“Twelve minutes to one.” Anthony Collyer turned into the Tube station.
He was lunching with Mrs. Luke Bechcombe and the Tube would get him
there in time and be cheaper than a taxi. Anthony was inclined to be
economical these days. He paused at the bookstall to buy a paper.
The tragic death of a London solicitor was beginning to be crowded
out. A foreign potentate was ill. There were daily bulletins in the
paper. There were rumours of a royal engagement. A great race meeting
was impending, the man in the street was much occupied in trying to
spot the winners. Altogether the general public was a great deal too
busy to have time to spare for speculations as to the identity of Luke
Bechcombe's assassin. Still, every few days there would be a paragraph
stating that the police were in possession of fresh evidence, and that
an arrest was hourly expected; so far, however, there had been no
result. Still, the very mention of the Crow's Inn Tragedy held a
morbid fascination for Anthony Collyer. The heading caught his eye now
and he paused to turn the paper over.
Standing thus by the bookstall he was hidden from the sight of the
passers-by. For his part he was thinking of nothing but his paper,
when two sentences caught his ear.
“I tell you, you will have to go to Burford.”
“Suppose I am followed?”
Both voices—a man's and a woman's—sounded familiar to Anthony Collyer.
The former he could not place at the moment, the latter—the blood ran
rapidly to his head, as he gazed after the retreating couple who were
now walking quickly in the direction of the ticket office—surely, he
said to himself, it was Cecily Hoyle's voice!
Cecily Hoyle it undoubtedly was. He recognized her tall, slim figure
and her big grey coat with its square squirrel collar. Her companion
was a man at whom Tony could only get a glance; of medium height
wearing rather shabby-looking clothes, and with grey hair worn much
longer than usual, his face, as he turned it to his companion, was
clean-shaven and rosy as of a man who lived out of doors.
Anthony had not seen Cecily since their meeting in Kensington Gardens
now more than a week ago. It was evident that she intended to abide by
her words; she had not answered any of Tony's impassioned letters, she
had refused to see him when he had called at Hobart Residence, he had
asked for her when visiting Mrs. Bechcombe. Now it seemed to him that
Fate had put in his hands the clue to the tangled mass of
contradictions that Cecily had become.
Hastily thrusting his paper in his pocket he hurried after the couple.
But, short as the time was since they passed him, already a queue had
formed before the ticket office. As he reached it Cecily and her
companion turned away and walked through the barrier. It was hopeless
to think of going after them without a ticket. Anthony chafed
impatiently as he waited. When at last he was free to follow them they
were out of sight and he ran up to the lift just in time to hear the
door close and to see the lift itself vanish slowly out of sight. For
a moment he felt inclined to run down the steps and then he realized
that there was nothing to be gained by such a proceeding and nothing
for him to do but wait for the next lift with what patience he could.
It seemed to him that he had never had to wait so long before; when at
last it did come and he had raced along the passage and down the few
remaining steps to the platform, it was only to find the gate slammed
before him. Standing there, he had the satisfaction of seeing Cecily's
face at the window of the train gliding out of the station while
beside her he caught a vision of the silvery locks of her companion.
As he stood there realizing the utter futility of endeavouring to
overtake Cecily now, a voice only too well known of late sounded in
his ear.
“Good morning, Mr. Collyer. Too late, like myself.”
He turned to find Inspector Furnival beside him. A spasm of fear shot
through Tony. Was this man ubiquitous? And what was he doing here?
“Going to Mrs. Luke Bechcombe's, sir?” the inspector went on. “Mr.
Steadman has just left me to go on there in his car. A family party to
celebrate Mr. Aubrey Todmarsh's engagement.”
“Yes, to Mrs. Phillimore,” Tony assented.
The gate was thrust aside now, the inspector and Tony found themselves
pushed along by the people behind. They went on the platform together,
the inspector keeping closely by Tony's side.
“Wonderful man, Mr. Todmarsh,” he began conversationally. “We in the
police see a lot of his work. Mrs. Phillimore too, supports
practically every philanthropic work in the East End. Yes, this
engagement will be good news to many a poor outcast, Mr. Anthony.”
Tony mechanically acquiesced. As a matter of fact mention of Aubrey
Todmarsh's good works left him cold. He had no great liking for Mrs.
Phillimore either, though the rich American had rather gone out of her
way to be amiable to him. This morning, however, he was too much
occupied in wondering what was the ulterior motive for the inspector's
friendliness to have any thought to spare for his cousin's engagement.
He was anxious to ascertain whether the inspector, like himself, had
caught sight of Cecily Hoyle and followed her, though he could not
form any idea as to the inspector's object in doing so. Still one
never knew where the clues spoken of by the papers might lead the
police. Thinking of Cecily as the inspector's possible objective a
cold sweat broke out on Anthony's brow.
When the train came in the inspector stood aside for Anthony to enter
and followed him in. The carriage was full. Anthony had an
uncomfortable feeling that people were looking at him. Possibly, he
thought, they were pointing him out to one another as Luke Bechcombe's
nephew, the one who stood to benefit largely by the murdered man's
death, and still more largely at the death of the widow, were
wondering possibly what he was doing in that half-hour on the day of
the murder which he could only account for by saying he was wandering
about looking for the Field of Rest. That the general public had at
first looked upon him as suspect on this account Anthony knew, but he
knew also that the discovery of the clerk Thompson's dishonesty and
later on of the loss of Mrs. Carnthwacke's diamonds had been taken as
clearing him to a great extent. Until the mystery surrounding the
death of Luke Bechcombe had been solved, however, he recognized that
he would remain a potential murderer in the eyes of at least a section
of the public. Possibly, he reflected grimly, seeing him with the
inspector this morning they thought he was in custody.
“Going far, inspector?” he asked at the first stopping-place.
“Same station as yourself, sir,” the inspector returned affably.
“Matter of fact I am going to the same house too. A message came along
for Mr. Steadman just after he had started, and as it seemed to be of
some importance I thought I would come after him with it myself. I am
hoping to be in time to have a word with him before luncheon. Perhaps
you could help me, sir.”
“Well, if I can,” Anthony said doubtfully. “There won't be much time
to spare, though.”
“Well, if I am too late I am too late,” the inspector remarked
philosophically. “It was just a chance. We don't seem to hear of
Thompson, sir.”
“We don't,” Anthony assented. “And I expect he is taking care we
shouldn't. You'll forgive me, inspector, but the way Thompson has
managed to disappear doesn't seem to me to reflect much credit on the
police.”
“Ah, I know that is the sort of thing folks are saying,” the inspector
commented with apparent placidity. “And it is a great deal easier to
say it about the police methods than to improve upon them. However,
like some others, Thompson may find himself caught in time. One of our
great difficulties is that so little is known about him, his friends,
habits, etc. Even you don't seem able to help us there, Mr. Anthony.”
The inspector shot a lightning glance at the young man's unconscious
face.
Anthony shook his head.
“Always was a decent sort of chap, old Thompson, or he seemed so—I
always had a bit of a rag with him when I went to the office. Known
him there years, of course. But, if you come to ask me about his
friends, I never saw the old chap in mufti, as you might say, in my
life. Still, I don't think Thompson had any hand in murdering Uncle
Luke.”
“I know. You have said so all along,” the inspector remarked. “But, if
you don't think he had anything to do with the murder, what do you
think of his disappearance?”
“Suppose the old chap had been helping himself to what wasn't his, and
got frightened and bolted.”
“Um, yes!” The inspector stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you think
you would recognize Thompson in the street, Mr. Anthony?”
“Should think I was a blithering idiot if I didn't,” Anthony
responded. “Never saw him with a hat on certainly, but a hat don't
matter—it can't alter a man beyond recognition.”
“Not much of a disguise, certainly,” the inspector admitted, looking
round him consideringly as they entered Carlsford Square. “Still, I
wonder——”
Anthony came to a standstill.
“Now _I_ wonder what you are getting at. Do you think I have seen
Thompson anywhere?”
The inspector did not answer for a minute, then he said slowly:
“I shouldn't be surprised if a good many of us had seen him, Mr.
Anthony.”
Anthony stared. “Then we must be a set of fools.”
“A good many of us are fools,” Inspector Furnival acquiesced as they
came to a standstill.
Anthony applied himself to the knocker on the door of the Bechcombes'
house. There were a couple of cars in the street, one John Steadman's,
the other a luxurious Daimler evidently fitted with the latest
improvements.
“You will have time for your talk, old chap,” said Anthony, looking at
his watch as the door opened.
Somewhat to his surprise Steadman came out. The barrister for once was
not looking as immaculately neat as usual. His coat was dusty and he
was carrying his right arm stiffly. He held out a note to his
chauffeur.
“There. It's quite close to Stepney Causeway. Get the woman to the
hospital as soon as possible. Hello, inspector—a word with you.”
He was turning with the inspector when Tony interrupted.
“You look as if you had been in the wars, sir. Have you had an
accident?”
“No,” responded the barrister curtly. Then with a jerk of his head in
the direction of the other car. “That fellow, Mrs. Phillimore's man,
isn't fit to drive a donkey cart. Nearly ran over a child just now.
All we could do to get her out alive save with a broken arm. I took
her to the Middlesex Hospital and now I'm sending for her mother. Mrs.
Phillimore doesn't seem very helpful except in the matter of weeping.
Well, so long, my boy—see you again in a minute or two.”
He turned off with the inspector. Anthony went through the hall to the
drawing-room where he found his father talking to Mrs. Bechcombe and a
small, fair, handsomely dressed woman with brilliant blue eyes—his
cousin's American fiancée, Mrs. Phillimore.
Anthony was no stranger to her. He had met her on several occasions
and while admitting her undoubted charm he was conscious that somehow
or other he did not quite like Mrs. Phillimore, the Butterfly, as he
had named her. Apparently the feeling was not mutual, for Mrs.
Phillimore always seemed to go out of the way to be gracious to her
fiancé's cousin.
To-day, however, he did not receive his usual smile, and he saw that
in spite of her make-up she was looking pale and worried.
“Where is Aubrey?” he inquired, as he shook hands. “Got a holiday from
his blessed Community to-day, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she returned. “He was to have brought me here, but he was
sent for, I couldn't quite understand by whom. But he said he should
not be long after me.”
“Nor has he,” interposed Mrs. Bechcombe at this juncture. “He is
coming up the steps now with John Steadman.”
Mrs. Phillimore's relief was apparent in her countenance. Anthony felt
a touch of momentary wonder as to why his cousin's temporary absence
should cause her so much apparent anxiety.
Aubrey was talking to Mr. Steadman in a quick, nervous fashion as they
entered the room together.
The first glance was enough to show every one that something had
seriously disturbed Aubrey Todmarsh. His face was white, his eyes were
bloodshot, he was biting his lips nervously. Altogether he looked
strangely unlike the enthusiastic young head of the Community of St.
Philip.
Mr. Collyer was the first to speak.
“Aubrey, my dear boy, is anything the matter?”
Apparently Todmarsh only brought himself to speak with difficulty.
Twice he opened his lips, but no words came. At last he said hoarsely:
“Hopkins!”
The name conveyed nothing to the majority of his hearers, only the
rector of Wexbridge twisted up his face into a curious resemblance to
a note of interrogation, and Mrs. Phillimore uttered a sharp little
cry.
“Hopkins! Oh, Aubrey!”
“Hopkins!” he repeated. “He—he is my right hand, you know, Uncle
James. I—I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”
The clergyman pushed a chair up to his nephew.
“Sit down, my dear boy. What is this about Hopkins? I remember him
well. Has he——?”
“He has been away for a few days' holiday. He said his sister
was ill and he must go to see her. In the early hours of this
morning”—Todmarsh's voice grew increasingly husky—“he was arrested
with two other men breaking into Sir Thomas Wreford's house, Whistone
Hall in the New Forest. I—I can't believe it!” His head fell forward
on his hands.
Mrs. Phillimore drew a long breath, and for a moment nobody spoke.
Then the rector said slowly:
“My dear boy, I can hardly believe this is true. Is there no
possibility of a mistake? A false report or something of that kind?”
Aubrey shook his head.
“No. The telegram came from Wreford Hall Post Office—Hopkins sent it
himself to me at the Community House and it was brought to me here.”
“Dear, dear! I wish I could help you. But you must remember, my dear
Aubrey, that we workers for others must be prepared to meet trouble
and disappointment, ay, even in those of whom we have felt most sure.”
The rector laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Pull yourself
together, my dear Aubrey. Remember the many signal causes of
thankfulness that have been granted to you. The many other lives that
you have brightened and saved from shame.”
“How can I tell who will be the next?” Todmarsh groaned. “I tell you,
I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”
“We cannot answer for our brothers, any of us,” Mr. Collyer went on.
“But now, my boy, you must make an effort. You must think of your Aunt
Madeline, of Mrs. Phillimore.”
There was a moment's silence, then Todmarsh raised his head.
“You are right. You always do me more good than anyone else, Uncle
James. But here I am keeping you all waiting. I beg your pardon, Aunt
Madeline. And after lunch there is much to be done. I must see about
getting Hopkins bailed out.”
“Where is Hopkins?” questioned Anthony, taking part in the
conversation for the first time.
“At a place called Burchester,” Aubrey answered. “I fancy it is quite
a small place. Probably it is the nearest police court to Whistone
Hall.”
“Whistone Hall, in the New Forest, you said, didn't you?” Anthony went
on. “Is it near Burford, do you know?”
He hardly knew what made him ask the question. John Steadman glanced
at him sharply.
Aubrey Todmarsh turned a surprised face towards him.
“I don't know. I don't know anything about the place. And I never
heard of Burford.”