A CLERICAL DETECTIVE
All this time Mr Michael Cargrim had not been idle. On hearing of the
murder, his thoughts had immediately centred themselves on the bishop.
To say that the chaplain was shocked is to express his feelings much too
mildly; he was horrified! thunderstruck! terrified! in fact, there was
no word in the English tongue strong enough to explain his superlative
state of mind. It was characteristic of the man's malignant nature that
he was fully prepared to believe in Dr Pendle's guilt without hearing
any evidence for or against this opinion. He was aware that Jentham had
been cognisant of some weighty secret concerning the bishop's past, for
the concealing of which he was to have been bribed, and when the report
of the murder reached the chaplain's ears, he quite believed that in
place of paying the sum agreed upon, Dr Pendle had settled accounts with
the blackmailer by shooting him. Cargrim took this extreme view of the
matter for two reasons; firstly, because he had gathered from the
bishop's movements, and Jentham's talk of Tom Tiddler's ground, that a
meeting on Southberry Heath had been arranged between the pair;
secondly, because no money was found on the dead body, which would have
been the case had the bribe been paid. To the circumstantial evidence
that the turned-out pockets pointed to robbery, Mr Cargrim, at the
moment, strangely enough, paid no attention.
In considering the case, Cargrim's wish was very much the father to the
thought, for he desired to believe in the bishop's guilt, as the
knowledge of it would give him a great deal of power over his
ecclesiastical superior. If he could only collect sufficient evidence to
convict Dr Pendle of murdering Jentham, and could show him the links in
the chain of circumstances by which he arrived at such a conclusion, he
had little doubt but that the bishop, to induce him to hide the crime,
would become his abject slave. To gain such an immense power, and use it
for the furtherance of his own interests, Cargrim was quite prepared to
compound a possible felony; so the last case of the bishop would be
worse than the first. Instead of being in Jentham's power he would be in
Cargrim's; and in place of taking the form of money, the blackmail would
assume that of influence. So Mr Cargrim argued the case out; and so he
determined to shape his plans: yet he had a certain hesitancy in taking
the first step. He had, as he firmly believed, a knowledge that Dr
Pendle was a murderer; yet although the possession of such a secret gave
him unlimited power, he was afraid to use it, for its mere exercise in
the present lack of material evidence to prove its truth was a ticklish
job. Cargrim felt like a man gripping a comet by its tail, and doubtful
whether to hold on or let go. However, this uncertain state of things
could be remedied by a strict examination into the circumstances of the
case; therefore Cargrim set his mind to searching them out. He had been
present at the inquest, but none of the witnesses brought forward by the
bungling Tinkler had made any statement likely to implicate the bishop.
Evidently no suspicion connecting Dr Pendle with Jentham existed in the
minds of police or public. Cargrim could have set such a rumour afloat
by a mere hint that the dead man and the bishop's strange visitor on the
night of the reception had been one and the same; but he did not think
it judicious to do this. He wanted the bishop's secret to be his alone,
and the more spotless was Dr Pendle's public character, the more anxious
he would be to retain it by becoming Cargrim's slave in order that the
chaplain might be silent regarding his guilt. But to obtain such an
advantage it was necessary for Cargrim to acquaint himself with the way
in which Dr Pendle had committed the crime. And this, as he was obliged
to work by stealth, was no easy task.
After some cogitation the wily chaplain concluded that it would be best
to hear the general opinion of the Beorminster gossips in order to pick
up any stray scraps of information likely to be of use to him.
Afterwards he intended to call on Mr Inspector Tinkler and hear
officially the more immediate details of the case. By what he heard from
the police and the social prattlers, Cargrim hoped to be guided in
constructing his case against Dr Pendle. Then there was the bishop's
London journey; the bishop's cheque-book with its missing butt; the
bishop's journey to and from Southberry on the day and night when the
murder had been committed; all these facts would go far to implicate him
in the matter. Also Cargrim desired to find the missing pistol, and the
papers which had evidently been taken from the corpse. This last idea
was purely theoretical, as was Cargrim's fancy that Jentham's power over
Dr Pendle had to do with certain papers. He argued from the fact that
the pockets of the dead man's clothes had been turned inside out.
Cargrim did not believe that the bishop had paid the blackmail,
therefore the pockets could not have been searched for the money; the
more so, as no possible robber could have known that Jentham would be
possessed of a sum worth committing murder for on that night. On the
other hand, if Jentham had possessed papers which inculpated the bishop
in any crime, it was probable that, after shooting him, the assassin had
searched for, and had obtained, the papers to which he attached so much
value. It was the bishop who had turned the pockets inside out, and, as
Cargrim decided, for the above reason. Certainly, from a commonsense
point of view, Cargrim's theory, knowing what he did know, was feasible
enough.
Having thus arrived at a point where it was necessary to transmute
thought into action, Mr Cargrim assumed his best clerical uniform, his
tallest and whitest jam-pot collar, and drew on a pair of delicate
lavender gloves. Spotless and neat and eminently sanctimonious, the
chaplain took his demure way towards Mrs Pansey's residence, as he
judged very rightly that she would be the most likely person to afford
him possible information. The archdeacon's widow lived on the outskirts
of Beorminster, in a gloomy old barrack of a mansion, surrounded by a
large garden, which in its turn was girdled by a high red brick wall
with broken glass bottles on the top, as though Mrs Pansey dwelt in a
gaol, and was on no account to be allowed out. Had such a thing been
possible, the whole of Beorminster humanity, rich and poor, would
willingly have subscribed large sums to build the wall higher, and to
add spikes to the glass bottles. Anything to keep Mrs Pansey in her
gaol, and prevent her issuing forth as a social scourge.
Into the gaol Mr Cargrim was admitted with certain solemnity by a
sour-faced footman whose milk of human kindness had turned acid in the
thunderstorms of Mrs Pansey's spite. This engaging Cerberus conducted
the chaplain into a large and sepulchral drawing-room in which the good
lady and Miss Norsham were partaking of afternoon tea. Mrs Pansey wore
her customary skirts of solemn black, and looked more gloomy than ever;
but Daisy, the elderly sylph, brightened the room with a dress of white
muslin adorned with many little bows of white ribbon, so
that--sartorially speaking--she was very young, and very virginal, and
quite angelical in looks. Both ladies were pleased to see their visitor
and received him warmly in their several ways; that is, Mrs Pansey
groaned and Daisy giggled.
'Oh, how very nice of you to call, dear Mr Cargrim,' said the sylph.
'Mrs Pansey and I are positively dying to hear all about this very
dreadful inquest. Tea?'
'Thank you; no sugar. Ah!' sighed Mr Cargrim, taking his cup, 'it is a
terrible thing to think that an inquest should be held in Beorminster on
the slaughtered body of a human being. Bread and butter! thank you!'
'It's a judgment,' declared Mrs Pansey, and devoured a buttery little
square of toast with another groan louder than the first.
'Oh, do tell me who killed the poor thing, Mr Cargrim,' gushed Daisy,
childishly.
'No one knows, Miss Norsham. The jury brought in a verdict of wilful
murder against some person or persons unknown. You must excuse me if I
speak too technically, but those are the precise words of the verdict.'
'And very silly words they are!' pronounced the hostess, _ex cathedra_;
'but what can you expect from a parcel of trading fools?'
'But, Mrs Pansey, no one knows who killed this man.'
'They should find out, Mr Cargrim.'
'They have tried to do so and have failed!' 'That shows that what I say
is true. Police and jury are fools,' said Mrs Pansey, with the
triumphant air of one clinching an argument.
'Oh, dear, it is so very strange!' said the fair Daisy. 'I wonder really
what could have been the motive for the murder?'
'As the pockets were turned inside out,' said Mr Cargrim, 'it is
believed that robbery was the motive.'
'Rubbish!' said Mrs Pansey, shaking her skirts; 'there is a deal more in
this crime than meets the eye.'
'I believe general opinion is agreed upon that point,' said the
chaplain, dryly.
'What is Miss Whichello's opinion?' demanded the archdeacon's widow.
Cargrim could not suppress a start. It was strange that Mrs Pansey
should allude to Miss Whichello, when he also had his suspicions
regarding her knowledge of the dead man.
'I don't see what she has to do with it,' he said quietly, with the
intention of arriving at Mrs Pansey's meaning.
'Ah! no more can anyone else, Mr Cargrim. But I know! I know!'
'Know what? dear Mrs Pansey. Oh, really! you are not going to say that
poor Miss Whichello fired that horrid pistol.'
'I don't say anything, Daisy, as I don't want to figure in a libel
action; but I should like to know why Miss Whichello went to the
dead-house to see the body.'
'Did she go there? are you sure?' exclaimed the chaplain, much
surprised.
'I can believe my own eyes, can't I!' snapped Mrs Pansey. 'I saw her
myself, for I was down near the police-station the other evening on one
of my visits to the poor. There, while returning home by the dead-house,
I saw that hussy of a Bell Mosk making eyes at a policeman, and I
recognised Miss Whichello for all her veil.'
'Did she wear a veil?'
'I should think so; and a very thick one. But if she wants to do
underhand things she should change her bonnet and cloak. I knew them!
don't tell me!'
Certainly, Miss Whichello's actions seemed suspicious; and, anxious to
learn their meaning from the lady herself, Cargrim mentally determined
to visit the Jenny Wren house after leaving Mrs Pansey, instead of
calling on Miss Tancred, as he had intended. However, he was in no
hurry; and, asking Daisy for a second cup of tea to prolong his stay,
went on drawing out his hostess.
'How very strange!' said he, in allusion to Miss Whichello. 'I wonder
why she went to view so terrible a sight as that man's body.'
'Ah!' replied Mrs Pansey, with a shake of her turban, 'we all want to
know that. But I'll find her out; that I will.'
'But, dear Mrs Pansey, you don't think sweet Miss Whichello has anything
to do with this very dreadful murder?'
'I accuse no one, Daisy. I simply think!'
'What do you think?' questioned Cargrim, rather sharply.
'I think--what I think,' was Mrs Pansey's enigmatic response; and she
shut her mouth hard. Honestly speaking, the artful old lady was as
puzzled by Miss Whichello's visit to the dead-house as her hearers, and
she could bring no very tangible accusation against her, but Mrs Pansey
well knew the art of spreading scandal, and was quite satisfied that her
significant silence--about nothing--would end in creating something
against Miss Whichello. When she saw Cargrim look at Daisy, and Daisy
look back to Cargrim, and remembered that their tongues were only a
degree less venomous than her own, she was quite satisfied that a seed
had been sown likely to produce a very fertile crop of baseless talk.
The prospect cheered her greatly, for Mrs Pansey hated Miss Whichello as
much as a certain personage she quoted on occasions is said to hate holy
water.
'You are quite an Ear of Dionysius,' said the chaplain, with a
complimentary smirk; 'everything seems to come to you.'
'I make it my business to know what is going on, Mr Cargrim,' replied
the lady, much gratified, 'in order to stem the torrent of infidelity,
debauchery, lying and flattery which rolls through this city.'
'Oh, dear me! how strange it is that the dear bishop saw nothing of
this frightful murder,' exclaimed Daisy, who had been reflecting. 'He
rode back from Southberry late on Sunday night, I hear.'
'His lordship saw nothing, I am sure,' said Cargrim, hastily, for it was
not his design to incriminate Dr Pendle; 'if he had, he would have
mentioned it to me. And you know, Miss Norsham, there was quite a
tempest on that night, so even if his lordship had passed near the scene
of the murder, he could not have heard the shot of the assassin or the
cry of the victim. The rain and thunder would in all human probability
have drowned both.'
'Besides which his lordship is neither sharp-eared nor observant,' said
Mrs Pansey, spitefully; 'a man less fitted to be a bishop doesn't live.'
'Oh, dear Mrs Pansey! you are too hard on him.'
'Rubbish! don't tell me! What about his sons, Mr Cargrim? Did they hear
anything?'
'I don't quite follow you, Mrs Pansey.'
'Bless the man, I'm talking English, I hope. Both George and Gabriel
Pendle were on Southberry Heath on Sunday night.'
'Are you sure!' cried the chaplain, doubtful if he heard aright.
'Of course I am sure,' snorted the lady. 'Would I speak so positively if
I wasn't? No, indeed. I got the news from my page-boy.'
'Really! from that sweet little Cyril!'
'Yes, from that worthless scamp Cyril! Cyril,' repeated Mrs Pansey, with
a snort, 'the idea of a pauper like Mrs Jennings giving her brat such a
fine name. Well, it was Cyril's night out on Sunday, and he did not come
home till late, and then made his appearance very wet and dirty. He told
me that he had been on Southberry Heath and had been almost knocked into
a ditch by Mr Pendle galloping past. I asked him which Mr Pendle had
been out riding on Sunday, and he declared that he had seen them
both--George about eight o'clock when he was on the Heath, and Gabriel
shortly after nine, as he was coming home. I gave the wretched boy a
good scolding, no supper, and a psalm to commit to memory!'
'George and Gabriel Pendle riding on Southberry Heath on that night,'
said the chaplain, thoughtfully; 'it is very strange.'
'Strange!' almost shouted Mrs Pansey, 'it's worse than strange--it's
Sabbath-breaking--and their father riding also. No wonder the mystery of
iniquity doth work, when those high in the land break the fourth
commandment; are you going, Mr Cargrim?'
'Yes! I am sorry to leave such charming company, but I have an
engagement. Good-bye, Miss Norsham; your tea was worthy of the fair
hands which made it. Good-bye, Mrs Pansey. Let us hope that the
authorities will discover and punish this unknown Cain.'
'Cain or Jezebel,' said Mrs Pansey, darkly, 'it's one or the other of
them.'
Whether the good lady meant to indicate Miss Whichello by the second
name, Mr Cargrim did not stay to inquire, as he was in a hurry to see
her himself and find out why she had visited the dead-house. He
therefore bowed and smiled himself out of Mrs Pansey's gaol, and walked
as rapidly as he was able to the little house in the shadow of the
cathedral towers. Here he found Miss Whichello all alone, as Mab had
gone out to tea with some friends. The little lady welcomed him warmly,
quite ignorant of what a viper she was inviting to warm itself on her
hearth, and visitor and hostess were soon chattering amicably on the
most friendly of terms.
Gradually Cargrim brought round the conversation to Mrs Pansey and
mentioned that he had been paying her a visit.
'I hope you enjoyed yourself, I'm sure, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss
Whichello, good-humouredly, 'but it gives me no pleasure to visit Mrs
Pansey.'
'Well, do you know, Miss Whichello, I find her rather amusing. She is a
very observant lady, and converses wittily about what she observes.'
'She talks scandal, if that is what you mean.'
'I am afraid that word is rather harsh, Miss Whichello.'
'It may be, sir, but it is rather appropriate--to Mrs Pansey! Well! and
who was she talking about to-day?'
'About several people, my dear lady; yourself amongst the number.'
'Indeed!' Miss Whichello drew her little body up stiffly. 'And had she
anything unpleasant to say about me?'
'Oh, not at all. She only remarked that she saw you visiting the
dead-house last week.'
Miss Whichello let fall her cup with a crash, and turned pale. 'How does
she know that?' was her sharp question.
'She saw you,' repeated the chaplain; 'and in spite of your veil she
recognised you by your cloak and bonnet.'
'I am greatly obliged to Mrs Pansey for the interest she takes in my
business,' said Miss Whichello, in her most stately manner. 'I did visit
the Beorminster dead-house. There!'