Chapter V: Part 5

“It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this afternoon—and I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his own dirty work, say I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving you, Mr. Cade, but I must stand by poor old Father.”

Bundle retreated rapidly to the house.

Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy sound quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound seemed to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed to him was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze.

“Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.”

Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just blown out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the boat-house.

He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light coloured overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed black beard and a slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and forty years of age, and altogether of a most respectable appearance.

“What are you doing here?” asked Anthony.

He was pretty certain that the man was not one of Lord Caterham’s guests.

“I ask your pardon,” said the stranger, with a marked foreign accent and what was meant to be an engaging smile. “It is that I wish to return to the _Jolly Crickets_, and I have lost my way. Would Monsieur be so good as to direct me?”

“Certainly,” said Anthony. “But you don’t go there by water, you know.”

“Eh?” said the stranger, with the air of one at a loss.

“I said,” repeated Anthony, with a meaning glance at the boat-house, “that you won’t get there by water. There’s a right of way across the park—some distance away, but all this is the private part. You’re trespassing.”

“I am most sorry,” said the stranger. “I lost my direction entirely. I thought I would come up here and inquire.”

Anthony refrained from pointing out that kneeling behind a boat-house was a somewhat peculiar manner of prosecuting inquiries. He took the stranger kindly by the arm.

“You go this way,” he said. “Right round the lake and straight on—you can’t miss the path. When you get on it, turn to the left, and it will lead you to the village. You’re staying at the _Cricketers_, I suppose?”

“I am, monsieur. Since this morning. Many thanks for your kindness in directing me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Anthony. “I hope you haven’t caught cold.”

“Eh?” said the stranger.

“From kneeling on the damp ground, I mean,” explained Anthony. “I fancied I heard you sneezing.”

“I may have sneezed,” admitted the other.

“Quite so,” said Anthony. “But you shouldn’t suppress a sneeze, you know. One of the most eminent doctors said so only the other day. It’s frightfully dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what it does to you—whether it’s an inhibition or whether it hardens your arteries, but you must never do it. Good morning.”

“Good morning, and thank you, monsieur, for setting me on the right road.”

“Second suspicious stranger from village inn,” murmured Anthony to himself, as he watched the other’s retreating form. “And one that I can’t quite place, either. Appearance that of a French commercial traveller. I don’t quite see him as a Comrade of the Red Hand. Does he represent yet a third party in the harassed state of Herzoslovakia? The French governess has the second window from the end. A mysterious Frenchman is found slinking round the grounds, listening to conversations that are not meant for his ears. I’ll bet my hat there’s something in it.”

Musing thus, Anthony retraced his steps to the house. On the terrace he encountered Lord Caterham, looking suitably depressed, and two new arrivals. He brightened a little at the sight of Anthony.

“Ah, there you are,” he remarked. “Let me introduce you to Baron—er—er—and Captain Andrassy. Mr. Anthony Cade.”

The Baron stared at Anthony with growing suspicion.

“Mr. Cade?” he said stiffly. “I think not.”

“A word alone with you, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can explain everything.”

The Baron bowed, and the two men walked down the terrace together.

“Baron,” said Anthony. “I must throw myself upon your mercy. I have so far strained the honour of an English gentleman as to travel to this country under an assumed name. I represented myself to you as Mr. James McGrath—but you must see for yourself that the deception involved was infinitesimal. You are doubtless acquainted with the works of Shakespeare, and his remarks about the unimportance of the nomenclature of roses? This case is the same. The man you wanted to see was the man in possession of the Memoirs. I was that man. As you know only too well, I am no longer in possession of them. A neat trick. Baron, a very neat trick. Who thought of it, you or your principal?”

“His Highness’s own idea it was. And for anyone but him to carry it out he would not permit.”

“He did it jolly well,” said Anthony, with approval. “I never took him for anything but an Englishman.”

“The education of an English gentleman did the Prince receive,” explained the Baron. “The custom of Herzoslovakia it is.”

“No professional could have pinched those papers better,” said Anthony. “May I ask, without indiscretion, what has become of them?”

“Between gentlemen,” began the Baron.

“You are too kind, Baron,” murmured Anthony. “I’ve never been called a gentleman so often as I have in the last forty-eight hours.”

“I to you say this—I believe them to be burnt.”

“You believe, but you don’t know, eh? Is that it?”

“His Highness in his own keeping retained them. His purpose it was to read them and then by the fire to destroy them.”

“I see,” said Anthony. “All the same, they are not the kind of light literature you’d skim through in half an hour.”

“Among the effects of my martyred master they have not discovered been. It is clear, therefore, that burnt they are.”

“H’m!” said Anthony. “I wonder?”

He was silent for a minute or two and then went on.

“I have asked you these questions, Baron, because, as you may have heard, I myself have been implicated in the crime. I must clear myself absolutely, so that no suspicion attaches to me.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the Baron. “Your honour demands it.”

“Exactly,” said Anthony. “You put these things so well. I haven’t got the knack of it. To continue, I can only clear myself by discovering the real murderer, and to do that I must have all the facts. This question of the Memoirs is very important. It seems to me possible that to gain possession of them might be the motive of the crime. Tell me, Baron, is that a very far-fetched idea?”

The Baron hesitated for a moment or two.

“You yourself the Memoirs have read?” he asked cautiously at length.

“I think I am answered,” said Anthony, smiling. “Now Baron, there’s just one thing more. I should like to give you fair warning that it is still my intention to deliver that manuscript to the publishers on Wednesday next, the 13th of October.”

The Baron stared at him.

“But you have no longer got it?”

“On Wednesday next, I said. To-day is Friday. That gives me five days to get hold of it again.”

“But if it is burnt?”

“I don’t think it is burnt. I have good reasons for not believing so.”

As he spoke they turned the corner of the terrace. A massive figure was advancing towards them. Anthony, who had not yet seen the great Mr. Herman Isaacstein, looked at him with considerable interest.

“Ah, Baron,” said Isaacstein, waving the big black cigar he was smoking, “this is a bad business—a very bad business.”

“My good friend, Mr. Isaacstein, it is indeed,” cried the Baron. “All our noble edifice in ruins is.”

Anthony tactfully left the two gentlemen to their lamentations, and retraced his steps along the terrace.

Suddenly he came to a halt. A thin spiral of smoke was rising into the air apparently from the very centre of the yew hedge.

“It must be hollow in the middle,” reflected Anthony. “I’ve heard of such things before.”

He looked swiftly to right and left of him. Lord Caterham was at the farther end of the terrace with Captain Andrassy. Their backs were towards him. Anthony bent down and wriggled his way through the massive yew.

He had been quite right in his supposition. The yew hedge was really not one, but two, a narrow passage divided them. The entrance to this was about half-way up, on the side of the house. There was no mystery about it, but no one seeing the yew hedge from the front would have guessed at the probability.

Anthony looked down the narrow vista. About half-way down, a man was reclining in a basket chair. A half-smoked cigar rested on the arm of the chair, and the gentleman himself appeared to be asleep.

“H’m!” said Anthony to himself. “Evidently Mr. Hiram Fish prefers sitting in the shade.”

16

Tea in the Schoolroom

Anthony regained the terrace with the feeling uppermost in his mind that the only safe place for private conversations was the middle of the lake.

The resonant boom of a gong sounded from the house, and Tredwell appeared in a stately fashion from a side door.

“Luncheon is served, my lord.”

“Ah!” said Lord Caterham, brisking up a little. “Lunch.”

At that moment two children burst out of the house. They were high-spirited young women of twelve and ten, and though their names might be Dulcie and Daisy, as Bundle had affirmed, they appeared to be more generally known as Guggle and Winkle. They executed a kind of war dance, interspersed with shrill whoops till Bundle emerged and quelled them.

“Where’s Mademoiselle?” she demanded.

“She’s got the _migraine_, the _migraine_, the _migraine_!” chanted Winkle.

“Hurrah!” said Guggle, joining in.

Lord Caterham had succeeded in shepherding most of his guests into the house. Now he laid a restraining hand on Anthony’s arm.

“Come to my study,” he breathed. “I’ve got something rather special there.”

Slinking down the hall, far more like a thief than like the master of the house, Lord Caterham gained the shelter of his sanctum. Here he unlocked a cupboard and produced various bottles.

“Talking to foreigners always makes me so thirsty,” he explained apologetically. “I don’t know why it is.”

There was a knock on the door, and Virginia popped her head round the corner of it.

“Got a special cocktail for me?” she demanded.

“Of course,” said Lord Caterham hospitably. “Come in.”

The next few minutes were taken up with serious rites.

“I needed that,” said Lord Caterham with a sigh, as he replaced his glass on the table. “As I said just now, I find talking to foreigners particularly fatiguing. I think it’s because they’re so polite. Come along. Let’s have some lunch.”

He led the way to the dining-room. Virginia put her hand on Anthony’s arm, and drew him back a little.

“I’ve done my good deed for the day,” she whispered. “I got Lord Caterham to take me to see the body.”

“Well?” demanded Anthony eagerly.

One theory of his was to be proved or disproved.

Virginia was shaking her head.

“You were wrong,” she whispered. “It’s Prince Michael all right.”

“Oh!” Anthony was deeply chagrined.

“And Mademoiselle has the _migraine_,” he added aloud, in a dissatisfied tone.

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Probably nothing, but I wanted to see her. You see, I’ve found out that Mademoiselle has the second room from the end—the one where I saw the light last night.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Probably there’s nothing in it. All the same, I mean to see Mademoiselle before the day is out.”

Lunch was somewhat of an ordeal. Even the cheerful impartiality of Bundle failed to reconcile the heterogeneous assembly. The Baron and Andrassy were correct, formal, full of etiquette, and had the air of attending a meal in a mausoleum. Lord Caterham was lethargic and depressed. Bill Eversleigh stared longingly at Virginia. George, very mindful of the trying position in which he found himself, conversed weightily with the Baron and Mr. Isaacstein. Guggle and Winkle, completely beside themselves with joy of having a murder in the house, had to be continually checked and kept under, whilst Mr. Hiram Fish slowly masticated his food, and drawled out dry remarks in his own peculiar idiom. Superintendent Battle had considerately vanished, and nobody knew what had become of him.

“Thank God that’s over,” murmured Bundle to Anthony, as they left the table. “And George is taking the foreign contingent over to the Abbey this afternoon to discuss State secrets.”

“That will possibly relieve the atmosphere,” agreed Anthony.

“I don’t mind the American so much,” continued Bundle. “He and Father can talk first editions together quite happily in some secluded spot. Mr. Fish”—as the object of their conversation drew near—“I’m planning a peaceful afternoon for you.”

The American bowed.

“That’s too kind of you, Lady Eileen.”

“Mr. Fish,” said Anthony, “had quite a peaceful morning.”

Mr. Fish shot a quick glance at him.

“Ah, sir, you observed me, then, in my seclooded retreat? There are moments, sir, when far from the madding crowd is the only motto for a man of quiet tastes.”

Bundle had drifted on, and the American and Anthony were left together. The former dropped his voice a little.

“I opine,” he said, “that there is considerable mystery about this little dust up?”

“Any amount of it,” said Anthony.

“That guy with the bald head was perhaps a family connection?”

“Something of the kind.”

“These Central European nations beat the band,” declared Mr. Fish. “It’s kind of being rumoured around that the deceased gentleman was a Royal Highness. Is that so, do you know?”

“He was staying here as Count Stanislaus,” replied Anthony evasively.

To this Mr. Fish offered no further rejoinder than the somewhat cryptic:

“Oh! boy.”

After which he relapsed into silence for some moments.

“This police captain of yours,” he observed at last, “Battle, or whatever his name is, is he the goods all right?”

“Scotland Yard thinks so,” replied Anthony dryly.

“He seems kind of hide-bound to me,” remarked Mr. Fish. “No hustle to him. This big idea of his, letting no one leave the house, what is there to it?”

He darted a very sharp look at Anthony as he spoke.

“Everyone’s got to attend the inquest to-morrow morning, you see.”

“That’s the idea, is it? No more to it than that? No question of Lord Caterham’s guests being suspected?”

“My dear Mr. Fish!”

“I was getting a mite uneasy—being a stranger in this country. But of course it was an outside job—I remember now. Window found unfastened, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” said Anthony, looking straight in front of him.

Mr. Fish sighed. After a minute or two he said in a plaintive tone:

“Young man, do you know how they get the water out of a mine?”

“How?”

“By pumping—but its almighty hard work! I observe the figure of my genial host detaching itself from the group over yonder. I must join him.”

Mr. Fish walked gently away, and Bundle drifted back again.

“Funny Fish, isn’t he?” she remarked.

“He is.”

“It’s no good looking at Virginia,” said Bundle sharply.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were. I don’t know how she does it. It isn’t what she says, I don’t even believe it’s what she looks. But, oh, boy! she gets there every time. Anyway, she’s on duty elsewhere for the time. She told me to be nice to you, and I’m going to be nice to you—by force if necessary.”

“No force required,” Anthony assured her. “But, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you were nice to me on the water, in a boat.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” said Bundle meditatively.

They strolled down to the lake together.

“There’s just one question I’d like to ask you,” said Anthony as he paddled gently out from the shore, “before we turn to really interesting topics. Business before pleasure.”

“Whose bedroom do you want to know about now?” asked Bundle with weary patience.

“Nobody’s bedroom for the moment. But I would like to know where you got your French governess from.”

“The man’s bewitched,” said Bundle. “I got her from an Agency, and I pay her a hundred pounds a year, and her Christian name is Genevieve. Anything more you want to know?”

“We’ll assume the Agency,” said Anthony. “What about her references?”

“Oh, glowing! She’d lived for ten years with the Countess of What Not.”

“What Not being——?”

“The Comtesses de Breteuil, Chateau de Breteuil, Dinard.”

“You didn’t actually see the Comtesse yourself? It was all done by letter?”

“Exactly.”

“H’m!” said Anthony.

“You intrigue me,” said Bundle. “You intrigue me enormously. Is it love or crime?”

“Probably sheer idiocy on my part. Let’s forget it.”

“‘Let’s forget it,’ said he negligently, having extracted all the information he wants. Mr. Cade, who do you suspect? I rather suspect Virginia as being the most unlikely person. Or possibly Bill.”

“What about you?”

“Member of the aristocracy joins in secret the Comrades of the Red Hand. It would create a sensation all right.”

Anthony laughed. He liked Bundle, though he was a little afraid of the shrewd penetration of her sharp grey eyes.

“You must be proud of all this,” he said suddenly, waving his hand towards the great house in the distance.

Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.

“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway, we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys has been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week they take the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come and gape, and listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of the fourth Marchioness of Caterham, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ etc., and Ed or Bert, the humorist of the party, nudges his girl and says ‘Eh! Gladys, they’ve got two pennyworth of pictures here, right enough.’ And then they go and look at more pictures and yawn and shuffle their feet and wish it was time to go home.”

“Yet history has been made here once or twice, by all accounts.”

“You’ve been listening to George,” said Bundle sharply. “That’s the kind of thing he’s always saying.”

But Anthony had raised himself on his elbow, and was staring at the shore.

“Is that a third suspicious stranger I see standing disconsolately by the boat-house? Or is it one of the house party?”

Bundle lifted her head from the scarlet cushion.

“It’s Bill,” she said.

“He seems to be looking for something.”

“He’s probably looking for me,” said Bundle, without enthusiasm.

“Shall we row quickly in the opposite direction?”

“That’s quite the right answer, but it should be delivered with more enthusiasm.”

“I shall row with double vigour after that rebuke.”

“Not at all,” said Bundle. “I have my pride. Row me to where that young ass is waiting. Somebody’s got to look after him, I suppose. Virginia must have given him the slip. One of these days, inconceivable as it seems, I might want to marry George, so I might as well practise being ‘one of our well known political hostesses.’”

Anthony pulled obediently towards the shore.

“And what’s to become of me, I should like to know?” he complained. “I refuse to be the unwanted third. Is that the children I see in the distance?”

“Yes. Be careful, or they’ll rope you in.”

“I’m rather fond of children,” said Anthony. “I might teach them some nice quiet intellectual game.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Having relinquished Bundle to the care of her gallant captain, Anthony strolled off to where various shrill cries disturbed the peace of the afternoon. He was received with acclamation.

“Are you any good at playing Red Indians?” asked Guggle sternly.

“Rather,” said Anthony. “You should hear the noise I make when I’m being scalped. Like this.” He illustrated.

“Not so bad,” said Winkle grudgingly. “Now do the scalper’s yell.”

Anthony obliged with a blood-curdling noise. In another minute the game of Red Indians was in full swing.

About an hour later, Anthony wiped his forehead, and ventured to inquire after Mademoiselle’s _migraine_. He was pleased to hear that that lady had entirely recovered. So popular had he become that he was urgently invited to come and have tea in the schoolroom.

“And then you can tell us about the man you saw hung,” urged Guggle.

“Did you say you’d got a bit of the rope with you?” asked Winkle.

“It’s in my suit-case,” said Anthony solemnly. “You shall each have a piece of it.”

Winkle immediately let out a Wild Indian yell of satisfaction.

“We’ll have to go and get washed, I suppose,” said Guggle gloomily. “You will come to tea, won’t you? You won’t forget?”

Anthony swore solemnly that nothing should prevent his keeping the engagement. Satisfied, the youthful pair beat a retreat towards the house. Anthony stood for a minute looking after them, and, as he did so, he became aware of a man leaving the other side of a little copse of trees and hurrying away across the park. He felt almost sure that it was the same black-bearded stranger he had encountered that morning. Whilst he was hesitating whether to go after him or not the trees just ahead of him were parted and Mr. Hiram Fish stepped out into the open. He stared slightly when he saw Anthony.

“A peaceful afternoon, Mr. Fish?” inquired the latter.

“I thank you, yes.”

Mr. Fish did not look as peaceful as usual, however. His face was flushed, and he was breathing hard as though he had been running. He drew out his watch and consulted it.

“I guess,” he said softly, “it’s just about time for your British institution of afternoon tea.”

Closing his watch with a snap, Mr. Fish ambled gently away in the direction of the house.

Anthony stood in a brown study and awoke with a start to the fact that Superintendent Battle was standing beside him. Not the faintest sound had heralded his approach, and he seemed literally to have materialized from space.

“Where did you spring from?” asked Anthony irritably.

With a slight jerk of his head, Battle indicated the little copse of trees behind them.

“It seems a popular spot this afternoon,” remarked Anthony.

“You were very lost in thought, Mr. Cade?”

“I was indeed. Do you know what I was doing, Battle? I was trying to put two and one and five and three together so as to make four. And it can’t be done, Battle, it simply can’t be done.”

“There’s difficulties that way,” agreed the detective.

“But you’re just the man I wanted to see. Battle, I want to go away. Can it be done?”

True to his creed, Superintendent Battle showed neither emotion nor surprise. His reply was easy and matter of fact.

“That depends, sir, as to where you want to go.”

“I’ll tell you exactly, Battle. I’ll lay my cards upon the table. I want to go to Dinard, to the Chateau of Madame la Comtesse de Breteuil. Can it be done?”

“When do you want to go, Mr. Cade?”

“Say to-morrow after the inquest. I could be back here by Sunday evening.”

“I see,” said the superintendent, with peculiar solidity.

“Well, what about it?”

“I’ve no objection, provided you go where you say you’re going, and come straight back here.”

“You’re a man in a thousand, Battle. Either you have taken an extraordinary fancy to me or else you’re extraordinarily deep. Which is it?”

Superintendent Battle smiled a little, but did not answer.

“Well, well,” said Anthony, “I expect you’ll take your precautions. Discreet minions of the law will follow my suspicious footsteps. So be it. But I do wish I knew what it was all about.”

“I don’t get you, Mr. Cade.”

“The Memoirs—what all the fuss is about. Were they only Memoirs? Or have you got something up your sleeve?”

Battle smiled again.

“Take it like this. I’m doing you a favour because you’ve made a favourable impression on me, Mr. Cade. I’d like you to work in with me over this case. The amateur and the professional, they go well together. The one has the intimacy, so to speak, and the other the experience.”

“Well,” said Anthony slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.”

“Any ideas about the case at all, Mr. Cade?”

“Plenty of them,” said Anthony. “But they’re mostly questions.”

“As, for instance?”

“Who steps into the murdered Michael’s shoes? It seems to me that that is important?”

A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.

“I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicolas Obolovitch is the next heir—first cousin of this gentleman.”

“And where is he at the present moment?” asked Anthony, turning away to light a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I shan’t believe you.”

“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.”

Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.

“I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate—now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I right?”

“You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle.

“H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were doing in that copse.”

The detective smiled, but made no reply.

“International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.”

He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.

Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to be introduced to Mademoiselle.

For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a small, middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper and salt hair, and a budding moustache!

As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture at all.

“I believe,” said Anthony to himself, “I’m making the most utter fool of myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.”

He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part, was evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her schoolroom. The meal was a great success.

But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times.

“I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong. Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.”

He stopped in his pacing of the floor.

“What the devil——” began Anthony.

The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door.

He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheek-bones, and dreamy fanatic eyes.

“Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him.

The man replied in perfect English.

“I am Boris Anchoukoff.”

“Prince Michael’s servant, eh?”

“That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.”

“You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.”

“Yes—but—look here—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.”

Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.

“I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you—to the death!”

Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.

Anthony stared after him, his face a picture of astonishment.

“That’s damned odd,” he said to himself. “A faithful sort of dog. Curious the instincts these fellows have.”

He rose and paced up and down.

“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s awkward—damned awkward—just at present.”

17

A Midnight Adventure

The inquest took place on the following morning. It was extraordinarily unlike the inquests as pictured in sensational fiction. It satisfied even George Lomax in its rigid suppression of all interesting details. Superintendent Battle and the Coroner, working together with the support of the Chief Constable, had reduced the proceedings to the lowest level of boredom.

Immediately after the inquest, Anthony took an unostentatious departure.

His departure was the one bright spot in the day for Bill Eversleigh. George Lomax, obsessed with the fear that something damaging to his Department might leak out, had been exceedingly trying. Miss Oscar and Bill had been in constant attendance. Everything useful and interesting had been done by Miss Oscar. Bill’s part had been to run to and fro with countless messages, to decode telegrams, and to listen by the hour to George repeating himself.

It was a completely exhausted young man who retired to bed on Saturday night. He had had practically no chance to talk to Virginia all day, owing to George’s exactions, and he felt injured and ill-used. Thank goodness, that Colonial fellow had taken himself off. He had monopolized far too much of Virginia’s society anyway. And of course if George Lomax went on making an ass of himself like this—— His mind seething with resentment, Bill fell asleep. And, in dreams, came consolation. For he dreamt of Virginia.

It was an heroic dream, a dream of burning timbers in which he played the part of the gallant rescuer. He brought down Virginia from the topmost story in his arms. She was unconscious. He laid her on the grass. Then he went off to find a packet of sandwiches. It was most important that he should find that packet of sandwiches. George had it, but instead of giving it up to Bill, he began to dictate telegrams. They were now in the vestry of a church, and any minute Virginia might arrive to be married to him. Horror! He was wearing pyjamas. He must get home at once and find his proper clothes. He rushed out to the car. The car would not start. No petrol in the tank! He was getting desperate. And then a big General ’bus drew up and Virginia got out of it on the arm of the bald headed Baron. She was deliciously cool, and exquisitely dressed in grey. She came over to him and shook him by the shoulders playfully. “Bill,” she said. “Oh, Bill.” She shook him harder. “Bill,” she said. “Wake up. Oh, do wake up!”

Very dazed, Bill woke up. He was in his bedroom at Chimneys. But part of the dream was with him still. Virginia was leaning over him, and was repeating the same words with variations.

“Wake up, Bill. Oh, do wake up. Bill.”

“Hullo!” said Bill, sitting up in bed. “What’s the matter?”

Virginia gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness. I thought you’d never wake up. I’ve been shaking you and shaking you. Are you properly awake now?”

“I think so,” said Bill doubtfully.

“You great lump,” said Virginia. “The trouble I’ve had! My arms are aching.”

“These insults are uncalled for,” said Bill, with dignity. “Let me say, Virginia, that I consider your conduct most unbecoming. Not at all that of a pure young widow.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Bill. Things are happening.”

“What kind of things?”

“Queer things. In the Council Chamber. I thought I heard a door bang somewhere, and I came down to see. And then saw a light in the Council Chamber. I crept along the passage, and peeped through the crack of the door. I couldn’t see much, but what I could see was so extraordinary that I felt I must see more. And then, all of a sudden, I felt that I should like a nice, big, strong man with me. And you were the nicest and biggest and strongest man I could think of, so I came in and tried to wake you up quietly. But I’ve been ages doing it.”

“I see,” said Bill. “And what do you want me to do now? Get up and tackle the burglars?”

Virginia wrinkled her brows.

“I’m not sure that they are burglars. Bill, it’s very queer—— But don’t let’s waste time talking. Get up.”

Bill slipped obediently out of bed.

“Wait while I don a pair of boots—the big ones with nails in them. However big and strong I am, I’m not going to tackle hardened criminals with bare feet.”

“I like your pyjamas, Bill,” said Virginia dreamily. “Brightness without vulgarity.”

“While we’re on the subject,” remarked Bill, reaching for his second boot, “I like that thingummybob of yours. It’s a pretty shade of green. What do you call it? It’s not just a dressing-gown, is it?”

“It’s a _négligé_” said Virginia. “I’m glad you’ve led such a pure life, Bill.”

“I haven’t,” said Bill indignantly.

“You’ve just betrayed the fact. You’re very nice, Bill, and I like you. I dare say that to-morrow morning—say about ten o’clock, a good safe hour for not unduly exciting the emotions—I might even kiss you.”

“I always think these things are best carried out on the spur of the moment,” suggested Bill.

“We’ve other fish to fry,” said Virginia. “If you don’t want to put on a gas mask and a shirt of chain mail, shall we start?”

“I’m ready,” said Bill.

He wriggled into a lurid silk dressing-gown, and picked up a poker.

“The orthodox weapon,” he observed.

“Come on,” said Virginia, “and don’t make a noise.”

They crept out of the room and along the corridor, and then down the wide double staircase. Virginia frowned as they reached the bottom of it.

“Those boots of yours aren’t exactly domes of silence, are they, Bill?”

“Nails will be nails,” said Bill. “I’m doing my best.”

“You’ll have to take them off,” said Virginia firmly.

Bill groaned.

“You can carry them in your hand. I want to see if you can make out what’s going on in the Council Chamber. Bill, it’s awfully mysterious. Why should burglars take a man in armour to pieces?”

“Well, I suppose they can’t take him away whole very well. They disarticulate him, and pack him neatly.”

Virginia shook her head, dissatisfied.

“What should they want to steal a mouldy old suit of armour for? Why, Chimneys is full of treasures that are much easier to take away.”

Bill shook his head.

“How many of them are there?” he asked, taking a firmer grip of his poker.

“I couldn’t see properly. You know what a keyhole is. And they only had a flashlight.”

“I expect they’ve gone by now,” said Bill hopefully.

He sat down on the bottom stair and drew off his boots. Then, holding them in his hand, he crept along the passage that led to the Council Chamber, Virginia close behind him. They halted outside the massive oak door. All was silent within, but suddenly Virginia pressed his arm, and he nodded. A bright light had shown for a minute through the keyhole.

Bill went down on his knees, and applied his eye to the orifice. What he saw was confusing in the extreme. The scene of the drama that was being enacted inside was evidently just to the left, out of his line of vision. A subdued chink every now and then seemed to point to the fact that the invaders were still dealing with the figure in armour. There were two of these, Bill remembered. They stood together by the wall just under the Holbein portrait. The light of the electric torch was evidently being directed upon the operations in progress. It left the rest of the room nearly in darkness. Once a figure flitted across Bill’s line of vision, but there was not sufficient light to distinguish anything about it. It might have been that of a man or a woman. In a minute or two it flitted back again and then the subdued chinking sounded again. Presently there came a new sound, a faint tap-tap as of knuckles on wood.

Bill sat back on his heels suddenly.

“What is it?” whispered Virginia.

“Nothing. It’s no good going on like this. We can’t see anything, and we can’t guess what they’re up to. I must go in and tackle them.”

He drew on his boots and stood up.

“Now, Virginia, listen to me. We’ll open the door as softly as possible. You know where the switch of the electric light is?”

“Yes, just by the door.”

“I don’t think there are more than two of them. There may be only one. I want to get well into the room. Then, when I say ‘Go’ I want you to switch on the lights. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“And don’t scream or faint or anything. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“My hero!” murmured Virginia.

Bill peered at her suspiciously through the darkness. He heard a faint sound which might have been either a sob or a laugh. Then he grasped the poker firmly and rose to his feet. He felt that he was fully alive to the situation.

Very softly he turned the handle of the door. It yielded and swung gently inwards. Bill felt Virginia close beside him. Together they moved noiselessly into the room.

At the farther end of the room, the torch was playing upon the Holbein picture. Silhouetted against it was the figure of a man, standing on a chair and gently tapping on the panelling! His back, of course, was to them, and he merely loomed up as a monstrous shadow.

What more they might have seen cannot be told, for at that moment Bill’s nails squeaked upon the parquet floor. The man swung round, directing the powerful torch full upon them and almost dazzling them with the sudden glare.

Bill did not hesitate.

“Go,” he roared to Virginia, and sprang for his man, as she obediently pressed down the switch of the electric lights.

The big chandelier should have been flooded with light; but, instead, all that happened was the click of the switch. The room remained in darkness.

Virginia heard Bill curse freely. The next minute the air was filled with panting, scuffling sounds. The torch had fallen to the ground and extinguished itself in the fall. There was the sound of a desperate struggle going on in the darkness, but as to who was getting the better of it, and indeed as to who was taking part in it, Virginia had no idea. Had there been anyone else in the room besides the man who was tapping the panelling? There might have been. Their glimpse had been only a momentary one.

Virginia felt paralysed. She hardly knew what to do. She dared not try and join in the struggle. To do so might hamper and not aid Bill. Her one idea was to stay in the doorway, so that anyone trying to escape should not leave the room that way. At the same time, she disobeyed Bill’s express instructions and screamed loudly and repeatedly for help.

She heard doors opening upstairs, and a sudden gleam of light from the hall and the big staircase. If only Bill could hold his man until help came.

But at that minute there was a final terrific upheaval. They must have crashed into one of the figures in armour, for it fell to the ground with a deafening noise. Virginia saw dimly a figure springing for the window, and at the same time heard Bill cursing and disengaging himself from fragments of armour.

For the first time, she left her post, and rushed wildly for the figure at the window. But the window was already unlatched. The intruder had no need to stop and fumble for it. He sprang out and raced away down the terrace and round the corner of the house. Virginia raced after him. She was young and athletic, and she turned the corner of the terrace not many seconds after her quarry.

But there she ran headlong into the arms of a man who was emerging from a small side door. It was Mr. Hiram P. Fish.

“Gee! It’s a lady,” he exclaimed. “Why, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Revel. I took you for one of the thugs fleeing from justice.”

“He’s just passed this way,” cried Virginia breathlessly. “Can’t we catch him?”

But, even as she spoke, she knew it was too late. The man must have gained the park by now, and it was a dark night with no moon. She retraced her steps to the Council Chamber, Mr. Fish by her side, discoursing in a soothing monotone upon the habits of burglars in general, of which he seemed to have a wide experience.

Lord Caterham, Bundle, and various frightened servants were standing in the doorway of the Council Chamber.

“What the devil’s the matter?” asked Bundle. “Is it burglars? What are you and Mr. Fish doing, Virginia? Taking a midnight stroll?”

Virginia explained the events of the evening.

“How frightfully exciting,” commented Bundle. “You don’t usually get a murder and a burglary crowded into one week-end. What’s the matter with the lights in here? They’re all right everywhere else.”

That mystery was soon explained. The bulbs had simply been removed and laid in a row against the wall. Mounted on a pair of steps, the dignified Tredwell, dignified even in undress, restored illumination to the stricken apartment.

“If I am not mistaken,” said Lord Caterham in his sad voice as he looked around him, “this room has recently been the centre of somewhat violent activity.”

There was some justice in the remark. Everything that could have been knocked over had been knocked over. The floor was littered with splintered chairs, broken china, and fragments of armour.

“How many of them were there?” asked Bundle. “It seems to have been a desperate fight.”

“Only one, I think,” said Virginia. But, even as she spoke, she hesitated a little. Certainly only one person—a man—had passed out through the window. But as she had rushed after him, she had had a vague impression of a rustle somewhere close at hand. If so, the second occupant of the room could have escaped through the door. Perhaps, though, the rustle had been an effect of her own imagination.

Bill appeared suddenly at the window. He was out of breath and panting hard.

“Damn the fellow!” he exclaimed wrathfully. “He’s escaped. I’ve been hunting all over the place. Not a sign of him.”

“Cheer up, Bill,” said Virginia, “better luck next time.”

“Well,” said Lord Caterham, “what do you think we’d better do now? Go back to bed? I can’t get hold of Badgworthy at this time of night. Tredwell, you know the sort of thing that’s necessary. Just see to it, will you?”

“Very good, my lord.”

With a sigh of relief, Lord Caterham prepared to retreat.

“That beggar, Isaacstein, sleeps soundly,” he remarked, with a touch of envy. “You’d have thought all this row would have brought him down.” He looked across at Mr. Fish. “You found time to dress, I see,” he added.

“I flung on a few articles of clothing, yes,” admitted the American.

“Very sensible of you,” said Lord Caterham. “Damned chilly things, pyjamas.”

He yawned. In a rather depressed mood, the house party retired to bed.

18

Second Midnight Adventure

The first person that Anthony saw as he alighted from his train on the following afternoon was Superintendent Battle. His face broke into a smile.

“I’ve returned according to contract,” he remarked. “Did you come down here to assure yourself of the fact?”

Battle shook his head.

“I wasn’t worrying about that, Mr. Cade. I happen to be going to London, that’s all.”

“You have such a trustful nature, Battle.”

“Do you think so, sir?”

“No. I think you’re deep—very deep. Still waters, you know, and all that sort of thing. So you’re going to London?”

“I am, Mr. Cade.”

“I wonder why.”

The detective did not reply.

“You’re so chatty,” remarked Anthony. “That’s what I like about you.”

A far-off twinkle showed in Battle’s eyes.

“What about your own little job, Mr. Cade?” he inquired. “How did that go off?”

“I’ve drawn blank, Battle. For the second time I’ve been proved hopelessly wrong. Galling, isn’t it?”

“What was the idea, sir, if I may ask?”

“I suspected the French governess, Battle. A: Upon the grounds of her being the most unlikely person, according to the canons of the best fiction. B: Because there was a light in her room on the night of the tragedy.”

“That wasn’t much to go upon.”

“You are quite right. It was not. But I discovered that she had only been here a short time, and I also found a suspicious Frenchman spying round the place. You know all about him, I suppose?”

“You mean the man who calls himself M. Chelles? Staying at the _Cricketers_? A traveller in silk.”

“That’s it, is it? What about him? What does Scotland Yard think?”

“His actions have been suspicious,” said Superintendent Battle expressionlessly.

“Very suspicious, I should say. Well, I put two and two together. French governess in the house, French stranger outside. I decided that they were in league together, and I hurried off to interview the lady with whom Mademoiselle Brun had lived for the last ten years. I was fully prepared to find that she had never heard of any such person as Mademoiselle Brun, but I was wrong, Battle. Mademoiselle is the genuine article.”

Battle nodded.

“I must admit,” said Anthony, “that as soon as I spoke to her I had an uneasy conviction that I was barking up the wrong tree. She seemed so absolutely the governess.”

Again Battle nodded.

“All the same, Mr. Cade, you can’t always go by that. Women especially can do a lot with make up. I’ve seen quite a pretty girl with the color of her hair altered, a sallow complexion stain, slightly reddened eyelids and, most efficacious of all, dowdy clothes, who would fail to be identified by nine people out of ten who had seen her in her former character. Men haven’t got quite the same pull. You can do something with the eyebrows, and of course different sets of false teeth alter the whole expression. But there are always the ears—there’s an extraordinary lot of character in ears, Mr. Cade.”

“Don’t look so hard at mine, Battle,” complained Anthony. “You make me quite nervous.”

“I’m not talking of false beard and grease paint,” continued the superintendent. “That’s only for books. No, there are very few men who can escape identification and put it over on you. In fact there’s only one man I know who has a positive genius for impersonation. King Victor. Ever heard of King Victor, Mr. Cade?”

There was something so sharp and sudden about the way the detective put the question that Anthony half checked the words that were rising to his lips.

“King Victor?” he said reflectively instead. “Somehow, I seem to have heard the name.”

“One of the most celebrated jewel thieves in the world. Irish father, French mother. Can speak five languages at least. He’s been serving a sentence, but his time was up a few months ago.”

“Really? And where is he supposed to be now?”

“Well, Mr. Cade, that’s what we’d rather like to know.”

“The plot thickens,” said Anthony lightly. “No chance of his turning up here, is there? But I suppose he wouldn’t be interested in political Memoirs—only in jewels.”

“There’s no saying,” said Superintendent Battle. “For all we know, he may be here already.”

“Disguised as the second footman? Splendid. You’ll recognize him by his ears and cover yourself with glory.”

“Quite fond of your little joke, aren’t you, Mr. Cade? By the way, what do you think of that curious business at Staines?”

“Staines?” said Anthony. “What’s been happening at Staines?”

“It was in Saturday’s papers. I thought you might have seen about it. Man found by the roadside shot. A foreigner. It was in the papers again to-day, of course.”

“I did see something about it,” said Anthony carelessly. “Not suicide, apparently.”

“No. There was no weapon. As yet the man hasn’t been identified.”

“You seem very interested,” said Anthony, smiling. “No connection with Prince Michael’s death, is there?”

His hand was quite steady. So were his eyes. Was it his fancy that Superintendent Battle was looking at him with peculiar intentness?

“Seems to be quite an epidemic of that sort of thing,” said Battle. “But, well, I dare say there’s nothing in it.”

He turned away, beckoning to a porter as the London train came thundering in. Anthony drew a faint sigh of relief.

He strolled across the park in an unusually thoughtful mood. He purposely chose to approach the house from the same direction as that from which he had come on the fateful Thursday night, and as he drew near to it he looked up at the windows cudgelling his brains to make sure of the one where he had seen the light. Was he quite sure that it was the second from the end?

And, doing so, he made a discovery. There was an angle at the corner of the house in which was a window set farther back. Standing on one spot, you counted this window as the first, and the first one built out over the Council Chamber as the second, but move a few yards to the right and the part built out over the Council Chamber appeared to be the end of the house. The first window was invisible, and the two windows of the rooms over the Council Chamber would have appeared the first and second from the end. Where exactly had he been standing when he had seen the light flash up?

Anthony found the question very hard to determine. A matter of a yard or so made all the difference. But one point was made abundantly clear. It was quite possible that he had been mistaken in describing the light as occurring in the second room from the end. It might equally well have been the _third_.

Now who occupied the third room? Anthony was determined to find that out as soon as possible. Fortune favoured him. In the hall Tredwell had just set the massive silver urn in its place on the tea tray. Nobody else was there.

“Hullo, Tredwell,” said Anthony. “I wanted to ask you something. Who has the third room from the end on the West side? Over the Council Chamber, I mean.”

Tredwell reflected for a minute or two.

“That would be the American gentleman’s room, sir. Mr. Fish.”

“Oh, is it? Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Tredwell prepared to depart, then paused. The desire to be the first to impart news makes even pontifical butlers human.

“Perhaps you have heard, sir, of what occurred last night?”

“Not a word,” said Anthony. “What did occur last night?”

“An attempt at robbery, sir!”

“Not really? Was anything taken?”

“No, sir. The thieves were dismantling the suits of armour in the Council Chamber when they were surprised and forced to flee. Unfortunately they got clear away.”

“That’s very extraordinary,” said Anthony. “The Council Chamber again. Did they break in that way?”

“It is supposed, sir, that they forced the window.”

Satisfied with the interest his information had aroused Tredwell resumed his retreat, but brought up short with a dignified apology.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t hear you come in, and I didn’t know you were standing just behind me.”

Mr. Isaacstein who had been the victim of the impact waved his hand in a friendly fashion.

“No harm done, my good fellow. I assure you no harm done.”

Tredwell retired looking contemptuous, and Isaacstein came forward and dropped into an easy-chair.

“Hullo, Cade, so you’re back again. Been hearing all about last night’s little show?”

“Yes,” said Anthony. “Rather an exciting week-end, isn’t it?”

“I should imagine that last night was the work of local men,” said Isaacstein. “It seems a clumsy, amateurish affair.”

“Is there anyone about here who collects armour?” asked Anthony. “It seems a curious thing to select.”

“Very curious,” agreed Mr. Isaacstein. He paused a minute, and then said slowly: “The whole position here is very unfortunate.”

There was something almost menacing in his tone.

“I don’t quite understand,” said Anthony.

“Why are we all being kept here in this way? The inquest was over yesterday. The Prince’s body will be removed to London where it is being given out that he died of heart failure. And still nobody is allowed to leave the house. Mr. Lomax knows no more than I do. He refers me to Superintendent Battle.”