Cynthia Pennard moved slightly to avoid a spot of light which had
crept across the cushions of her hammock until it reached her face.
“Douglas,” she said, lazily, “has a hippopotamus got a tougher hide
than a rhinoceros? I’d like to know.”
“I’ve heard them both well spoken of—highly commended, in fact. I’d
hate to draw an invidious distinction and cause trouble at the Zoo.
But why this lust for general information? It’s not like you.”
Following her glance across the broad lawn, Douglas caught sight of
Freddie Stickney sitting on the grass beside Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s
garden-chair. Cynthia turned her head again.
“That’s quite the thickest-skinned creature I ever heard of,” she
explained, “and I was only wondering which animal ought to come after
him.”
“Can’t you spend the day better than in thinking up insults to
rhinoceroses and hippopotami? They’d wilt with shame if they dreamed
you were putting them in Freddie’s class. No flies on Freddie, as they
say. Why so? Because they’d merely blunt their beaks if they tried to
get through his hide. His fair companion’s pretty tough on the
surface, too. Perhaps that’s why all the gnats have moved over here.
Suppose we disappoint ’em by going down to the tennis-courts?”
Cynthia slipped neatly out of her hammock, and they went off together.
There was more than a grain of truth in their comments. Freddie
Stickney prided himself—and justly—upon one knightly quality: he never
showed a wound. The most brutal snubbing left him quite unabashed.
Coming down to breakfast after the fiasco of his “inquest,” he had
encountered Eileen Cressage at the head of the stairs, and he had
insisted on chattering trivialities to her all the way down. At table,
his beady eyes had wholly failed to see the marked coldness with which
he was treated by everyone, and he took no notice of the fact that all
conversations into which he inserted himself were apt almost
immediately to fade out into silence. Only Mrs. Caistor Scorton seemed
to recognise his existence, and when breakfast was over, he had sought
her out on the lawns.
“What do you think about this affair of the Talisman, Mrs. Caistor
Scorton?” he demanded, as he sat down on the turf beside her chair.
Mrs. Caistor Scorton seemed to ruminate for some moments before
replying. Then she glanced shrewdly at Freddie. Evidently she thought
it worth while to draw him out.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Stickney. I’m not clever, like you; and I can
make nothing of it, one way or the other. But I’d like to hear what
you think. You’ve been putting two and two together, I’m sure, and I
expect you’ve got a good idea of things.”
Freddie rose to the bait without hesitation.
“If it would interest you, I’m delighted to give you my inferences.
You’ve got all the facts already.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton nodded, but said nothing. Freddie corrected
himself immediately.
“No, I was wrong in saying that. I’ve been hunting out some more
evidence—things that didn’t come out last night. One or two points
seem to be important.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton became more alert.
“That sounds interesting, Mr. Stickney. I’d like to hear it.”
Freddie considered for a few moments.
“I was just trying to arrange it in my mind,” he explained. “The
easiest way will be to take each person in turn, and examine the
evidence we have about that person in particular. Take Eileen Cressage
first. I think it’s obvious that some of us know more about her
affairs than came out last night.”
He looked up into Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s face inquisitively as he
spoke, and his voice had a hint of interrogation in its tone. Mrs.
Caistor Scorton stared down at him unwinkingly.
“One would almost think you were connecting me with her, Mr. Stickney.
I hardly know her.”
“Well, correct me if I am wrong,” said Freddie, brightly. “I admit
some of it’s guesswork; but I believe I’m right. We’ll see. Now to
start with, she’s hard up. That’s common knowledge. People invite her
to their houses out of good nature, and she stays with them to save
money, living on the cheap.”
No one would have imagined, from Freddie’s semi-indignant,
semi-pitying tone, that this description accurately fitted his own
methods during part of the year.
“I believe that’s true,” said Mrs. Caistor Scorton, in a judicial
voice. “It’s common knowledge, as you say. What next?”
“She lost a lot of money to you at bridge the other night.”
“That’s common knowledge too, Mr. Stickney. Everyone in the room knew
that. Are these your wonderful revelations?”
The quite perceptible ring of disappointment in her tone touched
Freddie on the raw. He was put on his metal, just as she intended.
“Wait a moment,” he begged. “Let’s take things as they come. She
didn’t pay you at the time? No. She gave you a cheque. I was watching
her face closely just then. I’m a bit of physiognomist, you know. It
was plain as print to me. That cheque was no good, Mrs. Caistor
Scorton.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton regarded him with a rather malicious smile.
“Indeed, Mr. Stickney?” She laughed. “Then how do you account for the
fact that the cheque was met when it was presented? I paid it in
immediately and my bank collected it at once.”
Freddie Stickney held up his hand, asking permission to interrupt her.
“Yes,” he said, rapidly, “I suppose the cheque was met next day. But
all the same, she hadn’t a spare £200 in the world that night. I know
the signs: you can’t deceive me. She hadn’t the cash that night. But
she had it next day. What happened in between?”
“How should I know?”
Freddie took no notice. His question had been merely a rhetorical one.
He continued, marking each point with emphasis.
“The Talisman disappeared; that’s what happened in between. And during
the night, we know that Miss Eileen Cressage was out of her room at a
time when the Talisman might have been stolen. There’s no denying
that, is there? And what happened first thing next morning? Long
before half of us were up, she went off to town. And where did
Westenhanger run across her in town? Coming out of Starbecks the
jewellers, the place where they’ll make advances on any little trinket
you’ve no immediate use for. And your cheque was met all right.”
He paused for a moment, and Mrs. Caistor Scorton looked down at him
curiously.
“You seem very good at putting two and two together, Mr. Stickney. Do
you enjoy it?”
Freddie seemed rather annoyed at the interruption. It ruined the
dramatic pause he had planned to make before his summing up.
“Of course I enjoy it,” he replied, rather crossly. “I like using my
brains. Well, there’s the case. It seems to me to need more explaining
away than we’ve had so far.”
“It’s very ingenious,” said Mrs. Caistor Scorton, in a non-committal
tone, “but isn’t there some other possible explanation of things? One
mustn’t look at a thing from one side, too much, you know.”
Freddie was not a person who welcomed criticism of his pronouncements;
but he felt that his reputation as a man of ideas was at stake.
Swiftly his mind reverted to an incident of the previous night.
“There is another possible explanation, I admit,” he said, in a rather
grudging tone. “Morchard has plenty of money. A matter of £200 would
be nothing to him. Now he’s very keen on Miss Cressage’s looks. I’ve
watched him, and I know the signs. Perhaps the money came from him.
You said last night that when you saw her she was going towards the
bachelors’ wing.”
“I said nothing of the kind,” Mrs. Caistor Scorton interrupted
sharply. “I said she was going along the corridor.”
“Which leads to the bachelors’ wing, of course,” persisted Freddie.
“And to the main staircase. Besides, Mr. Wraxall said he heard no one
pass his door.”
“How could he?” demanded Freddie triumphantly. “You said she was
wearing bedroom slippers. She wouldn’t make a sound.”
“Do you know, Mr. Stickney,” Mrs. Caistor Scorton commented in a
colourless tone, “you seem to have an unwholesome mind, if I may say
it without offence.” Her voice became indignant. “You know precious
little about girls if you think Eileen Cressage would raise money in
_that_ particular way. I’m not talking about morality; I’m speaking of
fastidiousness. If you’d suggested Douglas Fairmile, it might have
been credible; but it’s quite beyond believing if you drag in Mr.
Morchard. She simply wouldn’t dream of it. There are some things a
girl of that type won’t do; and a cash bargain with Mr. Morchard’s one
of them.”
“Very well,” said Freddie, sullenly, “you can have the other
alternative if you prefer it.”
“It’s far more likely; I can tell you that,” declared Mrs. Caistor
Scorton, coldly.
“Well, let’s leave her alone and go on to the rest.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton nodded an abrupt consent.
“Wraxall’s the next on the list,” Freddie went on, recovering his good
humour in the eagerness of his dissection. “I’ve picked up some facts
about him too. He came here for one purpose, and one purpose only. Do
you know what that was? To get the Talisman for his collection. That’s
all he’s here for. Now I found out—no matter how—that on the night of
the storm he approached old Dangerfield and offered to buy the thing.
Offered a gigantic price for it. It didn’t come off. They wouldn’t
sell. So there he was, knowing he’d failed to get what he wanted. You
know what these collectors are? Sort of monomaniacs on their hobby.”
“Are you suggesting that Mr. Wraxall took it? Absurd!”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply marshalling the evidence.
What is there? We know Wraxall was out and about in the house for the
best part of the night. What made Eric Dangerfield come down from his
room? Perhaps he heard Wraxall wandering round near the foot of his
stair and frightened him off the first attempt on the Talisman.
Perhaps Wraxall came back again and had a more successful try. All we
know is that the motive was there; the opportunity was there; the
theft was committed. Draw your own inference.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton seemed to have recovered her earlier mood.
“Oh, I’m not so clever as you are, Mr. Stickney. I’m quite content to
hear your own views. Let’s take the next person on your list.”
“Take Douglas Fairmile,” continued Freddie, quite restored to good
humour by the scrap of flattery. “My deliberate judgment is that
Douglas is not guilty. First, there’s no motive. Douglas has any
amount of money; he doesn’t need the Talisman for the sake of turning
it into cash. Second, he hasn’t the initiative to carry through a
thing like that. He’s just one of these would-be funny fellows. No, in
my opinion, it wasn’t Douglas.”
“I agree with you,” concurred Mrs. Caistor Scorton. “Let’s pass on.”
“Morchard’s the next. Same thing. No motive. No evidence. Morchard
didn’t take it.”
“Anything to say about Mrs. Brent, Mr. Stickney?”
“Ah,” said Freddie importantly. “I have a piece of fresh evidence
about her. Two nights ago, I happened to be passing outside the window
when she was discussing storms with that Yankee; and do you know what
I heard her say?”
“No,” said Mrs. Caistor Scorton. “I don’t know. I wish you wouldn’t go
on asking these questions when you know I can’t possibly answer them.”
Freddie ignored the interruption.
“I heard her say this,” he went on, impressively.
“‘After a really bad storm I’m hardly normal. I might do something
wild. _I might steal my best friend’s spoons._’ That’s what she said;
I heard it distinctly. Now what was the state of affairs on the night
the Talisman was stolen? Wasn’t it the worst storm you’ve known for
years?”
“It was,” agreed Mrs. Caistor Scorton, “quite the worst. But remember
that you slept through it yourself. You told us so last night. So
perhaps Mrs. Brent did the same.”
“You’re trying to laugh at me,” Freddie’s tone showed that he was
hurt. “I’m sure Mrs. Brent didn’t sleep through it. She hasn’t got my
strong nerves. No, I expect it drove her nearly out of her mind. What
if she stole something even more important than her best friend’s
spoons? Her room was quite near the place where the Talisman stood.
What if she got up in the night with all her nerves in rags, stole the
Talisman, hid it somewhere—and forgot all about it? And next morning
she goes off on the _Kestrel_, nobody knows where. What do you think
of that?”
“Not much,” said Mrs. Caistor Scorton, gently. “Try again.”
Freddie looked at her dubiously for a moment or two before continuing
his survey.
“That leaves the two girls. But they have a complete _alibi_, luckily
for them.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton looked at him quizzically as he stopped.
“Your list isn’t complete yet, Mr. Stickney. You’ve left out quite a
number of possible people. Myself, for one. Yourself, for another. And
you’ve forgotten the four Dangerfields. Let’s be quite fair all round.
What about these people?”
Freddie, for once, was completely taken aback.
“That’s only a joke, isn’t it? You didn’t actually think . . .”
“Oh, don’t let us stumble over a trifle like that. Let’s be fair all
round.” Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s eyes twinkled, but their expression was
hardly kindly. “Since you won’t do it, I’ll show you that you’ve had a
diligent pupil just now. I’ll follow your own methods and you’ll
criticise my efforts.”
Freddie uttered some protesting noises, but she took no notice.
“First, there’s Mrs. Caistor Scorton. She had an opportunity of
stealing the Talisman. What about motive? I understand she’s plenty of
money. She’d hardly be tempted by that. No motive? Then shall we agree
to pass Mrs. Caistor Scorton? Very good.”
Her voice grew slightly acid.
“Then there’s Mr. Stickney. Opportunity? The same as Mrs. Caistor
Scorton’s. Motive?” She turned on him swiftly. “You’re hard up, aren’t
you, Mr. Stickney? Yes? So I’ve heard people say. People do talk,
don’t they? Well, then, what do you say about Mr. Stickney’s case? He
had the opportunity. He had a motive, we’ll say. And he admitted last
night that he was up and about just at the very time when the Talisman
was stolen. Pass Mr. Stickney? Well . . . hardly, I think. He’d better
go back for further examination, hadn’t he?”
Her laugh had a sarcastic ring in Freddie’s ears. But before he had
time to interrupt her, she had passed on down her list.
“Now for the Dangerfields. All of them have opportunity. What about
motive? (You see how apt a pupil I am, don’t you?) So far as the two
old people go, there’s no motive. They have the Talisman already; they
don’t need to steal it. Then there’s Helga. Her fiancé’s big game
shooting in Africa just now. She’s going to get married when he comes
back. Big game shooting costs money. I happen to know that he has
plenty. Helga wouldn’t need to steal the Talisman. Pass Helga
Dangerfield, I think.”
She glanced ironically at Freddie, who was somewhat mystified by the
turn of the examination.
“That’s the whole list, except for Eric Dangerfield. Do you happen to
have picked up anything about him, Mr. Stickney?”
Freddie seemed to feel that his reputation as an authority was at
stake. His beady eyes took on a meditative expression as he ran over
his memory for information.
“He’s Helga’s cousin, of course. And he’s the nearest living male in
the family. I suppose he’s an heir-male or whatever they call it.
Friocksheim goes down the male line, I’ve heard.”
“Nothing very new in all that, Mr. Stickney. Don’t you know something
about him personally?”
“Not much,” Freddie replied, doubtfully. “I’ve never met him before I
came here this time. He’s been abroad till quite lately. A bit of a
rolling stone, from all I’ve heard. Remittance man, or something like
that.”
“A ne’er-do-well, then?”
“I think so. Most likely.”
“Any other pleasant characteristics you can think of?”
Freddie hesitated for an instant, then apparently he made up his mind
to divulge something.
“Of course, Mrs. Caistor Scorton, this is absolutely in confidence.
You won’t repeat it?”
She shook her head, and he continued.
“He’s very hard up. I know that for a fact. I happened to be walking
in the garden that night he was playing bridge with you. He and the
old man were talking; and I chanced to overhear some things they said.
Of course, I wasn’t listening on purpose; but sometimes one can’t help
catching a sentence or two.”
Without giving his neighbour time to interrupt him, he hurried on to
his revelation.
“I gathered that Eric couldn’t pay up that night, either. He was
dunning his uncle for cash to square up with Morchard. Old Mr.
Dangerfield wasn’t pleased. He said something about this being the
last time. At any rate he said ‘last time’; but perhaps he was
speaking of some other time, before that. He seemed very hot about it.
Eric wasn’t looking very comfortable.”
“You seem to have heard a good deal,” said Mrs. Caistor Scorton,
indifferently.
But Freddie hardly seemed to notice her aloofness. He was off on a
fresh scent.
“I’d never thought of that,” he volunteered. “Of course, that throws a
fresh light on things. Let’s see if we can put two and two together.
Fact number one, he’s hard up. Fact number two, he’s a ne’er-do-well.
Fact number three, he couldn’t pay Morchard that night. Number four,
he may not have been able to persuade his uncle to pay. Number five,
he did pay after the Talisman disappeared—I happen to know that.
Problem, how did he manage to pay? Well, suppose he took the Talisman.
He wouldn’t need to sell it. He could raise some cash on it easily
enough, being a Dangerfield. He could get an advance and let them
notify his uncle. Old Mr. Dangerfield would be forced to pay up in
order to get the thing back. Or he might even simply hide the thing
and blackmail his uncle for money—hold the Talisman to ransom, so to
speak.”
“You have a wonderful imagination, Mr. Stickney. I hope you’ll go on
looking into the whole affair. Perhaps you’ll be able to clear it up
for us. It’s certainly been most unpleasant to feel that this cloud of
suspicion is hanging over the place. You’ll do your best, I’m sure.”
Freddie tried to appear modest under this testimonial to his capacity.
“That’s what I’ve felt all along,” he admitted. “One really owes it to
everyone to do one’s best to clear the thing up. It’s so awkward for
all of us.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton gave him what appeared to be a grateful glance.
Then, with more interest than she had shown for some minutes, she put
a direct question.
“Whom do you really suspect, Mr. Stickney?”
Freddie apparently had been tabulating his conclusions as he went
along, and he was able to answer her without a pause.
“Three people. I can’t get nearer than that.”
“And they are?” inquired Mrs. Caistor Scorton, with just a touch of
eagerness.
“Miss Cressage, of course,” responded Freddie at once. “I think her
doings need looking into. I’ll pay special attention to her.”
“Quite true. There’s a good deal that would be all the better of some
explanation. I don’t pretend to see through it myself. Now, the next
person?”
“The American, obviously. If we knew all that he knows we might know a
good deal more than we do know,” explained Freddie, with the air of a
Sibyl uttering some profound monition.
“Possibly. And the third person?”
“Eric Dangerfield. Curious that I hadn’t thought of him before, isn’t
it?”
“Very strange,” agreed Mrs. Caistor Scorton. “You’re usually so quick
at conclusions, Mr. Stickney.”
She rose to her feet with an air of dismissal.
“Well, I mustn’t detain you,” she said. “Be sure to let me know if you
discover anything else that’s interesting.”
As she moved across the lawn she glanced over her shoulder and smiled
encouragingly; but if Freddie had been a thought-reader he would
hardly have felt flattered.
“What a malicious little reptile,” she reflected. “He makes me feel
shivery. Luckily he’s not likely to do any real harm. Nobody will pay
any attention to him.”