A pause, and then, 'I expect she's in the kitchen. D'you want her?'

'Well, my light's gone out, and....'

He had come up the last flight of stairs and was standing beside her, peering up at her wall. She noticed with amusement that he did not even look at her.

'Shilling-in-the-slot meter,' he said.

'I know. I put a shilling in, but nothing happened.'

He reached up and turned a handle. She heard the shilling fall with a click, and her sitting-room was lit up suddenly. Abruptly he turned away, saying gruffly, 'Perfectly simple.'

Jerry had a flashing memory of Milly's impertinent face, coupled with a vision of herself saying, 'Now, then, no narsty temper, please!' and had laughed outright. The man darted a glance at her, grinned guiltily, and growled, 'Shut up!' Exactly like a small boy, she reflected.

After that they had talked; had exchanged names; had spoken of Bobby Manvers, and then he had departed abruptly. But next day he had looked in to tell her that she was on no account to let Mrs. Briggs charge her a shilling a scuttle for coal, unless it was the big cauldron full. And since then they seemed to have developed a friendship of years; slightly domineering on Michael's part, and affectionately amused on Jerry's. She chuckled again at the thought of him. Rather a darling, Michael. And if it gave him pleasure to play the part of an irascible watch-dog--to scold her for staying indoors, or not eating enough lunch--who was she to deny him?

She pulled up a chair to her table, and picking up a big, leather-bound, loose-leaf book, began to read, but almost before she had found her place a knock on the door disturbed her.

'Come in!' she called.

Michael entered and stood, hands in pockets, regarding her with stern disapproval.

'You idiotic child, why must you fug indoors on a day like this?' he began. 'If you don't get a little fresh air and exercise you'll be ill, and serve you darned well right. It's a gorgeous day.'

'Gorgeous!' agreed Jerry placidly. 'You been out yet, Michael?'

'No; I've been waiting for you.'

'Hoo!' said Jerry, in open disbelief.

Michael grinned.

'Well, anyway, I'm going out now, so get a move on.'

'Sorry, old thing. I can't. Busy.'

'Rot! What's the book?'

She looked grave suddenly.

'William's diary. Don't wait for me if you'd rather not.'

'How long will you be?'

'Half an hour.'

'I'll wait ... if I may.'

This last was unexpected, and Jerry flashed him a surprised smile. 'Thanks awfully, Michael. That's angelic of you.'

Michael grunted, and picked up a copy of 'Punch.' For five minutes there was silence and then Jerry looked up.

'By the way, I've got a message for you.'

'Shoot!' mumbled Michael, absorbed in reading 'Punch.'

'Bobby rang up after tea yesterday, and he told me to tell you that you were a frightful success at Adele Lancaster's party.'

'The hell I was!' said Michael ungratefully. 'What's Bobby been up to, anyway? He's simply disappeared for the last week. I can't believe it's work. No one in their senses would employ Bobby as a barrister. Not sleuthing, is he?'

'As a matter of fact, he is,' said Jerry, with a slight frown. 'You see, he's convinced that William was murdered. Absolute rot, I think, but you know what a passion Bobby has for this detective stuff. I told him he could search the study for finger-prints, and he took me very seriously. In fact, I believe he has spent the last three days in going over the furniture with a magnifying-glass.'

Michael chuckled. 'I can't see our chubby Robert as a sleuth,' he said.

'Nor can I,' agreed Jerry. 'And yet--I know he's got brains, and he's certainly studied the subject. Oh, Michael, you're not to interrupt me any more.'

To this entirely unjustified attack Michael made no reply, but buried himself once more in his paper. For ten minutes there was not a sound but the rustle of turned pages, and then Jerry gave a little gasp. Michael looked up. Her eyes were on a page of the diary, and her face had lost all colour. Michael leapt to his feet.

'Jerry! What on earth...?'

She looked up at him oddly.

'There's a very queer story in here, Michael. May I read it to you? I--I don't know what to think.'

Michael sat down on a corner of the table, one long leg dangling. 'Go ahead,' he said.

'The first mention of the affair,' said Jerry, turning back several pages, 'happened on April 24th this year. Listen.

'A very curious event has occurred; an event so unusual that at
moments I wonder if it can be true. I hardly know what to think of
it, but I must confess it gives me great pleasure.

'I dined to-night, as I always do on Fridays, at the club, and
afterwards played bridge with Loring, Collett, and John Rogers.
On my way to the club I meant to post a letter, a somewhat bulky
envelope, which I put in my pocket. The evening passed, as so
many similar meetings have, without incident. Indeed, I remember
thinking, as I put on my coat on leaving the club, that not a
single detail of my life had changed for many years, and the
thought gave me a feeling of regret. I have, I fear, an incurably
romantic temperament, which Jerry inherits, and I comforted myself
with the reflection that although nothing exciting would ever
happen to me, there was every likelihood of adventure coming to her.

'As I was nearing home I happened to put my hand into my pocket
and, to my surprise and annoyance, found that my envelope was still
there. I thought I remembered posting it, and drew it out, looking
round me to see if there were a letter-box in sight. There was not,
but I was standing under a street lamp at the time and my eye fell
on the envelope.

'It was not mine, nor had I ever seen it before. On it was written,
in a small neat hand: "Please open this when you are alone," and
across the top were inscribed the letters: "O.H.M.S."

'The night was cold, so I did not hesitate, but hurried home, much
intrigued by this strange occurrence. I remember that the hall
clock was striking midnight as I sat down by my desk to open the
letter. It contained a note, and a second envelope addressed to "J.
F. Strickland, Esq., 31, Buckingham Gate Mansions."

* * * * *

'The note was, apparently, addressed to me, although the writer did
not know my name. He explained that he was doing Secret Service
work, and that this second letter contained information for which,
in his own words, "a certain section of our anti-English society is
searching." His enemies were pursuing him, and he had taken refuge
in the club, although he knew none of the members. Realising that
something must be done, he conceived the brilliant idea of slipping
the letter into my pocket. On reading his letter, I bitterly
regretted that I had not been more observant. I now remember
vaguely that there was a man in the lobby as I left the club, but I
cannot recall a single detail of his appearance. His writing--and,
in a small way, I have studied calligraphy--is that of a scholar
and a gentleman, and every line of his letter carries conviction.

'He went on to say that he would call for his envelope as soon as
possible, but asked me, if need arose, to keep it for him until
June 10th. That is, apparently, an important date. If he has not
fetched it by then, I am to send it to this Mr. Strickland. He gave
me an address to which I could write, but no name, only initials,
and as the address was a _poste restante_ one, I imagine that it
would not be permanent. I shall write to-morrow morning, and tell
him how honoured I am to have his confidence.'

Jerry paused, and looked at Michael.

'Very odd,' said he. 'Didn't he tell you anything about it?'

'Not a word. You wait.' She continued reading:

'_April 25th._--I have been considering last night's affair with
much deliberation. I have read a great many books of adventure and
mystery, and some of the customs common to both heroes and villains
have struck me as being strangely unintelligent. In particular,
the curious habit of carrying valuable documents on the person--a
perpetual invitation to assault by the other party. I do not
intend to run that risk, especially as I know myself to be both
absent-minded and deplorably untidy. This morning, therefore, I
took the envelope to the bank, and repeated my correspondent's
instructions, namely--that if I have not withdrawn it before
June 10th, it is to be sent to this Mr. Strickland. I must say I
sincerely hope it will be fetched before then, as I am anxious
to meet my correspondent. My only regret is that I am unable to
tell Jerry of the affair. She would enjoy it so enormously. But my
correspondent urgently begged me to mention the matter to no one,
and I feel bound to respect his wishes.'

Again Jerry paused, her eyes on the familiar crabbed handwriting.

Michael nodded appreciatively.

'Sportsman!' he said.

Suddenly the girl buried her face in her hands.

'It's all so frightfully like him,' she said in a muffled voice that shook a little.

Michael's face changed swiftly, and he put out a hand and stroked her bent head awkwardly.

Jerry pulled herself together.

'He says no more about it for some time,' she went on. 'It crops up again on May 22d.'

'My strange adventure of April 24th has had a sequel. Every day
I have wondered whether my unknown friend would call, and I had
almost given up hope when this afternoon a Mr. Robertson called on
me.

'He was a tall man with a neatly trimmed black beard; swarthy and
dark-eyed. If it had not been for his name and his perfect English
voice, I should have put him down as an Italian. Having never seen
him before, I was at a loss to understand his visit, but he came to
the point at once. Apologising for the strangeness of his question,
he asked me if I had been given a letter, in the Jameson Club, on
the night of April 24th.

'I am afraid I hesitated. The question was so sudden and unexpected
that it took me off my guard. Seeing my obvious hesitation, his
face cleared.

'"What a relief!" he said. "I see that you are the man I have
been looking for. Let me explain myself. The man who gave you
that letter is a friend of mine. For many reasons I would rather
conceal his name; no doubt you will have gathered that his mission
was a somewhat secret one. Last week I had an urgent message from
the Birmingham General Hospital. My friend had been in a motor
accident, and is now in hospital, suffering from severe concussion.
I gathered that he had been continually asking for me, and that the
doctor considered it wise to send for me. Of course I caught the
next train north. Poor old chap, I found him terribly ill."

'I may say that my caller looked very distressed indeed. I offered
him a cigar, and begged him to continue. He went on to tell me
that his friend was only half conscious, but that it was obvious
that something was preying on his mind. By dint of much careful
questioning, this Mr. Robertson had gathered that his friend was
very anxious to recover some papers, or a paper ... which he had
given into the charge of a member of the Jameson Club. "Since I
returned to London," he added, "I have called on almost every
member, for my poor friend was unable to tell me the man's name.
The fact that he seems to have lost his memory is distressing him
terribly. He kept telling me that he must have the papers before
June 10th. That date seemed to ring in his head."

* * * * *

'It rang in mine, too, for that was the date upon which my unknown
correspondent had asked me to post his letter, should he not have
claimed it. And yet I hesitated, principally, I must admit, from a
feeling of disappointment. I had hoped to meet the man.

'"I may say," continued Mr. Robertson, "that I have no idea
what information these papers contain; nor have I any desire to
know, but I am more than a little anxious about my friend, for
the doctors tell me that he is in a critical condition, and they
consider this obsession is dangerous. Therefore, I beg you to let
me have the papers, so that I may take them to him, and set his
mind at rest."

'I felt myself to be in a difficult position. I did not doubt Mr.
Robertson's story--indeed the man's distress seemed obviously
genuine--but still I felt myself pledged to my unknown friend. So,
believing frankness to be the better part, I laid the position
before him. I told him that I had been given the letter, with a
covering note asking me to keep it until a certain date, and adding
that if the writer himself had not claimed it before then, I was to
post it to an address he had given me.'

'"Forgive me, but do you know him?" he asked.

'I told him that I did not know the man, but that he knew me. I
said that he had arranged to call in person for the letter, and
that until then he had expressly asked me to keep it for him.

'"Oh, that explains it," he said. "Poor old chap, I understand now.
That was why he was so distressed at having forgotten your name. It
was terrible, Professor Mitchell, for one could do nothing to help
him."

'His distress moved me very much, but I persisted in my
explanation. I told him, with many apologies, that, though I did
not doubt his story, he had given me no actual proof that he came
from my correspondent, and that, until he did so, I could not feel
justified in breaking faith with a man who had trusted me.

'For a minute he was silent, his eyes on the floor. Then he looked
up and smiled.

'"You're perfectly right, Professor," he said. "George is a sound
judge of men. May I suggest a means of proving my statement? Will
you write to the Matron of the Birmingham Hospital, and ask her
if she has a serious concussion case in at the moment? Mention my
name. I was there exactly a week ago, and she will remember me."

'I considered, and said that it seemed a perfectly satisfactory
plan. He sighed with relief.

'"In that case, I will say good-bye," he said. "Thank you a
thousand times, Professor Mitchell. By the way, I should be very
grateful if you would ask the Matron to wire her reply. I know that
every minute is important in my friend's critical condition. If
you write to-night, you will get her answer by to-morrow afternoon.
If I may, I will call to-morrow night for the papers. I have no
doubt that the Matron will confirm my story."

'And with that he left. As soon as he had gone I wrote to the
Matron of the Birmingham Hospital, and asked her to wire her
patient's authority for me to hand the papers to his friend. Then I
posted the letter and, since returning to the house, have recorded
the incident.

'It is all very strange. And I must say I had not imagined his name
to be George.'

Jerry turned the page slowly, and hesitated.

'Carry on,' said Michael.

'This one's dated May 23d,' she said. 'That was that Saturday----'

She bit her lip, and continued reading:

'_May 23d--midday._--This morning I had qualms about my letter to
the Matron. Knowing the matter to be on her patient's mind, would
she not run the risk and give me permission on her own authority,
hoping to set him at rest? Women have little sense of proportion.
And even if she assured me that she had a patient with serious
concussion, and that he had a friend called Robertson, was I
justified in assuming my caller to be the same man? And yet again,
what proof had I that the man in hospital was my man? A hundred
times I told myself that I was simply making difficulties to hide
my own disappointment, but the doubt persisted, and finally,
while I was out for a walk this morning, I decided to ring up the
Birmingham Hospital. I think I had some wild hope that I might be
allowed to speak to the man myself.

'I got through fairly quickly, and spoke to the Matron. To my
astonishment she failed to identify Mr. Robertson, knew nothing of
my letter, and, what is more, assured me that they had no serious
concussion case in the hospital at the moment. I thanked her and
returned home, my brain in a whirl. It seems incredible that Mr.
Robertson should have told me such a fabrication of lies, and
yet.... It is all very disturbing, but I must admit, very exciting,
too. Very sad that I cannot tell Jerry the whole story. But, of
course, she might urge me to inform the police. I feel certain my
unknown friend did not want their assistance in this affair.

'_Later._--A telegram has just arrived. It reads:

Patient confirms Robertson's story, authorises you deliver
letter.--Matron.

'So my suspicion was justified. It has brought home to me the
fact that this affair is really serious. To start with, my
correspondence has been tampered with. Mr. Robertson is a rogue
and is, no doubt, one of the "opponents" of whom my correspondent
spoke. He certainly did not appear to be a violent man, but now
I come to think of it, the villains of fiction are usually of a
blameless appearance, so why not the villains of real life?

'When he comes to-night I shall tell him that I have changed my
mind, and shall keep the letter until his friend is well enough
to fetch it himself in the prearranged manner. Mr. Robertson is a
scoundrel. I hope I shall not become angry with him, for in that
case I may be tempted to tell him what I think of him.

'_Later still._--Jerry has just looked in to say good-night, and
again I longed to tell her the story. I wish that she could find
out, so that we could discuss it with a clear conscience. I know
she would be as loyal to this strange friend of mine as I would be
myself.

'It is late. I do not think Mr. Robertson can be coming to-night.
A little disappointing. It would give me pleasure to deny him the
letter. However, the time will come, no doubt. And eventually I
still hope to meet my friend who trusted me ... I hope, not in
vain.'

Jerry put down the book and faced Michael. There was a long silence. Then she got up and walked over to the fireplace. Michael watched her, his face set grimly.

'Michael,' she said at last, quietly.

'Yes?'

'That man killed him.'

Michael nodded.

'He came that night, after I'd gone to bed. Probably William lost his temper--lying always made him see red--and Robertson killed him.'

Michael nodded again. His savage expression seemed to give Jerry self-possession. Her voice was even and steady as she went on:

'Dr. Thorpe told me he had not been dead more than half an hour when I found him. He thought probably less. The murderer may even have been in the house. Why didn't he search it, I wonder? Nothing was disturbed.'

'Probably your father told him the letter was in the bank,' said Michael gruffly.

She nodded slowly. 'Yes, I expect he did. My blessed, truculent old William. Anyway, Robertson didn't get it. I tell you, Michael, I'm going to take on this thing for William. His man shall get that letter, or no one.'

A shade of anxiety crossed Michael's face, and he moved uncomfortably. Jerry guessed his thoughts.

'Are you seeing me as the next victim?' She smiled. 'I think we'll be able to avoid that. We won't give ourselves away as William did. But of course this man Robertson must know about me. Cheer up, Michael; if he calls, I promise I'll send for you. You shall be in the scrap, old thing!'

Michael grinned at her, but his eyes held something very like admiration.

'It's rather good to have something to fight, isn't it?' said Jerry. 'No quarter! We'll smash this bloke, Michael. Of course, we may have to wait a while, but sooner or later there'll be our cue. Enter the murderer!'

As if in answer to her words, there was a heavy knock on the door.