A BROKEN TILE
ALMOST exactly four months after he had completed his second inventory
of the contents of Beech Lodge, Mr. Jarrad, again accompanied by Mr.
Dawkins, stood once more in the paneled study. He had come to the house
with his admirable manner, in which was blended this time a rather full
knowledge of what had recently happened. Mr. Dawkins, who also read the
papers, and was, as well, impressed by the air of the older man, seemed
rather taciturn. There had been opportunity to say a good deal on the
way down from London, and he was distinctly thrilled when they turned in
at the white gate. Now the inventory book was opened and laid on
Millicent’s desk. Mr. Jarrad then took out a large handkerchief and blew
his nose with a trumpet-like sound as though he enjoyed it. He had
ascertained that the Derricks were in the garden, and both servants back
in the kitchen. The morning was fine and clear.
“I don’t know,” he said with a touch of unction, “when I’ve heard of a
case just exactly like this. Here we are, paid to do precisely the same
thing over again simply because a foolish woman killed herself. We’ve
both seen houses that were enough to make any really sensitive person
commit suicide, but”—he glanced round with open approval—“they were
not houses like this. It all brings back to me the great truth that the
foundation of our business is the undeniable suspicion that well-bred
people have of each other. There’s practically no inventory connection
with the lower and lower middle classes. Do you happen to remember a
remark I made about ‘things’ when we were here last?”
“I do,” replied Dawkins; “and, what’s more, I’ve been thinking about it
ever since.”
“Well, these are not the kind of things to make one tired of life.
There’s another point. I expressed my conclusions about the manner in
which ‘things’ occupy the greater part of the time of so many women.”
“You did,” said Dawkins soberly, “and I said it wasn’t that way with us
because we hadn’t any. But my young woman has started since then.”
Mr. Jarrad smiled. “Quite so; that was inevitable; and now that Mrs.
Millicent has disposed of hers to Mr. Thursby, Miss Millicent, who will
marry Mr. Derrick next week, is already starting another collection. I
hope she may do as well as this. She can’t do better. I don’t know when
I’ve seen a room I like more. Her mother’s work, of course, all of it.”
“Why do you suppose that woman killed Mr. Millicent?” asked Dawkins
thoughtfully. “I read it all several times over in several papers, but
it always struck me there was a good deal that didn’t meet the eye.”
Mr. Jarrad smiled again. “Why, do you suppose, does a woman do
anything?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only been married a year.”
“Then you know more now than you will in ten. The appearance of Perkins
suggested that she might do anything at any moment, if you remember. If
the cause was what it usually is with a woman—jealousy, or, in other
words, love that has grown the wrong way—I can only wonder why she
waited so many years. There are a good many queer things about the case;
for instance, that foreigner who shammed dead when he was under arrest,
then slid out of the station.”
“I wonder what he was doing here?”
“Might as well ask why Mr. Millicent’s old gardener came back as though
he wanted to stick his head into the noose,” said Mr. Jarrad
sententiously. “Might as well ask why my client is willing to pay
through the nose to get this house back just after letting it for a term
of years—though I suspect there’s a woman in that, too. Might as well
ask why your client began by trying to hunt out Mr. Millicent’s murderer
and finished by finding his daughter. Might as well ask a heap of things
that will never be answered, and perhaps in the long run it’s just as
well they’re not. We know as much as is good for us as it is, and what
we don’t know can’t hurt us much as long as we keep on not knowing it.
Now what about the contents of this room?”
“The stuff seems the same with a few additions, but a little differently
arranged; that’s all.”
Mr. Jarrad strolled about, his sharp eyes very active, returned to the
desk, leaned over, then adjusted his glasses. He peered for a moment and
frowned.
“That’s really very odd.”
“What is?”
“You remember we didn’t agree about a stain here, and returned so that I
could satisfy you on the point? It was a little difficult to detect.”
Dawkins wetted his thumb and turned a few leaves in the big book.
“Yes, here it is, a post entry, and initialed by both of us. ‘Large,
irregular stain on near left-hand corner of leather-desk top, nearly
effaced.’ Right ho! let’s have a look!”
He came over, stared hard, and straightened up with an exclamation. “You
must have mesmerized me into seeing that before. It’s certainly not
there now, and the light is excellent. What do you make of it?”
“What we don’t know won’t hurt us,” said Jarrad with a slow shake of the
head. “Initial this erasure, will you. What’s next?”
Dawkins looked troubled, and a little anxious. “But I say—”
“I began just the way you’re going on now, but I got over it. I suggest
that so far as this room is concerned we just count the books and
articles of furniture, pass on their general condition, and call the
thing a go. Your clients are not the kind who give me any worry.”
Dawkins nodded and began the recital, reading from the book in a rapid
and level singsong as though he were chanting the creed of his
profession.
“General condition excellent,” he concluded, and shut the book.
Mr. Jarrad shook his head. “I can’t agree to that now. The maintenance
is not what it was. Quite obvious that the housemaid is untrained or
lazy; possibly both. Look at this mantel.”
He drew a finger across the top of the mantel behind the clock, and left
a faint trail where the dust had been displaced.
“Couldn’t do that the last time we were here. No, the upkeep is not as
good. Condition fair, I should say, at the most. See for yourself.”
Dawkins sniffed and investigated. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose my
client is a little short of help. All right, ‘condition fair.’ Anything
else?”
Mr. Jarrad glanced at the hearth. “Yes, one thing. One fireplace tile
split. You have no note of that, I think, and it’s the only real damage
we’ve seen.”
“No, I’ve nothing here. Let me see it.”
He was bending over the hearth when Derrick came in. Jarrad made his
well-known bow.
“We have just completed this room, sir, and the only real dilapidation
we find is in this hearth. It’s a small matter, but nothing is too small
for us to note. Perhaps you may remember when it happened, as it’s
evidently quite recent.”
Derrick stared at the cracked tile.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I remember that very distinctly.”
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.