"It's all very well for the Chief to sit in there like a five-guinea
palmist," Gladys Norman cried one morning, as after interviewing the
umpteenth caller that day she proceeded vigorously to powder her
nose, to the obvious interest of William Johnson; "but what about
me? If anyone else comes I must speak the truth. I haven't an unused
lie left."
"Then you had better let Johnson have a turn," said a quiet voice
behind her.
She span round, with flaming cheeks and white-flecked nose, to see
the steel grey eyes of Malcolm Sage gazing on her quizzically
through gold-rimmed spectacles. There was only the slightest
fluttering at the corners of his mouth.
As his activities enlarged, Malcolm Sage's fame had increased, and
he was overwhelmed with requests for assistance. Clients bore down
upon him from all parts of the country; some even crossing the
Channel, whilst from America and the Colonies came a flood of
letters giving long, rambling details of mysteries, murders and
disappearances, all of which he was expected to solve.
Those who wrote, however, were as nothing to those who called. They
arrived in various stages of excitement and agitation, only to be
met by Miss Gladys Norman with a stereotyped smile and the equally
stereotyped information that Mr. Malcolm Sage saw no one except by
appointment, which was never made until the nature of the would-be
client's business had been stated in writing.
The Surrey cattle-maiming affair, and the consequent publicity it
gave to the name of Malcolm Sage, had resulted in something like a
siege of the Bureau's offices.
"I told you so," said Lady Dene gaily to her husband, and he had
nodded his head in entire agreement.
Malcolm Sage's success was largely due to the very quality that had
rendered him a failure as a civil servant, the elasticity of his
mind.
He approached each problem entirely unprejudiced, weighed the
evidence, and followed the course it indicated, prepared at any
moment to retrace his steps, should they lead to a cul-de-sac.
He admitted the importance of the Roman judicial interrogation, "cui
bono?" (whom benefits it?); yet he realised that there was always
the danger of confusing the pathological with the criminal.
"The obvious is the correct solution of most mysteries," he had once
remarked to Sir James Walton; but there is always the possibility of
exception.
The Surrey cattle-maiming mystery had been a case in point. Even
more so was the affair that came to be known as "The Gylston
Slander." In this case Malcolm Sage arrived at the truth by a
refusal to accept what, on the face of it, appeared to be the
obvious solution.
It was through Roger Freynes, the eminent K.C., that he first became
interested in the series of anonymous letters that had created
considerable scandal in the little village of Gylston.
Tucked away in the north-west corner of Hampshire, Gylston was a
village of some eight hundred inhabitants. The vicar, the Rev. John
Crayne, had held the living for some twenty years. Aided by his wife
and daughter, Muriel, a pretty and high-spirited girl of nineteen,
he devoted himself to the parish, and in return enjoyed great
popularity.
Life at the vicarage was an ideal of domestic happiness. Mr. and Mrs.
Crayne were devoted to each other and to their daughter, and she to
them. Muriel Crayne had grown up among the villagers, devoting
herself to parish work as soon as she was old enough to do so. She
seemed to find her life sufficient for her needs, and many were the
comparisons drawn by other parents in Gylston between the vicar's
daughter and their own restless offspring.
A year previously a new curate had arrived in the person of the Rev.
Charles Blade. His frank, straightforward personality, coupled with
his good looks and masculine bearing, had caused him to be greatly
liked, not only by the vicar and his family, but by all the
parishioners.
Suddenly and without warning the peace of the vicarage was destroyed.
One morning Mr. Crayne received by post an anonymous letter, in
which the names of his daughter and the curate were linked together
in a way that caused him both pain, and anxiety.
A man with a strong sense of honour himself, he cordially despised
the anonymous letter-writer, and his first instinct had been to
ignore that which he had just received. On second thoughts, however,
he reasoned that the writer would be unlikely to rest content with a
single letter; but would, in all probability, make the same
calumnious statements to others.
After consulting with his wife, he had reluctantly questioned his
daughter. At first she was inclined to treat the matter lightly; but
on the grave nature of the accusations being pointed out to her, she
had become greatly embarrassed and assured him that the curate had
never been more than ordinarily attentive to her.
The vicar decided to allow the matter to rest there, and accordingly
he made no mention of the letter to Blade.
A week later his daughter brought him a letter she had found lying
in the vicarage grounds. It contained a passionate declaration of
love, and ended with a threat of what might happen if the writer's
passion were not reciprocated.
Although the letter was unsigned, the vicar could not disguise from
himself the fact that there was a marked similarity between the
handwriting of the two anonymous letters and that of his curate. He
decided, therefore, to ask Blade if he could throw any light on the
matter.
At first the young man had appeared bewildered; then he had pledged
his word of honour, not only that he had not written the letters,
but that there was no truth in the statements they contained.
With that the vicar had to rest content; but worse was to follow.
Two evenings later, one of the churchwardens called at the vicarage
and, after behaving in what to the vicar seemed a very strange
manner, he produced from his pocket a letter he had received that
morning, in which were repeated the scandalous statements contained
in the first epistle.
From then on the district was deluged with anonymous letters, all
referring to the alleged passion of the curate for the vicar's
daughter, and the intrigue they were carrying on together. Some of
the letters were frankly indelicate in their expression and, as the
whole parish seethed with the scandal, the vicar appealed to the
police for aid.
One peculiarity of the letters was that all were written upon the
same paper, known as "Olympic Script." This was supplied locally to
a number of people in the neighbourhood, among others, the vicar,
the curate, and the schoolmaster.
Soon the story began to find its way into the newspapers, and
Blade's position became one full of difficulty and embarrassment. He
had consulted Robert Freynes, who had been at Oxford with his father,
and the K.C., convinced of the young man's innocence, had sought
Malcolm Sage's aid.
"You see, Sage," Freynes had remarked, "I'm sure the boy is straight
and incapable of such conduct; but it's impossible to talk to that
ass Murdy. He has no more imagination than a tin-linnet."
Freynes's reference was to Chief Inspector Murdy, of Scotland Yard,
who had been entrusted with the enquiry, the local police having
proved unequal to the problem.
Although Malcolm Sage had promised Robert Freynes that he would
undertake the enquiry into the Gylston scandal, it was not until
nearly a week later that he found himself at liberty to motor down
into Hampshire.
One afternoon the vicar of Gylston, on entering his church, found a
stranger on his knees in the chancel. Note-book in hand, he was
transcribing the inscription of a monumental brass.
As the vicar approached, he observed that the stranger was
vigorously shaking a fountain-pen, from which the ink had evidently
been exhausted.
At the sound of Mr. Crayne's footsteps the stranger looked up,
turning towards him a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, above which a
bald conical head seemed to contradict the keenness of the eyes and
the youthful lines of the face beneath.
"You are interested in monumental brasses?" enquired the vicar, as
he entered the chancel, and the stranger rose to his feet. "I am the
vicar," he explained. There was a look of eager interest in the pale
grey eyes that looked out from a placid, scholarly face.
"I was taking the liberty of copying the inscription on this,"
replied Malcolm Sage, indicating the time-worn brass at his feet,
"only unfortunately my fountain-pen has given out."
"There is pen and ink in the vestry," said the vicar, impressed by
the fact that the stranger had chosen the finest brass in the church,
one that had been saved from Cromwell's Puritans by the ingenuity of
the then incumbent, who had caused it to be covered with cement.
Then as an afterthought the vicar added, "I can get your pen filled
at the vicarage. My daughter has some ink; she always uses a
fountain-pen."
Malcolm Sage thanked him, and for the next half-hour the vicar
forgot the worries of the past few weeks in listening to a man who
seemed to have the whole subject of monumental brasses and Norman
architecture at his finger-ends.
Subsequently Malcolm Sage was invited to the vicarage, where another
half-hour was occupied in Mr. Crayne showing him his collection of
books on brasses.
As Malcolm Sage made a movement to depart, the vicar suddenly
remembered the matter of the ink, apologised for his remissness, and
left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of
fountain-pen ink. Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket his pen, and
proceeded to replenish the ink from the bottle. Finally he completed
the transcription of the lettering of the brass from a rubbing
produced by the vicar.
Reluctant to allow so interesting a visitor to depart, Mr. Crayne
pressed him to take tea; but Malcolm Sage pleaded an engagement.
As they crossed the hall, a fair girl suddenly rushed out from a
door on the right. She was crying hysterically. Her hair was
disordered, her deep violet eyes rimmed with red, and her moist lips
seemed to stand out strangely red against the alabaster paleness of
her skin.
"Muriel!"
Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly at the vicar. The look of scholarly
calm had vanished from his features, giving place to a set sternness
that reflected the tone in which he had uttered his daughter's name.
At the sight of a stranger the girl had paused, then, as if
realising her tear-stained face and disordered hair, she turned and
disappeared through the door from which she had rushed.
"My daughter," murmured the vicar, a little sadly, Malcolm Sage
thought. "She has always been very highly strung and emotional," he
added, as if considering some explanation necessary. "We have to be
very stern with her on such occasions. It is the only way to repress
it."
"You find it answers?" remarked Malcolm Sage.
"She has been much better lately, although she has been sorely tried.
Perhaps you have heard."
Malcolm Sage nodded absently, as he gazed intently at the thumb-nail
of his right hand. A minute later he was walking down the drive, his
thoughts occupied with the pretty daughter of the vicar of Gylston.
At the curate's lodgings he was told that Mr. Blade was away, and
would not return until late that night.
As he turned from the gate, Malcolm Sage encountered a pale-faced,
narrow-shouldered man with a dark moustache and a hard, peevish
mouth.
To Malcolm Sage's question as to which was the way to the inn, he
nodded in the direction from which he had come and continued on his
way.
"A man who has failed in what he set out to accomplish," was Malcolm
Sage's mental diagnosis of John Gray, the Gylston schoolmaster.
It was not long before Malcolm Sage realised that the village of
Gylston was intensely proud of itself. It had seen in the London
papers accounts of the mysterious scandal of which it was the centre.
A Scotland Yard officer had been down, and had subjected many of the
inhabitants to a careful cross-examination. In consequence Gylston
realised that it was a village to be reckoned with.
The Tired Traveller was the centre of all rumour and gossip. Here
each night in the public-bar, or in the private-parlour, according
to their social status, the inhabitants would forgather and discuss
the problem of the mysterious letters. Every sort of theory was
advanced, and every sort of explanation offered. Whilst popular
opinion tended to the view that the curate was the guilty party,
there were some who darkly shook their heads and muttered, "We shall
see."
It was remembered and discussed with relish that John Gray, the
schoolmaster, had for some time past shown a marked admiration for
the vicar's daughter. She, however, had made it clear that the
cadaverous, saturnine pedagogue possessed for her no attractions.
During the half-hour that Malcolm Sage spent at The Tired Traveller,
eating a hurried meal, he heard all there was to be heard about
local opinion.
The landlord, a rubicund old fellow whose baldness extended to his
eyelids, was bursting with information. By nature capable of making
a mystery out of a sunbeam, he revelled in the scandal that hummed
around him.
After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the landlord's
conversation, Malcolm Sage found himself possessed of a bewildering
amount of new material.
"A young gal don't have them highsterics for nothin'," my host
remarked darkly. "Has fits of 'em every now and then ever since she
was a flapper, sobbin' and cryin' fit to break 'er heart, and the
vicar that cross with her."
"That is considered the best way to treat hysterical people,"
remarked Malcolm Sage.
"Maybe," was the reply, "but she's only a gal, and a pretty one
too," he added inconsequently.
"Then there's the schoolmaster," he continued, "'ates the curate
like poison, he does. Shouldn't be surprised if it was him that done
it. 'E's always been a bit sweet in that quarter himself, has Mr.
Gray. Got talked about a good deal one time, 'angin' about arter
Miss Muriel," added the loquacious publican.
By the time Malcolm Sage had finished his meal, the landlord was
well in his stride of scandalous reminiscence. It was with obvious
reluctance that he allowed so admirable a listener to depart, and it
was with manifest regret that he watched Malcolm Sage's car
disappear round the curve in the road.
A little way beyond the vicarage, an admonitory triangle caused Tims
to slow up. Just by the bend Malcolm Sage observed a youth and a
girl standing in the recess of a gate giving access to a meadow.
Although they were in the shadow cast by the hedge, Malcolm Sage's
quick eyes recognised in the girl the vicar's daughter. The youth
looked as if he might be one of the lads of the village.
In the short space of two or three seconds Malcolm Sage noticed the
change in the girl. Although he could not see her face very clearly,
the vivacity of her bearing and the ready laugh were suggestive of a
gaiety contrasting strangely with the tragic figure he had seen in
the afternoon.
Muriel Crayne was obviously of a very mercurial temperament, he
decided, as the car swung round the bend.
The next morning, in response to a telephone message, Inspector
Murdy called on Malcolm Sage.
"Well, Mr. Sage," he cried, as he shook hands, "going to have
another try to teach us our job," and his blue eyes twinkled
good-humouredly.
The inspector had already made up his mind. He was a man with
many successes to his record, achieved as a result of undoubted
astuteness in connection with the grosser crimes, such as
train-murders, post-office hold-ups and burglaries. He was incapable,
however, of realising that there existed a subtler form of
law-breaking, arising from something more intimately associated with
the psychic than the material plane.
"Did you see Mr. Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage.
"Saw the whole blessed lot," was the cheery reply. "It's all as
clear as milk," and he laughed.
"What did Mr. Blade say?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking keenly
across at the inspector.
"Just that he had nothing to say."
"His exact words. Can you remember them?" queried Malcolm Sage.
"Oh, yes!" replied the inspector. "He said, 'Inspector Murdy, I have
nothing to say,' and then he shut up like a real Whitstable."
"He was away yesterday," remarked Malcolm Sage, who then told the
inspector of his visit. "How about John Gray, the schoolmaster?" he
queried.
"He practically told me to go to the devil," was the genial reply.
Inspector Murdy was accustomed to rudeness; his profession invited
it, and to his rough-and-ready form of reasoning, rudeness meant
innocence; politeness guilt.
He handed to Malcolm Sage a copy of a list of people who purchased
"Olympic Script" from Mr. Grainger, the local Whiteley, volunteering
the information that the curate was the biggest consumer, as if that
settled the question of his guilt.
"And yet the vicar would not hear of the arrest of Blade," murmured
Malcolm Sage, turning the copper ash-tray round with his restless
fingers.
The inspector shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Sheer good nature and kindliness, Mr. Sage," he said. "He's as
gentle as a woman."
"I once knew a man," remarked Malcolm Sage, "who said that in the
annals of crime lay the master-key to the world's mysteries, past,
present and to come."
"A dreamer, Mr. Sage," smiled the inspector. "We haven't time for
dreaming at the Yard," he added good-temperedly, as he rose and
shook himself like a Newfoundland dog.
"I suppose it never struck you to look elsewhere than at the
curate's lodgings for the writer of the letters?" enquired Malcolm
Sage quietly.
"It never strikes me to look about for someone when I'm sitting on
his chest," laughed Inspector Murdy.
"True," said Malcolm Sage. "By the way," he continued, without
looking up, "in future can you let me see every letter as it is
received? You might also keep careful record of how they are
delivered."
"Certainly, Mr. Sage. Anything that will make you happy."
"Later I may get you to ask the vicar to seal up any subsequent
anonymous letters that reach him without allowing anyone to see the
contents. Do you think he would do that?"
"Without doubt if I ask him," said the inspector, surprise in his
eyes as he looked down upon the cone of baldness beneath him,
realising what a handicap it is to talk to a man who keeps his eyes
averted.
"He must then put the letters in a place where no one can possibly
obtain access to them. One thing more," continued Malcolm Sage,
"will you ask Miss Crayne to write out the full story of the letters
as far as she personally is acquainted with it?"
"Very well, Mr. Sage," said the inspector, with the air of one
humouring a child. "Now I'll be going." He walked towards the door,
then suddenly stopped and turned.
"I suppose you think I'm wrong about the curate?"
"I'll tell you later," was the reply.
"When you find the master-key?" laughed the inspector, as he opened
the door.
"Yes, when I find the master-key," said Malcolm Sage quietly and, as
the door closed behind Inspector Murdy, he continued to finger the
copper ashtray as if that were the master-key.