After Freddie Stickney had closed the door behind him, Wraxall frankly
abandoned any pretence of being interested in his food. He pushed back
his chair slightly and seemed to concentrate his whole mind for a time
upon some intricate problem.
“I’d better see the old man as soon as I can,” he said, half aloud, at
one point in his train of thought. “The first thing to do is to see
how the land lies. It’s a tight position.”
But a final solution of his problem evidently evaded him; and when he
got up and went in search of his host, it was clear that he still
remained in doubt about something.
“I’ll get it over, at least,” he said to himself.
In spite of his age, Rollo Dangerfield was an early riser, compared
with some of his guests. He had breakfasted an hour before, and
Wraxall found him in the morning-room, engrossed in a newspaper. As
his guest came in, Rollo put the sheet aside and looked up.
“Terrible storm last night, Mr. Wraxall. I hope it didn’t keep you
awake through half the night.”
“I like storms,” the American assured him. “I sat up a good part of
the night to watch that one. It would have been a pity to miss it. I
enjoyed it—immensely. The effects were very fine at times, Mr.
Dangerfield, very fine indeed. A magnificent spectacle.”
Rollo Dangerfield seemed relieved that his guest had suffered no
inconvenience.
“I wish everybody could say the same,” he said. “Poor Mrs. Brent
didn’t share your enthusiasm, I’m afraid. She’s peculiarly sensitive
to electrical conditions—always has been so. Her nerves seem to go all
to pieces in a storm, and I think that one last night affected her
badly. She went off in the _Kestrel_ this morning before any of us
were up, and I expect she’ll stay away until she gets back to normal
again.”
The American paused a moment or two before replying.
“I’m sorry to hear that. She didn’t strike me as a nervous type. I
should have said she was very well balanced, if you’d asked my
opinion.”
“Each of us has his own special weakness,” said the old man,
phlegmatically. “Some people can’t stand cats, for some reason. I
dislike house-spiders intensely myself, though I can’t give you any
grounds for my aversion. In Mrs. Brent’s case, it seems to be thunder
and lightning. A storm shakes her completely.”
Wraxall let the subject drop. Old Dangerfield puzzled him at this
moment. Of course the English had the knack of concealing their
feelings; but he had expected something different in Rollo this
morning, if the story about the Talisman were true. He resolved on a
direct attack.
“I met young Stickney at breakfast. He said something about the
Talisman.”
Old Dangerfield let his newspaper slip from his hand as though he were
tired of holding it.
“Freddie? Oh, Freddie can be trusted to know all about everything.
He’s often right, too, quite often. Yes, the Talisman’s gone.”
The old man’s voice was completely indifferent; he might have been
discussing some matter of no especial concern, for all the interest
that showed in his tone. The American was taken aback. These English,
he reflected, don’t give much away. Here was a man who had lost
overnight the thing that he evidently valued as the first among his
possessions; and yet he showed less emotion than he might have done if
a cat had gone astray. Wraxall’s opinion of Rollo Dangerfield went up
considerably. There was a dignity behind this indifference which
impressed him deeply. No fuss, no excitement to be seen. The thing was
gone; but the old man could hold himself in. His guests wouldn’t be
disturbed by him. Everything would go on as usual at Friocksheim.
Rollo Dangerfield evidently carried the courtesy of a host to the
extreme.
“That’s a big loss,” said Wraxall, slowly. “But I expect you’re
counting on getting it back. It would be difficult to dispose of. It
would certainly be hard to sell. Still . . . aren’t you sorry you
didn’t close with my offer last night?”
Rollo Dangerfield turned an inscrutable face to his guest.
“Sorry I didn’t sell the Talisman while I had it? No, it never was for
sale. The matter didn’t arise.”
The American persisted.
“I suppose the police have some clue?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“The police have nothing to do with it. How could they have a clue?”
Wraxall was frankly astonished.
“You haven’t called them in? Why, I should have thought the very first
thing to do would be to get them to work while the scent was fresh?”
A faint shade of irritation showed in Rollo Dangerfield’s eyes, the
first sign of emotion the American had seen. But when he spoke, his
voice was as indifferent as before.
“Why should we call in the police? The Talisman will find its way home
without their help. Would you bring the police among your guests, stir
up trouble, make everyone uncomfortable with suspicions and
cross-questioning? No, Mr. Wraxall, we shan’t need the police at
Friocksheim. I told you so, before the Talisman disappeared, and you
obviously didn’t believe me. But you see now that you were mistaken; I
meant what I said.”
The American was shrewd enough to see what had given offence. Old
Dangerfield resented the slight on his veracity much more than the
loss of the Talisman. He made amends frankly.
“Quite right, Mr. Dangerfield. Honestly, I thought you were just
leading us on, that night. I took it that you were pulling my leg. It
seemed to me that perhaps it was one of your English jokes, just put
out to see if the stranger would swallow it. We often do that
ourselves, over there. But I see you mean it, right enough, now.”
Rollo Dangerfield reassured him with a faint smile.
“I see your point of view. I ought to have thought of it in that
light.”
Wraxall considered for a moment or two before speaking again.
“I think I see what’s in your mind,” he said, going back to the
earlier subject. “You’ve reason to suspect somebody in particular—one
of the maids, perhaps—and you don’t want a fuss?”
“I don’t suspect any of the maids—or any of the servants,” Rollo
Dangerfield replied instantly. “That’s quite out of the question. I
can tell you why. We have a number of old habits at Friocksheim, and
fortunately one of them has enabled us to clear our servants of any
suspicion in this affair.”
He took out his case and lit a cigar before continuing.
“The servants’ quarters are all in the west wing of the house, and
there is only one door communicating between their section and the
other part of the building. That door has a special lock, of which
only the butler has a key, and it is his duty at half-past eleven
every night to see that that door is secured. After that, no servant
can get into this part of the house without his knowledge.”
“And the butler himself?” demanded the American.
“The butler’s great-grandfather was born on the estate and for four
generations we have known absolutely everything about the family. This
man has been in our service since he was a boy, and a more absolutely
honest man you couldn’t find anywhere. You may put him completely out
of your calculations, Mr. Wraxall. I say that definitely, because the
man can’t speak for himself. Not a trace of suspicion could attach to
him. Now are you satisfied?”
Wraxall nodded his acquiescence. Then he asked a further question.
“How did you hear that the Talisman had gone?”
“The butler told me this morning. His first business is to go round
the house after he has unlocked the communicating door. When he went
into the Corinthian’s Room he noticed that the Talisman case was open,
and the jewel was gone. He came at once and told me.”
“And you suspect nobody, then?”
Rollo Dangerfield raised himself slightly in his chair and looked
round directly at Wraxall’s face. For the first time, the American saw
a keenness in the old man’s blue eyes, though their expression was
inscrutable.
“No, I suspect nobody. I have no evidence, and I do not wish to
collect any. The Talisman will be back in its place within a week; and
that is the only important thing in the case. For all I know, the
whole affair may be a practical joke. Some of these young folks may
have taken it into their heads to test the Dangerfield legend.”
His eyes scanned the American’s features; but Wraxall betrayed nothing
under the scrutiny. Rollo Dangerfield pulled at his cigar before
continuing.
“I can imagine one of these youngsters playing a practical joke like
that. Take away the Talisman and see what old Dangerfield will say!
It’s quite possible that somebody”—he glanced again at the
American—“may even now be wishing he had left the thing alone and may
be looking for a chance to replace it under the bell. It’s an awkward
thing to have in one’s possession—even innocently. Well, they can
easily put it back again, if they wish to do so. Nobody’s watching the
Corinthian’s Room.”
A faintly sardonic expression crossed his face.
“Don’t distress yourself unduly about the Talisman, Mr. Wraxall. It
will come home quite safely in the end; you may take my word for
that.”
With a gesture as though asking permission, he picked up his newspaper
again. Wraxall accepted the tacit dismissal and wandered out into the
sunlit gardens. The interview had given him a good deal to think
about, apparently. He avoided the other guests and spent a
considerable time in going over old Dangerfield’s words, so far as he
could remember them.
“I wonder,” he said to himself at last. “I wonder if the old man
suspects anything. One or two of these remarks might have been
directed to my address, though he was clever enough to give them an
inoffensive turn. If he really suspects me, it looks like being a
pretty kettle of fish. It certainly looks like that.”
He thought it tactful to absent himself for the rest of the day,
taking his car and visiting some of the local antiquities which he
wished to see. It was dinner-time before he met his fellow-guests once
more.
Eileen Cressage had returned, and Westenhanger came into the room
immediately after her. As they sat down, Freddie Stickney’s eyes
travelled round the table, obviously counting the number, and a
certain disappointment appeared in his face when he found only twelve
persons present. Eric Dangerfield and Mrs. Brent were still away.
“You and Mr. Westenhanger came up by the same train, didn’t you, Miss
Cressage?” asked Mrs. Dangerfield.
Westenhanger caught the question which Eileen had missed.
“Yes. I happened to run across Miss Cressage just as she was coming
out of Starbeck, the jewellers. We had just time to get to the
station.”
Freddie Stickney’s sharp ears caught the careless remark.
“Starbeck’s?” he said, lifting his voice to make it carry down the
table. “That’s a convenient firm. They’ll give you a reasonable
advance on any little bit of jewellery you don’t happen to need for a
time. Sort of superior brand of West End Uncle, aren’t they? I’ve
dealt with them once or twice myself and always found them generous.”
Freddie was quite shameless in money matters. But his deliberately
pitched sentences reached Eileen Cressage’s ears; and Freddie, keenly
on the look-out, noticed that the girl flushed uncomfortably.
“That shot went home,” he reflected, complacently. “One can always get
the information one wants if one goes about it tactfully. She’s been
doing a bit of quiet pawning this afternoon. That’s interesting. I
wonder what she put away in store. She never wore any jewellery here.”
He ruminated on this problem for a time, keeping his sharp eyes on the
girl’s face; but nothing further of interest fell into his net during
the meal.
As they passed into the drawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Caistor
Scorton picked up a telegram addressed to her which was lying in the
hall. At the sight of it, Morchard’s face lighted up with interest and
he examined her closely while she read it. He edged himself up to
Eileen and put a question in a low voice:
“The Scorton’s got her telegram about your cheque. Is it all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you,” said the girl, coldly.
She moved away from him immediately, and as she sat down, Conway
Westenhanger came up.
“Have a game at bridge, Miss Cressage? They’re making up a table and
I’ve reserved a place for you.”
“No, thanks. I’d rather not play.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton passed close to them and Eileen made a gesture to
catch her attention.
“You found my cheque all right, Mrs. Scorton?”
Westenhanger, to his surprise, detected more than a tinge of irony in
the question. Mrs. Caistor Scorton seemed taken aback for a moment;
but she recovered herself almost at once:
“Oh, quite all right, quite all right,” she confirmed shortly, and
passed on to the bridge-table.
Eileen Cressage knitted her brows slightly as she looked after her. At
any rate, she had got out of that difficulty. Morchard had been quite
right. The woman had obviously sent the cheque off to her bank and
asked them to wire if it had been met. That apparently inevitable
scandal had passed over safely. She glanced across at Morchard and an
angrier flash came into her eyes. She knew what sort of a person he
was, too.
Freddie Stickney drifted over and sat down between her and
Westenhanger.
“Heard the news, you two? The Talisman’s out of print, it seems. No
copies available for the public. Somebody’s taken a fancy to it and
simply lifted it. That’s a fine end to all the Dangerfield talk, isn’t
it?”
With a certain ill-suppressed maliciousness, he gave them all the
information he had collected during the day.
“Just as well you were away last night, Westenhanger,” he wound up.
“You’re clear of suspicion. But all the rest of us are in it up to the
neck. Servants exonerated without a stain on their character. Strong
suspicion attaches to every guest. That’s how the land lies.”
“Oh, indeed, Freddie,” said Westenhanger. “Then, if we must suspect
somebody, we may as well begin with yourself. What about it? Anything
you say will be used against you at the trial, without regard for age
or sex. Where’s my notebook?”
“It’s all very well for you,” protested Freddie. “You’re out of it
all. But what about the rest of us? It’s a nasty idea to feel that the
person sitting next to you in this room may be a thief.”
Westenhanger looked him up and down for a moment before replying.
“If I were you, Freddie, I don’t think I’d begin flinging words like
‘thief’ about quite so early in the day. These things are apt to be
resented by some people. Isn’t there any other possible explanation?”
Freddie pondered for a while in silence, then he made a half-hearted
suggestion:
“It might be a practical joke.”
Westenhanger considered the idea and rejected it almost immediately.
“I shouldn’t like to have the taste of the man who played a joke of
that sort. Who’s your humorist? Douglas is the funny man of the
company, but Douglas wouldn’t play a trick of that sort on anyone.
That’s certain. Morchard hasn’t that kind of mind. The American has a
sense of humour, but not that sort, I’m sure. You don’t attribute it
to one of the girls, do you? No? Well, then, that leaves us with . . .
let’s see . . . with Mr. Frederick Stickney as the only possible
culprit. I don’t think much of your taste in humour, Freddie, and
that’s a fact.”
“All the same,” said Eileen Cressage, “I’d prefer it to be a case of
practical joking rather than the other thing. Perhaps it will all come
right and we shall find the Talisman back again in a few days, just as
Mr. Dangerfield said.”
Freddie had recovered from Westenhanger’s attack.
“Well, I’m going to find out who did it,” he declared. “As things
stand, we’re all under a cloud. I’m going to get the whole lot into
the billiard room later on, if I can, away from the Dangerfields; and
I shall put it to them straight that each person ought to account for
his doings during the night. Nobody could object to that.”
He glanced at the girl for support and was surprised to see her flush
and turn away as though to conceal her face.
“I don’t think you’ll be altogether popular if you start that kind of
thing, Mr. Stickney,” she said.
Freddie’s bright little eyes fastened themselves on her face; and his
well-trained mind automatically set to work to draw inferences from
what he saw. As his friend had said, Freddie’s inferences always
tended to discredit somebody or something. He had sense enough,
however, to leave his conclusions unspoken.
“It’s a silly idea, Freddie,” said Westenhanger, abruptly.
He also had noticed the girl’s flush; but the only inference he had
cared to draw was that Freddie was making her uncomfortable.
“I can’t agree with you.” Freddie was emboldened by the girl’s
embarrassment. “I think everyone would be only too glad to exonerate
themselves from suspicion. We oughtn’t to be left under a cloud if we
can clear ourselves straight off. Decidedly not. I shall insist on it;
and I’ll point out what it will look like if anyone refuses.”
He got up and walked away from them without waiting for a reply.
Westenhanger looked across at Eileen and was puzzled by the distress
which he still found in her face.
“That little beast will make trouble unless he gets his way. Miss
Cressage, I think I’ll have to attend his proposed inquest myself. It
seems to be the occasion where an impartial and disinterested person
might be useful.”
Eileen glanced at his face for a moment. He was relieved to find that
she met his eye squarely and showed no signs of flinching.
“I think that would be a good plan, Mr. Westenhanger.”
“Well, I suppose we shall have to go through with it if he gets his
way. And he’s pretty sure to arrange it, you know. That suggestion
that it will look black if anyone refuses is pretty sure to rake in
most of them, and the rest can’t stand out after that, even if they
wished to.”