In which a Book is more communicative than a Lady
Morning, as might have been expected, brought division of counsel.
Mordaunt Reeves could now find no difference between the photograph as
he saw it at the moment and the photograph as he had seen it at dinner
the previous night. Carmichael agreed with him, though he still talked
a good deal about collective hallucinations. Gordon could not make up
his mind one way or the other; only Marryatt was certain that there
had been a change. Anyhow, change or no change, Reeves put the once
dreaded object in his pocket, and set out after breakfast in Gordon’s
side-car. Gordon volunteered to drive him over, though firmly
announcing that he would not go inside Miss Rendall-Smith’s house;
Carmichael sought to deter them by wise saws and modern instances, and
they left him _multa volentem dicere_ at the clubhouse door.
It must be confessed that Reeves felt a certain misgiving as he waited
in Miss Rendall-Smith’s drawing-room. Rooms do echo personalities, and
this drawing-room spoke of a forceful one; the furnishing was
strategically perfect, the flowers were arranged purposefully, the
books were books that had been collected, not simply amassed. The room
smelt, Reeves said afterwards, of not having been smoked in. Nor did
the lady of the house belie this first impression. Her beauty was
still undeniable, but it was something more than beauty which disarmed
you. You felt at once that she was kind and that she was competent,
but you felt that if a choice had to be made she would be competent
rather than kind. She might have been the matron of a big hospital,
instead of an unoccupied householder in a small country town.
“Good-morning, Mr. Reeves,” she said, “it’s very kind of you to come
and see me. I don’t think we ever met, did we? I know the Secretary,
of course, and several of the club members, but we’re rather out of
the golfing world down here. But my maid says you want to see me on
urgent business—please tell me if I can be of any use.”
Mordaunt Reeves, with an unaccountable feeling of being the detected
rather than the detective, produced the photograph from his pocket,
and asked melodramatically, “Excuse me, Miss Rendall-Smith, but do you
recognize this photograph?”
There was just the fraction of a pause, just the suspicion of a gasp.
Then she said, “Of course I do! I don’t know whether my looking-glass
would, of course . . . but a thing like this can’t be done behind
one’s back, can it? I think it was taken when I was here before, while
my father was still alive. What did you want to know about it?”
“I’m afraid it must seem very impertinent of me to be asking questions
about it, but the thing is of importance. I think I’d better tell you
the whole situation. You’ll have heard, of course, this sad news about
poor old Brotherhood, at Paston Whitchurch?”
“I read about it, of course, in the paper.”
“Well, one or two of his friends, that is, of people who knew him down
at the club, aren’t quite satisfied with the line the police have
taken about it. They think—we think they swallowed the idea of suicide
too easily, without examining all the facts; and—well, the thing we
can’t feel certain of is that there hasn’t been foul play.”
“Foul play? But why should anybody . . .”
“Oh, we’ve no suspicion of any motive. We thought, perhaps, that was
where you might help us. It was I and some friends of mine who
actually found the body, you know, and there were certain indications
which suggested to us that Brotherhood had . . . had been murdered.
There was the position of his hat, for example—still, we needn’t go
into all that. We did entertain the suspicion very strongly, only the
clues we had at our disposal weren’t sufficient to let us follow up
our suspicions, if you see what I mean. The only one which we felt
might help us to get any further was this photograph. By a mere
accident, for which I’m not responsible, it didn’t get into the hands
of the police.”
“The police know nothing about it?”
“We have no reason to think they do. But it was found in Brotherhood’s
pocket—at least, it was found in circumstances which made it quite
clear that it had fallen out of his pocket, when the . . . when his
body was being moved.”
Miss Rendall-Smith took another look at the portrait, which still lay
in her hands. “Then,” she said, “what exactly do you want me to do
about it?”
“Well, you must understand, of course, that we are very reluctant to
open up any subject which may be painful to you. But at the same time,
since it seemed likely that you had some knowledge of Brotherhood’s
history and circumstances which the world at large doesn’t share, we
thought perhaps you would tell us whether you can form any guess
yourself as to the circumstances of his death. To put it in the
concrete, do you know of any one who would have a motive for wishing
ill to Brotherhood, or who might be likely to take his life?”
“I see. You want me to help justice. But you want me to help you, not
the police.”
“We are helping the police ourselves. Only the police are not always
very—what shall I say?—the police don’t always encourage help from
outside; there is a good deal of red tape about their methods. I was
in the Military Intelligence myself during the war, and had some
opportunity of seeing the unfortunate effects of rivalry and jealousy
between the various departments. We have not approached the police; we
thought it best to work on our own until we could present them with a
_fait accompli_. That is why we have not even mentioned to the police
the existence of this photograph which we found on the body.”
“Mr. Reeves——”
A woman can use a surname as a bludgeon. That title of respect, “Mr.
So-and-So,” which expresses our relations to the outside world, has
often, indeed, had an ominous ring for us. Deans used it when they
were protesting at our neglect of chapels; proctors, when they urged
the immodesty of going out to dinner without a cap and gown. But
nobody can use it with the same annihilating effect as a woman
scorned. “Mister”—you are a man, I a defenceless woman. “Mister”—you
have the title of a gentleman, although you are behaving like a cad.
“Mister”—you see, I treat you with all possible politeness, although
you have not deserved any such respect from me. There is irony in the
word “Mister”; it makes one long for a title.
“Mr. Reeves, I am sorry to say that you are not telling me the truth.”
Reeves sat stunned. It was too bad, that he should have thrown away
disguises only to be called a liar. It was too bad that Gordon should
have been right when he said “Nothing deceives like the truth.” He sat
there humbled, waiting for more.
“Of course, I don’t see at all why you and your friends see fit to
treat me in this way. The only thing that seems quite clear to me is
that it is unfair to expect me to be frank with you when you are not
being frank with me. I am sorry to say that I cannot help you.”
“May I say something? I am afraid you feel that you are being left in
the dark because I am not telling you everything, all the suspicions
we have formed as well as the facts which have come to our notice. I
can quite understand that, if that is what you mean, but——”
“I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that the statements which you have
made to me are, to my certain knowledge, untrue.”
Reeves gave a rather ghastly smile. “Would you mind telling me exactly
which statement of mine it is that you call in question?”
“Really, Mr. Reeves, you seem to expect a great deal of me. You come
to me, a complete stranger, asking for private information. You ask
for it on the ground that you are conducting a private investigation,
and you tell me your story. I do not know whether there is a word of
truth in your story. I only know that one detail in it is demonstrably
false. You now expect me to tell you which that detail is, so that you
can correct the only part of your story which I know to be false; is
that reasonable? Come now, Mr. Reeves, tell me the whole story again,
exactly as it happened, and I will see if I can help you.”
“I’m really very sorry, but I have already told you the truth to the
best of my ability. I am afraid I could not alter my ‘story,’ as you
call it, without falsification.”
“Well, I am afraid we seem to be at cross purposes. Perhaps it would
be best if you conducted your researches independently, since we
cannot agree?”
There was no mistaking the hint of the front door about this last
suggestion. Reeves rose with what dignity he could muster, and took
his leave. It must be regretfully admitted that Gordon received the
account he gave of his experiences with tempestuous laughter; and
Reeves was glad of that mantle of inaudibility which cuts off the
motor-cyclist from his side-car when it is in motion.
Carmichael, who met them at the door of the club, was more
sympathetic. In his view, Miss Rendall-Smith had given the photograph
to Davenant, not realizing his identity with Brotherhood, and had
thought it impossible that Davenant should have allowed so precious a
document to pass out of his possession. But he was in high spirits,
having made, he said, a little discovery of his own.
“You know you told me about your efforts to identify the book from
which the cipher was taken—the cipher on the postcard? Well, you went
the right way to work, but not, if you will excuse my saying so,
taking all the possibilities into account. Supposing that Brotherhood
had the actual book with him in the carriage when he left London, you
have to remember that he changed at Paston Oatvile. Now, I asked
myself, what if, from some carelessness or want of interest, he should
have left the book in that first-class railway carriage? That train,
you see, stops for good at Paston Oatvile, and is cleaned out there
the same night.”
“Of course. I was a fool not to think of that.”
“Well, I went off to the station while you were away, and repeated
your own trick.”
“Selecting an imaginary book of your own, I suppose?”
“No; it is always better to put one story about the country-side
rather than two. I said that a friend of mine had lost a copy of _The
Sorrows of Satan_, and was anxious to recover it. The porter referred
me to another porter, THE other porter, to be accurate, and he
informed me that he had found, in that train, a copy of a book called
Immorality.”
“But there isn’t a book called that.”
“I know. Many might be, but none are. However, I saw what was up. The
porter, by a train of thought which I find myself unable to follow,
had taken the book home to his wife: and it was no surprise to me when
she produced a copy of Momerie’s _Immortality_. It had been a
disappointment to her, it seemed, and she made no difficulty about
parting with it.”
“But have you any reason for thinking it’s the book we’re looking
for?”
“Yes. There are a lot of lines down the side, queries and shriek-marks
occasionally, which convince me that the thing was in Brotherhood’s
hands. Only, of course, we want your copy of the cipher to read it
from.”
“Excellent man. Let’s come up at once. I ought to be able to lay my
hands on it, though I can never be certain. I play a perpetual game
with the maid who does my rooms; she always seems to think that
documents are more easy to deal with if they’re piled up in a great
heap, instead of lying scattered about. Every morning I disarrange
them, and the next morning, as sure as fate, they are piled up again.”
They had reached Reeves’ room by now. “Let’s see; that’s the Income
Tax, and that’s my aunt, and that’s that man . . . Ha! what’s this? No
. . . No . . . this can’t be it . . . well, I’m dashed! The thing
seems to have gone.”
“You’re sure you didn’t keep it in your pocket?”
“I don’t think so . . . No, it’s not there. Look here, I’ll go through
them again . . . You know, it’s a very rum thing, because I took
another look at that cipher only last night.”
“And now it’s gone. Anything else missing?”
“Not that I can see. Oh, I say, this is the limit! First of all I got
the cipher without the key, and then I get the key without the
cipher.”
“How like life,” suggested Gordon.
“What’s this? ‘Hold it and thoughts with the . . .’ oh, splendid! Look
here, I worked the cipher out all wrong in this beastly _Formation of
Character_ book. But when I did that, I turned down all the pages I
wanted, and underlined the significant words. So old Watson will come
in useful after all. Hang on one moment—yes, here it is. Now, ready?
The word ‘hold’ is the fifth word on the seventh line of page 8.
What’s that in Momerie?”
“That’s ‘you.’ It sounds all right for the beginning of a message.”
And so they worked it out, this time more fruitfully. When the process
was complete, Carmichael had a half-sheet in front of him on which the
words appeared, “You will perish if you go back upon your faith.”
“Yes,” said Gordon meditatively. “That’s too good to be mere
coincidence. That was the message—was it a threat or a warning?—which
was sent to Brotherhood, and old Brotherhood worked it out,
presumably, in his Momerie, but wasn’t in time to profit by it. The
only thing is, now we’ve got it, it doesn’t seem to get us much
further.”
“It means, I suppose,” said Carmichael, “that Brotherhood had promised
to do something, and was trying to back out of it.”
“Possibly that,” said Reeves.
“Why possibly? What else could it mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . No, of course; that’s it. But, as Gordon says,
it doesn’t seem to get us much further.”
“Not in itself,” agreed Carmichael. “But meanwhile it has incidentally
provided us with an extra clue.”
“What’s that?” asked Gordon.
“I’ll tell you some other time. I say, it’s time for luncheon. Let’s
go down.”
And it was not till they were downstairs that he explained his
meaning. “The other clue is the disappearance of the cipher. There’s
more in that than meets the eye, unless I’m mistaken.”