The Test
Marryatt came and sat with them at dinner—a situation which called
forth Reeves’ utmost powers of self-control. He was glad that
Carmichael was there too; glad that he had not communicated to him the
suspicions which he had just come to entertain. He could not help
admiring the easy way in which Gordon managed to conceal _his_
suspicions, talking to Marryatt in his ordinary vein of rather pawky
pleasantry.
“Well, Marryatt, how was the collection?” was the first sample of it.
“Normal, thank you. It’s fortunate that I don’t depend on it for my
livelihood, or you would have to wait some time for that half-crown I
owe you.”
“And how was the choir on the top notes?”
“There and thereabouts,” said Marryatt cautiously.
“Do you know,” Carmichael put in, “there’s a passage in Longfellow’s
‘Village Blacksmith’ which has always seemed to me a curious example
of amphibology. The blacksmith, if you remember, is said to go on
Sunday to the church, where he ‘hears the parson pray and preach, he
hears his daughter’s voice singing in the village choir.’ The context
shows that it is the blacksmith’s daughter who is alluded to, but by
the ordinary rules of grammar it ought to be the parson’s daughter.
I’m not much of a church-goer myself——”
“Marryatt,” continued Gordon, “do you have anthems often in church?”
The word “anthems” made Reeves feel as if he had leapt a foot into the
air. Marryatt, however, showed no traces of excitement.
“Very rarely, I am thankful to say.”
“And those, I suppose, are at Evensong, not at Mattins?”
Reeves frowned slightly. This effort to introduce the significant
words seemed to him painfully forced, and at the same time quite
useless. It was not likely that Marryatt would connect the words on
the “washing-list” with the cipher he had inadvertently sent to
Brotherhood on the same sheet of paper.
“No, not at Mattins. The _Te Deum_, I am afraid, exercises the
capacities of my choir to their full limit.”
“You just have them on big days, I suppose, like Harvest Festivals?”
“That kind of thing. Really, Gordon, you seem very ecclesiastical this
evening. Were you going to offer to sing in the choir or anything?”
“No, my boy, not till you get some more comfortable hassocks.”
“As a matter of fact, I have ordered some only lately. I have to go up
to London to-morrow to see about them.”
Reeves’ blood thrilled. Only a tiny corroboration, and yet enough to
give him more confidence in his diagnosis of the “washing-list.” Only
lately Marryatt had been ordering new hassocks—it all fitted in.
“I congratulate you, Marryatt,” said Carmichael. “At the funeral the
other day, I am afraid I found myself chiefly thinking about the
unpleasantness of the kneeling accommodation, instead of the virtues
of the deceased. By the way, have you declared a truce in the
controversy with Brotherhood, now that he is no longer capable of
replying?”
“I am afraid I continued the course this evening. I could not very
well leave it where I had left off last Sunday. I had to meet, you
see, his views about immortality.”
Carmichael chuckled. “Well, let’s hope Brotherhood won’t walk,” he
said. “It would be very embarrassing for you, Marryatt, if
Brotherhood’s ghost came back to continue the discussion. It would
speak with so much expert knowledge.”
“Really, Carmichael,” said Marryatt, “I wish you wouldn’t say those
things. You told us yourself that you don’t believe in spiritualistic
phenomena.”
“It’s all right,” said Gordon, “you’ll be able to exorcise him if he
does turn up again. Try driving a stake through his body, I’m told
it’s effective. Hullo!” he added, consulting his watch, “I’d no idea
it was so late. I promised I’d go and help Murdoch fix up his
wireless. So long——” and he disappeared, giving a slight tug at
Reeves’ coat as he left.
He did not seem, however, to be in a hurry to redeem his promise.
Instead, he made straight for Marryatt’s room, taking the stairs three
at a time; and his proceedings in Marryatt’s room were sufficiently
curious to be worth recording in detail. First, he took two out of the
three pipes which lay there, and hid them carefully behind the
coal-scuttle. Then he pulled the remaining pipe in half; picked a
strand or two of tobacco out of the nearest tin, and rammed these
tightly down the stem of the pipe, close to the mouthpiece. There were
a couple of feathers on the mantelpiece; these he unscrupulously put
in his pocket. And, “Now, my friend,” he said to himself out loud, as
he left the room, “I think we’ve spiked your guns. I for one shall be
surprised if you don’t come along hunting for pipe-cleaners.” And so
he went down and rejoined Reeves in the deserted billiard-room.
The Committee had not yet decided what action to take about the secret
passage, and it was with no difficulty that the two friends entered it
again from the billiard-room end, and made their way along it, guided
by Reeves’ torch. If it had lost its thrill of human mystery, it had
acquired instead a kind of impersonal dreariness. One had not looked
for ghosts, when one was expecting a murderer to be lurking there;
now, you caught your breath a little as you passed the hiding-hole.
Priests had lain close here many times; strange irony, that it should
now be serving as a vantage-point for spying on a clerical delinquent.
There were two cracks in the panelling of Reeves’ room, and through
either you could see, in the shifting firelight, the dark outlines of
the oaken cudgel that lay against Reeves’ arm-chair. By a grim
accident, it stood exactly as if it were being held in the right hand
of some one seated there. It could not fail to catch the eye of anyone
who turned on the electric light, when he came in.
Voices, echoed up the staircase, proclaimed the breaking up of the
dining-tables. They could distinguish Carmichael’s high-pitched
accents, as he told an interminable story at the foot of the stairs—no
doubt to Marryatt, who still delayed his coming. Then at last they
heard Marryatt’s step, the rather boyish, light step that
characterized him; he was still crooning, if further identification
were needed, the hymn Reeves had heard from the church-yard.
Though, like a wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness comes over me,
My rest a stone,
Still in my dreams I’d be——
and the sounds died away with the footfalls, as Marryatt turned the
corner into his own room.
Then there was silence; a silence fraught with expectation, and for
Gordon with anxiety. Why hadn’t he come? Had he, after all—one ought
to have considered that—another pipe in his pocket? Had some splinter
or paper-clip succeeded in removing the all-important obstruction? No;
Marryatt’s door was suddenly flung open with an impatient gesture;
Marryatt’s step was heard again in the passage; Marryatt’s voice still
found occupation in rendering the hymn, but more savagely now—you
pictured a bear robbed of her whelps.
There let my way appear,
Steps unto heaven,
All that Thou sendest me
In mercy given——
and at that the door suddenly swung open, and the light was switched
on.
Angels to beckon me——
The voice stopped dead in mid-tone. There was a sharp, nerve-wracking
crash as a pipe fell on the floor-boards. Marryatt was standing in the
doorway as if transfixed, staring at the oaken stick, his face
distorted with terror. Half in excitement, half in relief, Reeves drew
a deep breath, which came out with a slight whistle—he must be careful
not to do that again, or he might betray his presence. . . . No,
precaution was needless. Marryatt had turned; he strode in silence
down the passage like a man pursued, and they heard his door shut
behind him, the key turn in the lock.
Very cautiously, Reeves and Gordon pushed aside the settee which
blocked the entrance of the passage, and stepped out into the room.
Marryatt had left his pipe where it lay, had not turned off the light
as he went out.
“Now,” said Reeves, “what d’you make of Marryatt’s innocence?”
“I’m going along to his room,” said Gordon.
“No, look here, you mustn’t do that. We haven’t decided what we’re
going to say to him, what we’re to do about it. Leave him alone for
the present.”
“I’m not going in,” said Gordon. He tiptoed along the passage outside,
till he came opposite Marrayatt’s door, and stood irresolute. Then
suddenly he heard a muffled voice from inside. “Oh, my God!” and
again, “Oh, my God!” He tiptoed back again, his face grave. “Look
here, Reeves, I can’t understand it. I tell you, I can’t understand
it.”
“It doesn’t much matter whether we understand it or not; the point is,
what to do about it? We can have explanations later on. But I daren’t
go to a man and say, ‘Look here, are you a murderer?’ Besides, I know
he is one. I can’t simply tell the police what I know, and leave them
to get on with it; it seems so mean. Besides, I don’t think I want
anything to happen to Marryatt. Only I’ve promised Miss Rendall-Smith
that I’ll do my best to get Davenant off. What am I to do?”
“If you feel like that—I suppose you wouldn’t trust me to talk to
him?”
“It’s awfully good of you, but you know, I feel it’s up to me. I must
form my own conclusions.”
“Then, if I were you, I’d write him a letter, simply pointing out that
there are certain actions of his which you can’t quite explain, and
asking him to explain them. Tell him you’re still worried over
Brotherhood’s murder, and feel that perhaps he may be concealing
something, from whatever motive, which might lead you to the truth if
you knew about it. Reeves, I’m sure the man isn’t a murderer: you only
want to get him to explain things.”
“Yes, but the whole business hangs together, I can’t tell him how I
formed my suspicions without telling him the whole of the evidence
I’ve got; and that means putting it to him straight out. I must see
that he manages to exculpate Davenant; as long as he does that, I
don’t mind if he goes abroad—I don’t mind giving him time to get away.
But I must show him where he stands, and I must get a confession out
of him.”
“But the thing’s impossible!”
“Look here, I’ve got it—the telephone! That lets you talk to a man
without seeing his face, without letting him answer if you don’t want
him to; you can treat him as if he wasn’t there. I know it sounds a
silly dodge, but you see my idea, don’t you?”
“I should have thought it would be rather public. Can’t the people at
the exchange overhear everything if they want to?”
“Yes; I’d forgotten that. I know—the speaking-tube in the steward’s
office! I can get the steward to let me have the use of the room for
ten minutes in the slack time to-morrow morning. Then I’ll call up to
Marryatt and tell him all I want to.”
“The trouble about that speaking tube is, it isn’t really made for
dialogue. I mean, you have to speak and listen alternately through the
same tube.”
“All the better. I don’t want any interruptions from him. Now, a game
of bezique for Heaven’s sake: my nerves are all anyhow.”