At the door of Friocksheim, Westenhanger gave Eileen his directions.
“I must get rid of these, first of all,” he explained, tapping his
binoculars. “While I’m upstairs, will you go along to the Corinthian’s
Room and wait for me there? I shan’t be a minute.”
When he rejoined her, he had a brown paper parcel in his hand, and
from its shape she inferred that it contained the stolen articles.
“Now we can get to business, Eileen.”
With a gesture, he invited her to come with him to the cabinet of the
Talisman, and to her astonishment, he opened one of the doors and
withdrew the armlet from beneath the bell. Putting it aside with a
warning not to touch it, he took from his pocket the replica which
they had discovered in the hollow tree; and this he placed on the
velvet bed, arranging it as nearly as possible in the position
previously occupied by its duplicate. He then covered it with the bell
and closed the door of the cabinet.
“Now the trap’s baited,” he said, putting the second armlet in his
pocket with no particular precautions. “But we can’t risk the chance
of a fresh mouse nibbling the cheese before we’re ready. I’ll have to
stay here on guard. Your business will be to go off, now, and collect
all the people you can. It doesn’t much matter who they are, so long
as Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s one of them. Bring half a dozen at least.
Tell them anything you like to get them here. I’ll guarantee to keep
them, once they arrive.”
Eileen went off on her errand without venturing to put the question
which obviously was trembling on her lips. Westenhanger sat down to
await the arrival of his audience.
The first to appear were Mrs. Brent and Wraxall. Mrs. Brent was
plainly rather mistrustful.
“Is this another of these peculiarly unsatisfactory general meetings,
Mr. Westenhanger? I hardly expected to find you issuing invitations of
the kind.”
“Didn’t my messenger reassure you?” countered Westenhanger, with a
smile.
“Well, I hope my character’s not going to be dissected this time,” she
retorted tartly. “If I’m dragged into it in any form, I warn you I
shall simply go away.”
Westenhanger’s amusement grew more apparent.
“Don’t make too rash promises,” he advised. “I don’t think you’ll ask
for your money back at the door if you manage to sit through the first
act. This play gets brighter as it progresses.”
Wraxall looked at Westenhanger quizzically.
“What particular brand of drama do you specialise in? Is it tragedy?
Tragedy’s hardly my line. Nor yet is sob-stuff. I don’t seem to react
much to sob-stuff. Or are you a Happy-Ender? I’d rather you were. It’s
preferable. I don’t care about having an attack of catawampus as the
curtain flips down.”
“I’ll hear your criticisms afterwards,” Westenhanger said lightly.
Mrs. Caistor Scorton entered the room, but it was evident that she
would have stayed away had she dared to do so. It was a very different
Mrs. Caistor Scorton from the one who had so calmly given her damning
evidence against Eileen a few nights earlier. An air of bewilderment
was still on her face; and Westenhanger saw that she was puzzled by
his summons and uncertain as to its meaning. Quite obviously she was
afraid, and afraid of something which she could not define even to
herself. She walked across the room and seated herself with her back
to the light. Westenhanger avoided looking in her direction.
“Just as I thought,” he reflected. “She has no notion that she’s been
spotted; but the general complexity of the affair is giving her the
jumps. She’ll brazen it out if she can, when it comes to the pinch.
Lucky I was careful.”
Rollo Dangerfield followed close on Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s heels. As
he entered, he shot a glance at Westenhanger from under his white
eyebrows, a glance in which doubt seemed to mingle with a certain
hostility.
“He doesn’t like being dragged into this affair,” was Westenhanger’s
interpretation. “I suppose it jars on his notions about the code of a
host. I can’t help his troubles, though. He’s got to go through it
with the rest. We must get rid of that woman to-day, and he ought to
be put on his guard in case he ever thinks of bringing her down to
Friocksheim again.”
Freddie Stickney lounged into the room a few minutes later. At the
sight of the assembly, his eyebrows rose momentarily and he glanced
inquisitively from one to another as though he hoped to discover from
the faces the secret of the meeting. Westenhanger curtly invited him
to sit down. He augured little good from Freddie’s presence, and was
inclined to blame Eileen for having dragged the creature into the
affair at all. But then, remembering that she probably wanted Freddie
to see the final clearing-up of the affair, so as to leave him no
chance for tittle-tattle, Westenhanger had to admit to himself that
she was right in her choice.
Almost at once, Eileen and Cynthia came through the door together.
Cynthia looked round the room in some surprise. Eileen had evidently
brought her there without explanation.
“Who’s in the chair this time?” she inquired languidly, when she had
inspected the company. “You, Mr. Westenhanger? Well, that’s a relief!”
She and Eileen chose seats near Mrs. Brent. The gathering now seemed
complete, and Westenhanger was about to begin, when the door opened
again. Eric Dangerfield came into the room. It was evident that he had
not been summoned like the others, and that he had no idea of what was
afoot. He seemed wrapped in a brown study, for when he raised his head
and caught sight of the company, he was obviously surprised. He made
no comment, however; but Westenhanger saw him glance swiftly round the
group until he picked out his uncle. Eric’s face was glum, and the
message which his eyes telegraphed was evidently unsatisfactory,
whatever its purport. Old Rollo’s expression showed that the silent
communication had taken him completely aback. Incredulity, followed by
something like dismay, flashed for an instant across his features
before being effaced by the return of the old man’s normal expression
of aloofness. Westenhanger was at a loss how to interpret the
incident. Eric, having delivered his message to his uncle, looked
again at the company and then seated himself in the nearest vacant
chair. He seemed to be brooding over some problem which puzzled him,
and he appeared to pay little attention to Westenhanger’s opening
words.
“I think we’re all rather _blasé_ of these meetings, by now,”
Westenhanger began. “It’ll be a relief to you to know that this one is
positively the last. Most of us have had evidence of sorts dragged out
of us on one pretence or another. It seems a pity to be out of the
fashion, so I’ll give you mine. And that will finish the business.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton shifted slightly in her chair; but Westenhanger
could make nothing of her face. If anything, she seemed more
bewildered than ever.
“As you know,” Westenhanger continued, “I was away from Friocksheim on
the night of the Talisman’s disappearance. I’ve nothing fresh to say
about that. Not to drag things out, I have suspicions”—he dragged out
his words slowly—“which amount to . . . almost . . . a certainty . . .
with regard to the disappearance of the Talisman.”
To avoid glancing at any particular person, he fixed his eyes on the
tapestry of Diana’s hunting, as though that chase engrossed his whole
visual attention for the moment.
“Somebody suggested that this business has been a mere practical
joke,” he continued. “If so, then this is the last chance for the
perpetrator of it to own up. Anybody volunteer?”
Nobody accepted his offer. At last Freddie Stickney broke the silence.
“Anyone can see it’s a practical joke. There’s the Talisman staring
you in the face! It’s not been stolen at all.”
“Think so, Freddie? Perhaps you’re right. But some other things have
gone amissing: Miss Cressage’s mirror, Mrs. Brent’s wrist-watch,
and”—he glanced at Eric for confirmation—“a silver-mounted paper-knife
from the library table.”
Eric nodded his confirmation of this. He was paying more attention to
Westenhanger now.
“There’s no question of a practical joke in these cases, for the
articles have not been returned.”
“That doesn’t prove anything about the Talisman,” Freddie objected
with an air of acuteness. “It was returned; they weren’t. Obviously
the cases are different.”
“If you insist on their reappearance,” answered Westenhanger, “it’s
easy enough to gratify you.”
He unwrapped his paper parcel and took out its contents one by one.
“Your wrist-watch, Mrs. Brent? No, don’t touch it, if you please. And
Miss Cressage’s mirror. And the paper-knife with the silver handle,
which most of us know well enough.”
Eileen was surprised to find that he had not included the Talisman in
the series.
As he drew out article after article, Westenhanger had shot a sidelong
glance at Mrs. Caistor Scorton. With the appearance of the stolen
goods, her figure had grown rigid, and her face now showed fear as its
dominant note. She waited breathlessly for Westenhanger’s next move.
“These things,” Westenhanger went on, “I recovered this morning from
the place where they had been hidden.”
His eyes happened to light on Eric’s face as he spoke, and he noticed
an expression flit across it as though this evidence had cleared up
something. But immediately perplexity reappeared in Eric’s features. A
fresh point seemed to have arisen to puzzle him.
Westenhanger refrained from dragging out the agony.
“The thief was Mrs. Caistor Scorton,” he said, bluntly.
At the words, Mrs. Caistor Scorton rose from her chair.
“Mr. Westenhanger is very free with his insinuations,” she commented.
“So far, he has produced nothing to support that lie.”
Westenhanger turned on her.
“These things were stolen from various places in the house. This
morning, Miss Cressage and I watched you take them from the hollow
tree down by the Pool. I think that’s clear enough.”
“Then it’s simply your evidence against mine. Miss Cressage doesn’t
count, I’m afraid. She was under suspicion herself not so long ago.”
Westenhanger went white with anger.
“Miss Cressage cleared herself of any charge that you brought against
her. But you’re mistaken if you think the thing rests solely on that
evidence. The thief was left-handed; so are you.”
“So are other people.”
Westenhanger admitted this with a curt nod. He had tried to drive her
into an acknowledgment without using the Talisman; but there seemed to
be no way out of it.
“It’s no use bluffing, Mrs. Scorton. Your finger-prints are on the
Talisman.”
Rollo Dangerfield interrupted him sharply.
“You are mistaken there, Mr. Westenhanger.”
Westenhanger stepped over to Rollo’s side and lowered his voice so
that only the old man could hear.
“Take my word for it. I’m afraid I’ve stumbled on the Dangerfield
Secret, and I’d rather say nothing to put other people on the track.”
Rollo could take a blow without wincing. Apart from the dismay in his
eyes, he showed nothing to mark that he had been touched on his most
sensitive spot.
“Very well, Mr. Westenhanger. Do as you please. And thanks for your
restraint.”
He raised his voice and spoke to the company at large.
“I’m sorry that I inadvertently threw doubt on Mr. Westenhanger’s
statement. He knows best.”
Westenhanger pressed his point.
“Do you deny that your finger-prints are there?”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton had seized on Rollo’s intervention as a possible
way opening to safety; but with his recantation she seemed to lose
heart completely.
“Well, I took it, then,” she admitted. “I couldn’t help it. I’m a
kleptomaniac. I can’t help taking glittering things like these. I’m
not a thief. I don’t steal for money. I don’t need money. It’s simply
I can’t help taking some things. They fascinate me. I simply have to
take them. I’ve fought against it, but it’s no good.”
“So I thought,” said Westenhanger. “But that hardly excuses the way in
which you tried to throw suspicion on other people. If you hadn’t done
that, it might have been possible to hush this up. But you made it
impossible to stop short of complete exposure. I gave you every
chance.”
“Need we go any further?” interposed old Rollo. “I think the matter is
now quite clear to all of us; and I’m quite sure none of us wish it to
go any further. The main thing is that suspicion has been cleared
away.”
Westenhanger agreed.
“You’ve got off lightly, Mrs. Scorton. And you’ve Mr. Dangerfield to
thank for it. If the police had been called in . . .”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton made no response. Nothing which she could have
said would have lessened her defeat or gained her any sympathy.
Westenhanger had put his finger on the main point of her offence when
he spoke of her attempt to throw the blame on other shoulders:
kleptomania might be forgiven as a morbid effect, but her effort to
shield herself at Eileen’s expense had put her in an even worse light.
Without a look at anyone, she crossed the room, fumbled with the
door-handle for an instant before Westenhanger could come to her
assistance, and then went out.
With her departure, a sudden slackening of the tension made itself
felt. Everyone seemed anxious to minimise the whole matter as far as
possible. The third uncomfortable scene of the week was at last safely
behind them, and obviously, as Westenhanger had predicted, it would be
the last of the series. Friocksheim could get back to normal once more
now that the cloud of suspicion had settled finally on the right
person. In a few minutes Westenhanger’s audience had filtered from the
room, leaving him alone with Eric and old Rollo.
As soon as the last outsider had gone, Westenhanger put his hand in
his pocket.
“Here’s the real Talisman,” he said, handing it over to the old man.
“Before staging that last affair I exchanged it for the replica which
Mrs. Caistor Scorton took, so that I could prove the thing by means of
her finger-prints if necessary, and yet keep the rest of them from
knowing that you were using a duplicate. I didn’t wish to let
outsiders into a secret which I’d stumbled upon myself by accident.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Rollo said warmly. “Most people would have
been less careful of our feelings, I’m afraid.”
Westenhanger remembered something.
“Of course Miss Cressage knows the state of affairs as well as I do;
but you can trust her to keep other people’s secrets. She’s proved
that already at considerable cost.”
“Oh, one could trust Miss Cressage completely, I know.”
Westenhanger took a chair, as though to show that he had more to say.
Rollo Dangerfield, after placing the Talisman in the little safe in
the wall, sat down in his turn. Eric took up his position in front of
the fire-place.
“I’m not quite clear about the whole of this business,” said
Westenhanger to his host. “Perhaps, since I’ve blundered so far into
it—unintentionally—you won’t mind settling one or two points for me.”
Again he noted with surprise that an expression of dismay seemed to
flicker for an instant in Rollo’s face. “Now what on earth is he jumpy
about, at this stage in the affair?” Westenhanger asked himself; but
he could find no immediate answer to the question.
Rollo merely nodded in response to his guest’s remark. He evidently
intended to answer or not as suited him best.
“What has puzzled me, for one thing,” Westenhanger continued, “is why
you have been using a replica at all. Why not put the Talisman in a
place of safety and be done with it?”
“Did you never think of a stalking-horse?” Rollo asked. “If we locked
up the Talisman, then anyone who wished to steal it would concentrate
his efforts on the thing itself, and we should have to take
precautions. As it is—you’ve seen the process in operation
yourself—the thief thinks it is all plain sailing. He concentrates on
the sham Talisman and never thinks of anything else. If he’s
successful—it matters very little to us. All he gets is some gilded
lead and a few bits of cheap paste.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Westenhanger admitted. “It’s certainly a
sound piece of tactics. But doesn’t the secret leak out if the thing
happens to be stolen?”
“No,” explained Rollo. “Suppose a thief takes the replica—it’s been
stolen oftener than we say in public—what does he do? He can’t publish
his information. Nobody learns anything about it.”
“That’s true, of course, when one thinks of it,” Westenhanger
admitted, dismissing the matter. “Now there’s another point that
puzzled me. Why did you suddenly put the Talisman back into the
cabinet last night?”
This time it was Eric who took the matter up.
“Look at the position from our point of view, Westenhanger. The thing
was stolen in the small hours, that morning. I was round the house in
the earlier part of the night, watching to see that Helga came to no
harm. By the way, Douglas saw me writing a note to Morchard, enclosing
a cheque for my losses; and I think Wraxall must have seen me leaving
it in the hall for Morchard to get in the morning.”
“You seem to know a lot of details,” commented Westenhanger.
“Freddie Stickney has his uses,” Eric explained. “He gave my uncle a
full and embroidered account of all that went on at that inquiry of
his. Well, we come to the next morning. Of course my uncle and I went
straight to the cabinet; and at once I knew the thing had been stolen
by a left-handed person. It was obvious to me, because I’m left-handed
myself, as you know.”
He smiled ironically.
“You and Douglas were very ingenious, Westenhanger; but as my own mind
was running on parallel lines, I hadn’t much trouble in seeing what
you were after with your coin-counting and all the rest of it.”
Westenhanger felt the home-thrust; but Eric seemed to attach no
importance to the matter.
“I had to go up to town that morning to pay in a cheque to meet the
one I’d given to Morchard, before he could present it. Same case as
Miss Cressage, in fact. So we decided to postpone investigation till I
got back in the afternoon. As you know, I got scuppered in
town—twisted my ankle—and couldn’t get back for a day or two. My uncle
didn’t make much of a success at the sleuth business. He was quite
content to wait till I turned up again and picked out the missing
left-hander. You see, we had a pull over you people in the fact that
I’m left-handed myself, and so I know the finer points in which a
left-hander differs from the normal. We had Mrs. Caistor Scorton
picked out in a very short time after I came home again—a much shorter
time than you took over the business, naturally, owing to our handicap
of special knowledge.”
He sat down and began to fill his pipe.
“Meanwhile, of course,” he went on, “Freddie had muddled things up no
end by his pranks. But Mrs. Brent had cleared Miss Cressage the night
I came home again, so that matter didn’t affect us. My uncle had been
carrying on his part of the show in my absence—producing an
atmosphere, if you see what I mean. All that stuff about the Talisman
always coming back—of course, it always does come back!—and so forth.
That was all meant for Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s benefit. We wanted to
get her into a state of uncertainty—general jumps, in fact, semi-eerie
atmosphere, you know, no saying what’s going to happen, and so forth.
My uncle managed that side of it, with special attention to her as
soon as I’d picked her out.”
It was evident that old Rollo was half-ashamed of the part he had
played. He said nothing, however, and Eric went on.
“Once we were sure of our effect, we brought the Talisman home again.”
He nodded in the direction of the cabinet.
“We took care that Freddie knew about it first thing. He passed it on
to Mrs. Caistor Scorton. She’s not a brainy person, really; and she
fell right into the trap we had laid for her. Given her brand of mind,
we counted that she would go straight off to where she had hidden the
replica she had stolen; and we had only to keep an eye on her. It
worked out quite according to plan. She lost her head when she saw the
thing over there. She must have thought the world was upside-down or
something. So off she scuttled at once to see what had become of her
own Talisman. Mixed up with the general muddle in her mind there was
probably the fear that we had found the thing and got it back. So away
she went, to make sure. That really seems to support the kleptomania
notion. No thief with any constructive capacity would have dreamed of
going to his cache in these circumstances. As soon as she left the
house I was on the watch with a telescope from my rooms in the tower
up above here. You can see every part of the place from there—bar the
belt of trees round the pool. You can see the Pool itself, and I
watched her go down there and examine her hiding-place. As soon as she
put the things back again I went off as quick as I could limp to
secure them.”
“I remember we met you on the road.”
“Yes. I passed you and went right on to the willow. You can guess how
I felt when I put my hand into the hole and found nothing there. I
hadn’t seen you and Miss Cressage through the telescope, you know; you
must have been hidden in the belt of trees when I was on the watch;
and you only came out after I had come down from my post.”
“So that’s why you were looking puzzled when you came in here?”
“Well, how would you have felt? It seemed a bit weird to find the
things gone, within a minute or two of my seeing them put back into
the hole.”
Westenhanger smiled.
“I’m glad you haven’t had all the laughs on your side.”
“I came in here,” Eric continued, “just to see if the cabinet was all
right; and of course I plunged into the middle of your At Home. You
certainly took a nasty bit of work off our hands by your intervention.
Well, I think that’s all. Virtue rewarded, and all that—just like a
fairy tale, eh?”
“It’s been a thoroughly unpleasant business,” old Rollo spoke at last.
“There’s only one thing in it that gives me any satisfaction. It was
our good fortune that the only people who fathomed the secret of the
replica are you, Mr. Westenhanger, and Miss Cressage. We know that the
matter is safe in your keeping.”
“Mrs. Caistor Scorton must have some suspicions, surely?” Westenhanger
suggested.
“Suspicions, yes,” admitted the old man, grimly. “But I think she’s
hardly likely to mention the Talisman to anyone in future. She won’t
betray much.”
“So that’s why you wouldn’t call in the police?” demanded
Westenhanger. “I must confess that puzzled me badly. I began to
believe you really thought yourself that the Talisman would come back
of its own accord.”
Rollo avoided answering the question.
“You may tell Miss Cressage exactly what you think fit about all
this,” he said. “Perhaps she ought to know the whole facts. We can
trust her implicitly. We all know that.”
“Well, Friocksheim will be a bit more comfortable to live in, now, or
I’m mistaken,” Eric said hopefully as they left the room. “We’ll be
three short at dinner to-night, no doubt; but I expect we’ll bear up
under the loss.”
“Three?” queried Westenhanger.
“Mrs. Scorton’s hardly likely to stay. Then Morchard was only down
here trying to persuade us to sell him Friocksheim. Nothing doing, of
course; we’d as soon think of parting with the Talisman itself. After
what’s happened, we shan’t press him to prolong his visit. He’s not a
friend of ours, it was merely a matter of business.”
“I wondered how he came to be here at all,” confessed Westenhanger.
“He seemed a bit out of his element. And who’s the third?”
“Freddie. I have an idea that my uncle will politely but firmly hasten
his departure. He’s stirred up enough trouble to last us for a while,
and we’ll be happier without him.”
As it turned out, Eric was accurate in his forecasts. Mrs. Caistor
Scorton took her departure in the afternoon, without meeting anyone,
and by the same train went Morchard and Freddie Stickney.
“Must have been an interesting scene at the station,” speculated
Douglas Fairmile as he joined Wraxall and Westenhanger in the evening,
after most of the others had gone to bed. “The good lady would hustle
into her compartment first of all. Seat facing the engine, no doubt.
In her state of mind it would be better to look forward than to look
back. Bury the past! Then friend Morchard would hop into a smoker. And
Freddie would be left on the platform, wondering which of them he’d
most like to worry with his company up to town. He’s not the lad to
feel himself _de trop_ anywhere.”
“Let’s forget ’em,” suggested Westenhanger. “They gave us enough
trouble between them. I can feel the air of the place different, since
they’ve gone.”
“So can I,” confirmed the American. “It’s been a very awkward week for
all of us; and it’s been specially awkward for me, if I may say so. I
was the outsider in the party. Your English hospitality’s perfect, and
you couldn’t have done more to make me feel at home. But all the same,
I was the one visitor that none of you knew personally before we met
here. And I was the only one, bar the Dangerfields, who had a direct
interest in the Talisman. I wanted the thing badly. The Dangerfields
knew that quite well; I’d even made an offer for it, the very night it
was stolen. Old Mr. Dangerfield put that offer aside. Quite polite, of
course; but you know that uninterested way he has, as if he were
thinking of something else all the time. No good. But I’d showed him
how keen I was on the thing.”
He put down his cigar.
“And that very night, the thing disappeared! Collectors have the name
of being an unscrupulous gang. I might have lifted it easily enough.
And next day I got a notion he suspected me. It was very awkward. It
was most awkward. And we’ve got you to thank, Westenhanger, for
getting us out of it. I’m grateful. I’m very thankful to get my
character cleared.”
“But surely you didn’t expect to buy the Talisman?” said Douglas. “The
Dangerfields would never part with the thing.”
“If you’re ever hard up, Fairmile, you’ll do a lot of things you
wouldn’t think of in your present state. I reckoned it out this way.
The Talisman is the big Dangerfield asset. So long as they have it,
they’re all right. Their credit’s good. But money’s more use to them
than jewels just now. I have ways of finding out things like that, and
I banked on it. My offer would have been a better spec. for them than
the Talisman itself, from the credit point of view. I offered far more
than the thing’s worth in the open market—twenty-five per cent. more.
But it seems this family pride comes in. They won’t part with the
thing. I was struck by that. I haven’t met that so strong before.”
“Perhaps your information’s wrong about their finances. One would need
to be in the last ditch before one would think of selling a thing like
the Talisman. And I doubt if the Dangerfields are anywhere near the
last ditch.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Westenhanger. That’s what made me so
sure I was going to get the thing. They’re right in that ditch now.”