Sunday morning had dawned brilliant, had grown in splendour. The mist
had gone. A low but clear and even glorious sun flashed heaven athwart
the snowy levels and transfigured the winter sky.
The Home Secretary came down to breakfast late, and no wonder! Marjorie
came down to breakfast late, and no wonder! Tommy and Vic came down
late, and no wonder! The Professor and Aunt Amelia had met at the table
before anyone else was about. If she expected a flirtation, she was
disappointed. If he expected a quiet reading of the Sunday newspaper, he
was more bitterly disappointed still. The advent of the late comers was
a relief.
Last of all drifted in, heavy-eyed but big with mastery achieved, the
Collop.
At that breakfast very little was said. McTaggart was getting used to
the rich. He lit a pipe. But he stood mum.
Victoria Mosel and Tom Galton met in Marking Room.
"Vic," said Tommy Galton, "who do you think has got it?" He lounged back
in the absurdly low, fat chair, letting himself go all loose, as is the
habit of your hard-riding man--especially those who pull horses--and
looking down at her calves after the admirable breeding of our day.
"You haven't, anyhow, Tommy!" lisped Victoria Mosel, in spite of the
hanging cigarette. "I've got that much!"
"Thank God for that! Spread it!" said Galton.
"Thank me, too," said Vic.
"All right. Thank _you_, too. Damn you! Who's got it?"
Victoria Mosel turned round, spat the fragment of the cigarette into the
fire, and lit another one.
"I'm thinking," she said.
"The natural thing," said Galton, shutting his eyes, "would be that
putrid fellah McTaggart: the journalist fellah!"
"_He_ hasn't got it," said Vic decidedly. "And he's not so putrid,
either. Nothin' like as putrid as you are!"
"That's neither here nor there. He's putrid, all right. Shall I tell you
who's got it?"
"You don't know," said Vic. "Lie away."
"Old Footle's got it," said Tommy, with decision. "Cousin Bill. It may
be sewn into his sagging skin: but he's got it."
Victoria Mosel looked at him curiously through her half-closed
buttonhole eyes.
"Go on!" she said.
"I saw him take it," said Galton. "I saw him with my own eyes."
"And you told the chief, I suppose?" said Vic, with a sneer.
"Yes, I told him," answered Tommy determinedly.
"More fool you!" said Vic, sighing. "He hasn't. Old Bill hasn't got it,
Tommy.... I've been watching you all since Collop came under this
accursed roof. The Don's not oppressed. It's not with _him_. _He_ hasn't
got it."
"Well, then, who _has_, Vic? Damn it, who _has_?" savagely.
Then did Victoria Mosel open her eyes wide, as wide as cigar-shaped eyes
can open, and look at the questioner; next she folded her lids into a
most natural slit of repose, and turned her gaze to the ceiling, saying:
"Look here, Tommy, I've told you already that _you_ haven't got it, and
that ought to be enough for you. _You_ ought to be grateful. In fact,
you _were_ grateful just now. Only gratitude's short-lived."
"I believe you've got the stinking brooch, Vic," said her cousin (by
marriage) surlily.
"You said that before--and I said, search me! I wish to Christ I had,"
said Vic. "I'd hand it on through Baba to the van Burens next time
Archie went to Amsterdam. They'd know what to do with it! I should get
it back in four pieces. They'd keep the fifth--but I'd net a bellyful!"
The young man got up from his lounge and stood surlily with his hands in
his pockets.
"It's got to be found!" he said.
"It'll be found all right," assured Vic deliberately. "And who'll be
relieved then, my boy?" And she dug a lean elbow with maidenly modesty
under his fifth rib.
"Go to hell!" shouted the goaded Tommy. He intended to convey, after his
fashion, that the conversation was closed.
He sauntered out of the room and Victoria Mosel, who always liked a warm
chair in winter, sank back into the seat he had abandoned. She lit her
third cigarette, the fifteenth of that morning, and shut her eyes to
think over the matter fully. She had been up late the night before and
Sunday morning is a good time for repose. She fell into a lounging
little self-sufficient sleep, and snored in a gentle fashion, not
unmusical ... dear Victoria!
And that was the end of the judgment passed by one select--and
small--section of the governing classes upon a problem so closely
concerning them all.
* * * * * * *
But the moment of revelation had come. Mr. Collop dared not stay, lest
sure steps should obliterate the unwilling traces of Attaboy across the
snow.
"None of 'em going to church, I hopes?" said he to his host after
breakfast.
"Surely! Surely some one," was all the Victorian could say.
"Well," brutally, "none of 'em can. They've all got to be here together.
We want every witness, sir; every one.... _I've found the emerald_!"
"What? Eh! What!" staggered Humphrey de Bohun.
"_I've found the emerald_!" repeated the policeman enormously. "...
Leastways, I've found where it is."
"What am I to do?" begged the statesman, all of a flutter. "What are
your plans? It's urgent! Innocent men must be cleared!"
"Orl in good time!" pronounced the majestic Collop. "Orl in good time!
First tell 'em there's no church this morning. Go and tell 'em that.
Soak into 'em all. I've got to 'ave my witnesses--and you'll be glad,
too, when it's over."
In his heart the Victorian relic, bleeding though he was from such a
manner, felt that he would.... Anything to get it over!
"I've got a word to say to you, Sir Humphrey"--it was no longer "My
lord"--"afore we summons 'em, and then you shall see what you shall see.
Meanwhile, you go and tell 'em to stand by. I'll bide 'ere."
And he bided, while the far wealthier and therefore greater man trotted
round on his errand.
"I'm sorry," he said to each couple, as he ferreted it out, "but I must
ask you not to go out. _The emerald's found_; at least ... you'll see.
Only wait where you are just a moment. I'll send for you all."
He repeated that phrase three times and fixed them to their stations;
then he ran back to the deliverer.
He found the deliverer at the door of the West Room.
"Come in here, Mr. Dee Boe Hun," he said. "Look round, Sir
Humphrey--what do you perceive?"
"Nothing," said the Home Secretary. Then he found the manhood to add,
"Hurry up!"
"Ar! 'Urry up, is it?" said the masterful policeman deliberately. "Now
there's a little point to be settled first." He compressed his lips, as
though for a reprimand to an inferior. "The first thing that's got to be
proved--and that's simple--is, was there a winder left open here the
night o' the great disaster?"
"You mean on Friday night? The day before yesterday? The night the jewel
was dropped?"
"Yep!" answered Mr. Collop. "I do."
"A window?" repeated the statesman, remembering the shutters, the
curtains, the fire, all the scene.
"A winder was left open," insisted bovinely Mr. Collop. "I'll lay to
that. And if you'll settle that p'int you'll see 'ow the rest'll follow.
I tell you I 'ave me clue; it's more than a clue; it's a find. Ye'll
see!"
The mechanism of a great house (delightful thought!) involves a
hierarchy. The Home Secretary rang, and asked for the butler. An
underling sought Mr. George Whaley, and Mr. George Whaley arrived. There
was that in his eye which might have alarmed or warned the Head of the
de Bohuns; but the Head of the de Bohuns was passing weary in the head
just now, and he noted nothing.
"Oh!" he said, "I wanted you, Whaley ... to ask you--er--whether ...
yes, to ask you who it is who does the room here in the early morning?
Who, for instance, would be in the room here, say, well, before anybody
else?"
George Whaley coughed discreetly.
"By rights, sir," he said, "it ought to be Annie. But it is possible, of
course, that the Boy----"
"Ah! yes," said the Home Secretary. "The Boy. Of course!" He had vaguely
heard that the Boy was the servant of the servants of the gods. "Well
then, you think it would be the Boy? Send me the Boy!"
"Very good, sir," said George Whaley. But as there had been that in his
eyes, so there was now that in his more manly gesture, as he turned
round to pass majestically through the door, which might have warned
once more, his master that he, George Whaley, had acquired new powers.
There was a sense of approaching equality with the Great in George
Whaley's waddle as he went through the door. From the mere dependent he
was attaining the higher and political rank of blackmailer. But all
these indications fell without effect upon the jaded de Bohun.
The Boy appeared. He stood at attention, after a fashion he had seen at
the pictures. He stared with gooseberry eyes at his employer. The head
of the de Bohuns was kind to him.
"Look here, boy," he said. "Look here. I've got to ask you something.
Did you open a window in this room, or leave it open, or find it open,
yesterday, Saturday morning--eh? Were you here before anybody else--eh?
You understand what I mean. Did you open a window, or any window, or
find one open--eh?"
The boy Ethelbert, standing as stiff as a poker and on the verge of
tears, gave tongue.
"I ain't done nuthin'!" he said. "Don't yer say I took that em'ral'! I
never did! I never set eyes on it. Don't you say that. It ain't true. I
knows no more about it than the child unborn, what's in the Good Book."
The Head of the House was annoyed.
"Who's saying you did, you little fool? All I want to know is, whether
the window was open?"
"I never touched it!" complained the youth more loudly still, and
stiffer than ever, but with tears already gathering in his eyes. "I
never did! So 'elp me Gawd! I couldn't tell it from a chunk o' cheese. I
don't know what it looks like. I wish I may die. I wish I may drop down
dead 'ere an' now!"
Collop, the policeman, took charge.
"Look 'ere, me lad," he said in the fine bullying voice of his noble
trade, "none o' that! Did yer leave the window open, or 'ave yer seen it
open?"
"Oo're you?" perked Ethelbert, stunned to boldness by terror, though
still at attention. "Mr. de Bones 'e's my master; not you!" Then turning
to that master, he continued, "I tell you, sir, straight honest from the
shoulder, I'm a British lad, I am, so help me Gawd as made me own sweet
self and little apples, I swear I never seen the thing."
"Look here, child," said Mr. de Bohun in a final sort of fashion, "was
there a window open or was there not?"
"No, sir, there was nawt."
"Why the hell couldn't you say that before?" muttered the politician.
"You're sure there was not?" he added. "Was there a catch undone?"
"Never mind about the catch," broke in Collop. "Time'll show that
doesn't matter."
"There wasn't a window open, sir, at all, till I opened one, sir," said
the Boy, "to let in Gawd's fresh air--which is orders."
"Oh, you _did_ open one then?" said his master.
"Yes, sir!" said Ethelbert, still at attention.
"Ah! _Now_ we're getting on!" said Collop. "That's what I always said. A
winder was opened! Eh? A winder was opened! Now you mark me," he went
on, turning to his host and tapping the palm of his round left hand with
the stubby forefinger of his right. "That's another clue. A winder was
open."
"Don't you dare say I touched it!" from the distraught Ethelbert.
"You shut yer mouth, boy," answered Collop without courtesy. "Tell him
to shut his mouth, sir--tell him plain. He's distracting me."
"But there's some on us," went on Ethelbert desperately, refusing to
shut that mouth, "as might speak if we knew...."
"Ah, now," said de Bohun eagerly. "Do you hear that, Mr. Collop? Do you
hear that? The Boy may reveal ..."
Collop stepped in between. "Pay no attention, Mr. Dee Boe Hun. I got my
clue, and we mustn't 'ave no cross scents. You take me?"
"Well," said his host, legitimately nettled, "I don't see any harm in
getting whatever evidence we can."
"Ah, and you're right there," said young Ethelbert, still at attention.
"And what's that sime hevidence, eh? That's what I say, sir.
Hevidence--as clear as daylight, from them as knows. There's some as
could speak if they would, and some as knows what others doesn't know.
It isn't always them as needs things most as pinches 'em. And maybe,
times, it's them as needs 'em least as pinches 'em!" He lowered his
voice and mysteriously added, "The 'ighest!"
"Look here, Boy," said de Bohun, fatigued with such recitals: "if you've
got anything to say, say it. Mr. Collop and I are pressed."
"What I've got to say," answered Ethelbert, with a solemnity beyond his
years, "is plain enough, I tike it. 'Oo's to blame? Mum's the word. But
there's some in this house that's 'igher than others. And 'oo's the
'ighest? A lord, I tike it?"
"Do you mean Lord Galton, child?" said the peer's cousin, sharply. "Are
you saying Lord Galton took the Emerald?"
"I've named no names," said Ethelbert, trembling between fear and
importance. "But this I do say, and it is ..."
"Have you any evidence against Lord Galton?"
"Now, Mr. Dee Boe Hun," urged Mr. Collop with decisive hands. "Now,
please don't let's 'ave a cross scent."
The Home Secretary waved him aside. The family was concerned.
"What have you got against--or about--Lord Galton? Say what you have to
say, and let's have it over."
"What I've got to say," said the Boy, "is what is but my plain duty to
say. I names no names. I asks no questions and I don't get told no
lies!"
"Upon my word!" cried his master angrily, almost moved to action. The
boy Ethelbert at the end of so long a tension gave a loud cry of terror
and suddenly whipped round and fled through the open door.
They were disconcerted.
"Well, Mr. Collop," said Mr. de Bohun on the child's vanishing, "that's
another complication. It's Lord Galton now!" and he sank into a chair.
Things were becoming too much for him.
"Don't you believe 'im," said Mr. Collop firmly. "What I say is, no
cross scents. What do 'ounds do when they find a cross scent?"
Mr. de Bohun would have been only too happy to tell him, but he had
never hunted.
"Why, they miss the right one. That's wot they do. And do they catch the
fox? No. A thousand times, no! Now," said he, again tapping that palm of
his with that forefinger of his. "You mark! Forget all about Lord
Galton. It's servant's romancing. I told you I already 'ad one clue. And
'ere I've gone and got _another_ clue! An' they both fit in.... And
now," he added peculiarly, gazing out of the window as though he would
admire the wintry morning with its clear scintillating skies, "I'd have
you note another clue. Look there," he said--and with the gesture of
Hannibal pointing out the plains of Italy, Mr. Collop extended his left
arm and directed his somewhat too thick forefinger towards the avenue
and the sheets of snow on either side of the great gravel walk. "What
have we there?" he said.
De Bohun, weary after his sleepless night, had to get up again from his
chair and look where he was bidden. "I ... I don't see anything, Mr.
Collop," he said.
"No," said Mr. Collop indulgently. "You wouldn't. It wants a trained
eye. Now, you'll excuse me, sir, but if you 'ad been in the Yard as I
'ave, and as long as I 'ave, you'd see something. It's only a fine
indication, like, but your mind would leap to it. At least mine 'as. Do
you notice any marks on that snow?"
Mr. de Bohun honestly said he could not--nor could any man have seen any
from where he stood.
"I certainly see no footprints," he said.
"Footprints o' wot?" answered Mr. Collop. "Footprints o' 'uman beings?
Man and woman? Leastways boots? Nah!" and he shook his head. "You
want ... you want your eyes better skinned than that in our trade, if
you'll excuse me saying it. Shall I _tell_ you what's there? I can see
it."
His host was justly irritated. "Well, I can't," he exploded. "What _is_
there?"
Mr. Collop leant over, made a shell of his hand and whispered in a voice
to wake the dead:
"Footprints of a fowl! Leastways," he added hurriedly, "not a domestic
fowl, I mean. But a bird. A bird's been there!" he added, nodding
solemnly.
"Well, what of it?" said the last of the de Bohuns, still more
irritated.
"Ah! You'll see!" said Mr. Collop, in a tone of great equality.
He stepped back, pulled his waistcoat down over his paunch, passed his
hand cavalierly over his abominable moustache, and gave an order--as
though he were master--for he now felt himself securely in the saddle.
"Summon 'em here," he said, with a large wave of his right hand, "summon
'em all. It's accomplished!"
"Summon who?"
"Me feller guests," said Mr. Collop. "They shall witness the
_daynoumong_ and their souls shall be eased."
"Mr. Collop," said the harassed Home Secretary, "what need is there for
this?"
"Witnesses! Mr. Dee Boe Hun!" royally. "Record! You'll be astonished."
"Very well, Mr. Collop, if you require them."
He made a gesture as though again to ring; then thought better of it and
went out himself, looking at his watch as he moved to the door. He had
seen no one go out. It was not yet half past ten o'clock: no one would
yet have started for church. He remembered with pleasure that for once
in her life Victoria Mosel had come to breakfast. He ferreted them all
out, McTaggart cowering as usual--and very sad--in the old smoking-room;
Galton and Vic, whom he surprised in the very act of repeating the word
"putrid," he found in the library, already stale with smoke; Aunt Amelia
he dragged out, almost by force, from the corner of the little
morning-room where she was sitting, half somnolent, like the good mutton
she was, her knitting laid aside on the Holy Day and wondering by the
clock whether it was time for her to put on her bonnet (help!) for
church. The Professor he had the good luck to catch at the very last
moment as he was making for the glass doors of the hall, all ready
muffled up for a walk. As for Marjorie, he had to go and find her in her
room where she was desperately locked in, miserable.
"Mr. Collop has got something to tell us, my dear. Won't you come down?"
"Blast him!" came in tearful, broken tones from within.
"No, my dear, but please do come down. He really wants us all."
"I don't believe it's any use--no use at all, the rotter!" broke out
that tearful voice.
"Marjorie, dear, please come."
"Very well"--with a grunt from within--"but it's no use!"
So the shepherd got his flock together. He was in a strange mood that
the occasion was ceremonial, and he felt a fool. He almost counted heads
as he roped in his little herd. They were all there. They filtered into
the West Room, expecting little, and annoyed in their various ways;
Marjorie hideous with recent tears, Aunt Amelia almost baa-a-ing, the
Professor inept, McTaggart desperately out of place, the puller of
horses more sullen than ever, and ah! the triumphant Victoria Mosel,
cool as the woodland goddess of old songs--but smoking.
[Illustration: _Birds of the Empire.
II.--The Parrot Attaboy, out of action._]
They stood huddled in the West Room under that Sunday morning light,
looking on the ravaged furniture, the staring pink circle where the now
demolished glass had saved the paper from fading, the Parrot's cage--but
gazing above all on the immortal Collop and awaiting his great news.
In that solemn and expectant silence--the chimes for church were
ringing--the parrot sneezed three times, with a grievance, and very
hoarsely muttered "Attaboy!" and shivered. It had a cold in the head.
Nor did Lord Galton wince--though that parrot had suddenly revealed to
him a world of things about his cousin's conversations when his back was
turned.