The Canon’s Cigars
One can only suppose that the morbid curiosity which always attracts a
crowd of people to the burial of a suicide or victim of a murder
repays the onlookers in some sense or other. It is difficult to say
how it does so. The utmost they see or hear is a glimpse of an
ordinary coffin and the words of the Burial Service.
It was a large crowd that gathered on the Tuesday afternoon to witness
the funeral of Reginald Templeton, which took place in the cemetery a
mile out of Frattenbury. There were few mourners. The Canon’s brother,
a retired colonel, had run down for the occasion and occupied the
leading mourning coach with the Canon himself and Winnie Cotterill.
Crosby and the doctor who had attended the case came in the other.
On the return journey to the city, Winnie Cotterill, who was seated
next to the Canon, remarked:
“It’s a curious thing, Canon Fittleworth, but several times I’ve had
the impression that Frattenbury is familiar to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “It’s just come over me now. That view of the
Cathedral spire—and the little stream of water we’ve just crossed—it’s
just as if I’ve seen them before.”
“Perhaps you have,” said the Canon.
The girl shook her head.
“I don’t see how I can,” she replied; “I’ve never been here before, so
far as I know.”
“Well, you see,” said the Canon, with a little pride, “our Cathedral
is pretty well known, and I dare say you’ve seen pictures or
photographs of it. That might account for it.”
“Perhaps,” replied Winnie slowly, “but it doesn’t seem to—it’s that
funny sort of feeling that I’ve been here, don’t you know?”
“Yes, I know,” said Canon Fittleworth, “it’s a psychological
curiosity. I’ve had it myself often. ‘There are more things in heaven
and earth—’ eh, Charles?”
“True. Possibly,” he went on to the girl, “you’ve heard people
describing Frattenbury.”
She laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ll think me very ignorant,” she said, “but I don’t
think I ever heard of Frattenbury till I read about the murder in the
paper yesterday morning. I’ve never even been in the South of
England.”
“We’re not so famous as we thought we were, Miss Cotterill,” said the
Canon with a smile. “What do you think of our War Memorial?”
They were passing through a little square just at the entry of the
city, in the centre of which stood one of those, now familiar,
erections which are to remind people that the Great European War was
characterised by many atrocities.
She looked at it, shrugged her shoulders—it may have been the
expression of an opinion—and then, closing her eyes, said slowly:
“It looks as if there ought to be a big lamp-post there, instead.”
“There was,” replied the Canon dryly. “I don’t know that I didn’t
prefer it. Really, Miss Cotterill, you must have considerable psychic
powers.”
“I never knew it till now.”
A minute or two later they entered the Cathedral precincts, and drew
up at the Canon’s residence. As they got out Mr. Norwood happened to
be passing. He raised his hat and bowed in his stiff, formal manner.
Winnie Cotterill looked at him intently.
“Who was that?” she asked the Canon as they went into the house.
“One of our Frattenbury solicitors—a Mr. Norwood,” replied the Canon.
“It’s that queer sensation again,” remarked the girl. “When he took
his hat off it seemed to me exactly as if I’d seen him before—only
that he’s older or something.”
“Well, it’s quite possible. Although he’s lived all his life in
Frattenbury he’s often in London. One really meets—quite casually—many
people who leave an impression on one.”
“I suppose it’s that,” said Winnie. “It must be—of course.”
“Is his name familiar to you?”
“Not a bit. I never heard it before.”
There were several letters for the Canon lying on the hall table. He
took them up, saying as he did so:
“Tea ought to be ready. I expect you’ll find Mrs. Fittleworth in the
drawing-room. Do you mind telling her I’ll be there in a minute?”
She hesitated.
“Canon Fittleworth?”
“Yes.”
“If you _can_ find out whether the police have done anything—about Mr.
Grayson—before I go, I should be so grateful.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll go round to the police station immediately
after tea.”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
Then, as she went into the drawing-room, he opened his letters. His
face looked grave as he read one of them, a note from the police
superintendent.
Dear Sir,
We have detained, on suspicion, the young artist, named Grayson, who
was staying at the “Mariner’s Arms” at Marsh Quay. I shall be
grateful if you can kindly make it convenient to call here any time
between five and six this afternoon. We want you to corroborate a
small matter. I called this morning, but you were out, and I was
told you would not be disengaged till after the funeral. Will you
kindly bring with you one of your cigars similar to that which you
say contained the band found by you at Marsh Quay?
Yours faithfully,
Thomas Norton.
He thought for a moment, and then went into his study and rang the
bell.
“Tell your mistress I want to see her for a minute,” he told the maid.
“My dear,” he said to his wife when she came in, “the police have
written to tell me they have that young man, Grayson, detained at the
police station. I had only just promised Miss Cotterill to go round
after tea and make inquiries, before she leaves. I shall have to go in
any case. They’ve asked me.”
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Fittleworth, “she seems very much concerned
about Mr. Grayson. I think she’s fond of him, Charles. I _hope_ he
isn’t the murderer.”
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s not for us to judge,” he said, “nor must we jump at hasty
conclusions. If there’s nothing against him, however, I should like to
be able to tell Miss Cotterill before she goes.” He looked at his
watch. “Her train leaves in less than an hour—and they may keep me at
the police station longer than I thought.”
Mrs. Fittleworth, out of the kindness of her heart, rose to the
occasion.
“She shall stay another night. I’ll persuade her. I like the girl very
much, Charles. You see, if there’s nothing really against the young
man we ought to know in the morning. And if there _is_, well, perhaps
I can comfort her a little.”
The Canon beamed his satisfaction.
“I quite agree,” he said. “Don’t tell her just now that the police
have detained him.”
“Don’t _you_ let it out, dear!” she replied. “Give me five minutes to
persuade her to stay, and then come in to tea.”
Left to himself, Canon Fittleworth opened his cigar cupboard and took
out a box. He was about to place one of the three or four remaining
cigars in his case, when he stopped.
“Yes,” he murmured, “I’ll take the box itself round. I ought to have
thought of that before. It may be useful!”
After tea he went round to the police station and was shown into the
superintendent’s private office, where he found, with that
functionary, Major Renshaw and Colson.
“Sorry to give you the trouble, Canon,” said Major Renshaw, “but we’ve
detained this young man on suspicion, and you may help us. So far, I’m
bound to admit, he’s given a straightforward account of himself. His
story sounded a little thin at first, but we’ve corroborated it as far
as we were able. Only, there’s one point that is dead against him. And
that’s where _you_ come in.”
“What is that?” asked the Canon.
The Chief Constable nodded to Colson to go on.
“Well, sir,” said the detective, “you produced, at the inquest,
yesterday, a cigar band which you stated you found in Mr. Templeton’s
cabin.”
“I did.”
“You would recognise it again?”
“Most certainly. I said, you remember, that it was the same brand as
my own cigars.”
The detective smiled pityingly.
“That may be,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice; “at all
events we want you to tell us now—is this the band?”
And he took from his pocket-case the band which had figured at the
inquest. The Canon took a quick glance at it.
“No. Certainly not!” he exclaimed.
The three men looked at him in surprise. Colson ejaculated:
“Great Scott!”
Then he said:
“Come, sir—it _must_ be.”
“I tell you it isn’t. It’s entirely different. The band I found in the
cabin, and handed in yesterday afternoon, was similar to these.”
And he opened his own cigar box.
“But _this_ is the band you handed in yesterday, sir,” exclaimed
Colson, pointing to the one he had just produced.
“It is nothing of the kind,” said the Canon a little hotly. “I am
ready to swear to that.”
There was a moment or two of intense silence, and then the
superintendent said to Colson:
“Are you _sure_ this is the band you received from the inquest?”
Colson, who, like the Canon, did not relish his integrity being
shaken, replied stiffly:
“Quite sure, sir. I saw the Canon lay it on the table, an——”
“But you didn’t examine it closely then,” broke in the Canon.
“No—but I watched it being passed from man to man of the jury, and
when it was finally put down on the table I didn’t remove my eyes from
it till it was in my hands.”
The superintendent slowly nodded his head.
“You are quite certain, Canon?” he asked again.
“Absolutely. This is _not_ the band I laid on the table.”
Colson gave a low whistle and then pursed up his lips.
“There _may_ be an explanation,” he said, “and a very significant one,
too. But it is most important that these facts do not get about. May
we rely on your discretion, Canon Fittleworth?”
“Decidedly. Of course I shall say nothing.”
“Well—the point is this, Canon Fittleworth. Now that you know so much
I may as well tell you. This young Grayson was smoking a brand of
cigars similar to that off which this particular band, which you
repudiate, came. You will admit it was damning evidence against him.”
“It certainly was,” said the Canon. “I am only too glad to have helped
to clear an innocent man.”
“Yes,” said the Chief Constable thoughtfully, “I suppose—I suppose
this clears him—but——”
Colson, who had sprung to his feet suddenly, interrupted him.
“Wait a bit,” he exclaimed, “I’ll make still more certain. Can I
borrow your motor-bike sir?” he asked the superintendent. “I’ll be
back in twenty minutes—or less.”
The superintendent nodded.
“All right, Colson.”
“I’ll wait till he comes back,” said the Canon. “I am anxious, for
certain reasons, to see this young man set at liberty before I go
home.”
“I’m glad you’re staying,” said the superintendent, who was examining
one of the Canon’s cigars. “I want to have a talk with you about this.
I see what you mean. This is a brand I don’t know at all.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Canon. “They are not on the
market. A Spanish friend of mine sent them me direct from Cuba.
They’re something very special.”
“Why didn’t you say this at the inquest, sir?”
The Canon hesitated.
“Well—er—I really was so very much taken aback at Norwood’s manner—I
am not accustomed to be spoken to like that—in public. And it made me
forget what I should otherwise have said.”
Again the superintendent addressed him in sorrowful rebuke:
“Oh, Canon Fittleworth! You really _ought_ to have told the jury—or
even if you forgot it at that moment, you _might_ have told us. See
the trouble to which you have put us.”
The worthy Canon bristled a little.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked.
“Well—sir—when we saw what sort of a brand it was, fairly ordinary, we
didn’t think it worth while.”
“Ah,” said the Canon, a twinkle in his eye now, “see the trouble you
have given yourselves! If you’d only remembered that I _said_ it was a
particular brand!”
“Come, Canon,” interposed the Chief Constable with a laugh, “we
mustn’t get acrimonious about it. It’s a little mistake on both sides.
But now what you’ve got to do is to try to remember if anyone else but
yourself smoked cigars taken from that box.”
“Certainly,” replied the Canon, “I can remember at the moment someone
who took a cigar out of my box.”
“Who was it?” asked the Chief Constable eagerly.
“You yourself, Renshaw—last time you dined with me. And you remarked
what an excellent smoke it was.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the Chief Constable. “You want to fix the murder
on _me_, eh?”
The Canon joined in the laugh.
“Circumstantial evidence, eh?” he said.
“But, seriously, Canon,” went on Major Renshaw, “I don’t expect
you to do it now, but I do ask you to shut yourself up in your
study and make a big effort of memory. It’s wonderful how one can
recall little details if one really tries. Write out the names of
everyone—_everyone_ mind—even the most unlikely persons—to whom you
remember you offered a cigar out of that box. And if you can call to
mind anybody who took away a cigar out of your house without smoking
it, that will be _most_ important.”
“Very well,” replied the Canon, “I’ll do what you suggest. My circle
of friends is a fairly respectable one, however, and I hope I don’t
number a murderer among them.”
Meanwhile Colson had rushed over to Marsh Quay. It was not yet six
o’clock, so the inn was not open. He knocked at the door and Mrs.
Yates let him in. Satisfying himself that there was no one else about,
he said to her:
“As I told you before, Mrs. Yates, I look upon you as an exceedingly
discreet woman. Now, I want you to keep your mouth shut about what I’m
going to ask you.”
“I will, Mr. Colson.”
“You’ve got a good memory, eh?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Well, try and remember now. This young man who was lodging with you,
what did his luggage consist of?”
“It was placed in a holdall he carried on the back of his bicycle.
There was a satchel in front, and one of them folding things what they
put their pictures on when they paints them.”
“An easel?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“Anything else—an umbrella?”
“No, sir.”
“Or a walking-stick?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you quite sure? I want you to be very careful.”
“I’m quite sure, Mr. Colson, and I’ll tell you for why. First of
all, I helped him undo his luggage when he arrived, and secondly,
he borrowed this here stick—what used to belong to my late
husband—several times when he went out walkin’. I can swear to that.”
The detective glanced at a brown polished walking-stick with a knob at
the end.
“All right,” he said. “That’s all I want to know. And I’ll give you a
bit of information in return. It’s pretty certain _he_ isn’t the man
we want.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Colson. I liked the young feller.”
The detective had turned to go, but paused a minute.
“It would be better for him still, Mrs. Yates, if you could prove that
he was really in your house all night.”
“Well, sir—I’m sure he was here till past one in the morning.”
“Why?”
“He went to bed just before ten, sir. I had a toothache that night
which kept me awake till just after one. And the way that young man
snored was enough to keep anyone awake—let alone the toothache.”
The detective laughed.
“That’s all right, then.”
“We’ve eliminated one of the three,” he said to himself as he rode
back. “And that’s not a bad bit o’ work, anyhow.”
When he arrived at the police station the Canon was still there. The
detective whispered a few words to the superintendent and Major
Renshaw, and the latter said:
“You’ll be glad to know, Canon, that we needn’t detain this young man
any longer. Would you like to see him before you go?”
“I should, very much.”
When Grayson came in, Major Renshaw shook hands with him.
“We’re quite satisfied about you, Mr. Grayson, and I must apologise
for detaining you. But a stranger who goes off suddenly and
mysteriously from the scene of a murder must expect to rouse
suspicions—and you certainly did. Let me introduce you to my friend,
Canon Fittleworth. You really owe your freedom this evening to
him—though he won’t tell you why, because he mustn’t.”
“I’m sure I’m most grateful to you, sir,” said the young artist to the
Canon.
“Delighted,” replied the latter. “I’m so glad to have been of any use
in getting you out of an awkward predicament.”
“Now, Mr. Grayson,” went on the Chief Constable, “we brought you in
from Linderton this morning against your will. Will you allow me to
send you back in my motor?”
“Well,” replied Grayson, “I think I’ll get a bed in Frattenbury. My
holiday was nearly up, and I shall return to town to-morrow. I can
walk out in the morning and get my machine and the rest of my
belongings.”
“No, you won’t,” said Major Renshaw, anxious to make amends. “I’ll
have them sent in—yes, you’ll be comfortable at the ‘Dolphin’—they
shall be there early to-morrow morning. Good night—stop—let me have
your address in case we want you.”
The Canon, leaving his cigar box with the police, walked out of the
station with Grayson and directed him to the hotel. Then he said:
“As the nearest relative of poor Templeton—I’m his cousin, you know—I
should like to offer you a slight return for all the trouble you’ve
gone through to-day. Will you give us the pleasure of dining with us
to-night—at half-past seven?”
“It’s awfully kind of you, sir—but I haven’t any dress clothes with
me.”
“That doesn’t matter in the least. You will? That’s right, then.
Good-bye for the present.”
And the Canon chuckled as he went his way home. And his wife agreed he
had done the right thing. When the Canon took the young artist into
the drawing-room, just before dinner that night, Winnie Cotterill
looked up with a start—and Grayson’s eyes sparkled.
“Winnie!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t expect to meet _you_ here. This is a
pleasant surprise.”
“Miss Cotterill has been anxious to know about you,” said Mrs.
Fittleworth. “She heard you were in danger of arrest.”
“So I brought you round to show her that you’re really free,” said the
Canon, rubbing his hands.
“I’m most awfully glad to see—you’ve escaped from the police,” said
Winnie. “I _knew_ you couldn’t have done the murder.”
“Come along,” said the Canon. “Mr. Grayson, will you take my wife in
to dinner, please?” and he offered his own arm to Winnie Cotterill.
“You’re a perfect dear, Canon Fittleworth,” said the girl as they
crossed the hall. “How clever you must have been to get him off.”
“Oh, _I_ didn’t get him off, as you call it, Miss Cotterill. I helped
to explain something, that’s all. Now you won’t worry any more.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t think you need!” said the Canon dryly, a twinkle in his eye
as he spoke.