The Portrait
A surprise awaited Collins on his arrival at Wilton-on-Sea. Eric
Sanders was on the platform, and came forward with a pleasant smile.
He was a changed being. The sulky petulance was gone, and he seemed
like a man from whom a load of care has been removed. His manner was
friendly without being effusive.
Collins surveyed him keenly.
He was too used to studying human nature not to notice the change, and
too clever to show that he saw it.
They drove to the Vale among the autumn trees and over the hills from
whence magnificent views stretched out beneath them. Eric opened the
conversation.
“You people have done a smart bit of work capturing the murderer of
Sir James so quickly,” he said. “The papers were full of it this
morning.”
“Yes,” said Collins, dryly. “I read them on the way down.”
“He seems to be a desperate ruffian. I didn’t quite make out how it
was he was actually caught.”
“He wasn’t,” said Collins, “he gave himself up.”
“Oh, I see. It was not clear in the account,” he looked at Collins
doubtfully wondering how far it was right to ask him questions without
breach of etiquette.
“This is a wonderful piece of country,” said Collins. “It’s one of the
finest views I know just before we go down again into the valley. It’s
like the view from the Delectable Mountains.”
“You’ve read the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’?” said the other in surprise.
Collins gave a laugh. “Oh, I don’t spend all my time in bones and
blood, though problems do interest me.”
At the risk of courting a snub Eric said, “I expect you are sorry this
one is over so quickly?”
“Oh, there will be plenty more,” said he lightly.
On their arrival Mabel met them at the door and greeted Collins
warmly—a trifle too warmly—there was just a touch of over
effusiveness, which his quick eye noticed.
“We’re quite a party,” she said. “It is really too big so shortly
after——” she hesitated: “while we are in mourning. Mr. Allery is here,
with his wife and daughter.”
When they sat down to dinner that night there was indeed an atmosphere
of quiet enjoyment far removed from the horror of the past days. Mr.
Allery had had a word with Collins.
“I came as a duty. I was so much afraid that the poor little girl
would mope. It’s no earthly good crying over spilt milk. She has all
her life before her. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I think her old
aunt is far from an ideal chaperon. My wife is used to all occasions.”
“You mean?”
“You’ll see, my boy,” said the old lawyer with a chuckle, “The course
of true love is running smoother.”
Then the ladies had come in.
The dinner was a merry one; Allery had a fund of humour culled from
his long experience, and he found an able supporter in Collins.
Sanders was no fool, and now that he was absolutely happy he took his
part. He had taken Miss Allery in, but Collins noted that he was
sitting next to Mabel. Collins had taken in the Aunt, who was only a
cousin of Sir James. He was sitting with his back to the windows from
which the setting sun still shone into the room, for they had dined
early. In front of him was a great fire-place, and over the mantel was
a large portrait of Sir James in court dress.
“Fancy,” Sanders was saying, “I find Mr. Collins spends his spare time
reading the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ ”
“And very good taste, too,” said Allery. “It contains some of the most
glorious pieces of English ever written.
“Not one of our modern writers can touch it.”
It was getting dark in the room.
“I think,” said the aunt, “we might have a light, my dear?”
“Certainly,” said Mabel. “John, turn on the electric light.”
At that moment a last ray, almost blood-red, came from the dying sun
through the window, and shone full on the portrait over the
fire-place. Collins was idly looking at it, when his face suddenly
became rigid and fixed. An intent look came into his eyes, and he
stared hard at the portrait. Then the brilliant light came on. At that
moment he felt rather than saw that Mabel was watching him. He turned
to her and she looked down in confusion, and a red pervaded her face.
They both recovered and their eyes met. He read in them a certain
uneasiness or dread.
Instantly he composed his features and said, “That’s better, but the
sunset was very beautiful.”
“We’ve missed the first News bulletin,” said Allery, “but we must get
the second. I always feel lost in the country when there’s no
wireless. Miss Watson has a splendid receiving set.”
While conversation was general Collins leant over to Allery.
“Better not say too much about the news,” he said. “There will be
something about the murder, certain to be, and it may distress her.”
“Perhaps you are right, but as a matter of fact, she has been much
more cheerful since she heard that they had got the man.”
The receiving set was in the old oak-pannelled hall in a neat cabinet.
The company foregathered here at ten o’clock for the news. Eric was
the operator. After the hundred and fortieth chess move between two
Scotsmen, and the usual dismal forecast of the weather, an account was
given of the preliminary examination of Jackson, who was being kept
under observation by Home Office doctors. Two facts emerged, that the
Home Office was satisfied in a guarded way that he was the man, with
plenty of the cautious word ‘alleged,’ and that he was hopelessly mad.
Collins smiled as he listened. He had seated himself on a cushion in
the shadow where he could watch Mabel’s expressive face. He saw a look
of relief, and something more, a puzzled look on her face.
After the news an announcement was broadcasted, as had been done for
the past few days, asking for information as to the whereabouts of
Ronald, now Sir Ronald Watson, last heard of at Monte Video, etc.
As the loud speaker announced this, Collins saw a swift glance pass
between Mabel and Allery.
When the Savoy bands were in full blast, Sanders and Allery departed
to finish an interrupted game of billiards. The four ladies continued
a game of bridge. Collins had joined with neither party, but watched
each in turn. When Mabel was “dummy” she came across to him. “I wish
you were not out of things like this,” she said, “I feel I am not
doing my duty as hostess.”
“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “I am enjoying myself.”
“I suppose you are feeling more at rest now that this horrible affair
has been cleared up?”
“Of course it ends the matter as far as I am concerned—for the
present,” he said. “And you?”
“Oh, I told you,” she said. “I would much rather it turned out to be a
man who was not responsible. There will be nothing done to him, I
suppose?”
“He will be confined to Broadmoor for life, now. He has been there
before, you know. They won’t let him out again.”
“How sad,” she said; “but it’s better than a man being hanged, isn’t
it?”
“If he’s guilty,” said Collins.
“Of course they will have to prove their case, won’t they?” she said.
He gave a scornful laugh. “Oh, they will do that all right,” he said.
“Do you mean whether he is guilty or not? But that is too dreadful.”
“If a man once gets into the clutches of the Law it doesn’t matter
much whether he’s guilty or not. He’s about as much chance as a fly in
a spider’s net.”
“What an awful thing. But you were a barrister once yourself?”
“That’s why I say that,” he answered with meaning.
“But we must not keep on talking about this, it will make you morbid.”
“Come on, Mabel, we are waiting for you,” came from the table.
Collins strolled out into the garden where a bright moon was shining.
What should he do? Let things slide altogether, and the Law take its
course? That was best, but a curious streak of vanity and desire for
mystery goaded him on to fresh research. There were other problems
beside the main plot which called for solution.
There was the curious disappearance of Lewis. And what about Eric
Sanders? Besides he grudged an easy triumph for the oily Boyce. He
would like to upset his apple-cart.
The scent of the flowers and a cool breeze were delightful after
London. He wandered round the house like a nocturnal cat, and came to
the dining-room window. He stopped dead. Yes; he would have another
look, while the others were busy.
Returning to the house he went to the dining-room and turned on the
electric light. Sir James was staring down at him from over the
mantelpiece. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the table,
gazing keenly at the portrait. He sat there motionless, in thought. He
had an unusually keen sense and he felt, rather than saw, that someone
had come into the room. He made no sign. A quiet voice at his elbow
said, “It’s a very good likeness, and cleverly painted, isn’t it?” He
turned without haste. Allery was standing beside him with an
inscrutable smile on his face.
“I came to look for you as we have finished, and I thought you might
like a nightcap before turning in.”
“Thanks, I will come along,” said Collins. “I never saw Sir James to
speak to. He had a remarkable face. A strange mixture of hardness and
sympathy. The mouth is hard as a rock, but the eyes are sympathetic.”
“You are a student of these things, of course,” said the lawyer. “But
you are quite right. He was a contradiction, but his intellect always
ruled his emotions.”
“Was his son anything like him?”
“In character, yes; in face he was too young to say. He was
undeveloped.”
Collins turned out the light and they went to join the others.