Englishman with blue eyes. Nothing on earth could have made him look
anything else. It was too risky to attempt that game."
Mrs. Wilder was not interested in Rydal, and she sprayed Coryndon with
light, pointless conversation, leaving Heath to his meditations for the
moment. Hartley would have enjoyed a private talk with his hostess
because he loved her platonically, and because it was impossible he was
distrait and jerky, trying to appear cordial towards Heath. It was one
of those evenings that make everyone concerned wonder why they ever
began it, and though Coryndon was of all the invited guests the one who
found least favour in the eyes of his hostess, he was the only one who
felt glad that he had come, and was perfectly convinced that it had been
worth it.
The Rev. Francis Heath rose early to take his leave; and there was a
distinct impression of relief when he had gone.
"That Padré is like wet blotting-paper," said Wilder, when he came back
into the drawing-room. "No more duty invitations, Clarice, or else wait
until I am out in camp."
"He is a bore," said Mrs. Wilder, throwing her late guest to the sharks
without remorse. "But I suppose he can't help it. He may have something
to worry him." She just indicated her point with a glance at Hartley,
who murmured incoherently and became interested in his drink.
"Parsons are all alike," said Wilder, who fully believed that he stated
an obvious fact. "I feel as if I ought to apologize for not going to
church whenever I meet one."
"He _is_ a bore," repeated Mrs. Wilder. "But he is finished with for the
present."
Coryndon looked up.
"I suppose one is inclined to mix up a man with his profession, as
people often mix up nationalities with races, forgetting that they are
absolutely apart. Heath is not my idea of a clergyman."
"And what is your idea?" asked Mrs. Wilder, with a smile that was
slightly encouraging.
"A man with less temperament," said Coryndon slowly. "Heath lacks a
certain commonplace courage, because he feels things too much. He is not
altogether honest with himself or his congregation, because he has the
protective instinct over-developed. If I had a secret I should feel that
it was perfectly safe with Heath."
A slow red stain showed itself on Mrs. Wilder's cheek, and she gave a
hard, mechanical laugh.
"Are these the deductions of one evening? No wonder you are a silent
man, Mr. Coryndon."
If Coryndon had been a cross-examining counsel instead of a guest at a
dinner-party, he would have thanked Mrs. Wilder politely and told her
that she might "step down." As it was, he assured her that he was only
attracted by certain personalities, and that, usually speaking, he did
not analyse his impressions.
"He is a bore," said Mrs. Wilder, making the statement for the third
time that evening, and thus disposing of Heath definitely.
"It wasn't up to the usual mark," said Hartley, half-apologetically as
he and Coryndon walked home together. "I felt so awkward about meeting
Heath." He paused and looked at Coryndon, longing to put a question to
him, but not wishing to break their agreement as to silence.
"Tell me about Rydal," said Coryndon in the voice of a man who shifts a
conversation adroitly. "I don't remember your having mentioned the
case."
Hartley had not much to tell. The man had been in a position of
responsibility in the Mangadone Bank, and Joicey had given information
against him the very day he absconded. Rydal was married, and the cruel
part of the story lay in the fact that he had deserted his wife on her
deathbed, fully aware that she was dying.
"She died the evening he left, or was supposed to have left. At all
events, the evening he disappeared."
"And the date?"
Coryndon's eyes were turned on Hartley's face, and he heard him laugh.
"You'll hardly believe it, but it happened, like everything else, on the
twenty-ninth of July."
"Can your boy look after me for a few days?" Coryndon asked quietly. "I
was not able to bring my bearer with me, and I may have to be here for a
little longer than I had expected."
"Of course he can."
They walked into the bungalow together, and it surprised and distressed
Hartley to see how white and weary the face of his friend showed under
the hanging lamp.
"I ought not to have dragged you out," he said remorsefully.
"I am very glad you did."
There was so much sincerity in Coryndon's tone that Hartley was
satisfied, and he saw him into his room before he went off, whistling to
his dog and calling out a cheery "Good night."
XVIII
THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH UNLOCKS HIS DOOR AND SHOWS WHAT LIES BEHIND
When Coryndon made up his mind to any particular course of action and
time pressed, he left nothing to chance. Under ordinary circumstances,
he was perfectly ready to wait and let things happen naturally; and so
greatly did he adhere to this belief in chance that he always hesitated
to make anything deliberately certain. Had he felt that he could allow
time to bring circumstance into his grasp, he would have preferred to do
so, but, as he sat on the side of his bed, his _chota haziri_ untouched
on a table at his elbow, he knew that every minute counted, and that he
must come out of the shadow and deliberately face and force the
position.
If he could always have worked in the dark he would have done so, and no
one ever guessed how unwillingly he disclosed himself. He was a shadow
in the great structure of criminal investigation, and he came and went
like a shadow. When it was possible he vanished out of his completed
case before his agency was detected, and as he sat thinking, he wondered
if Hartley could not be trusted with the task that lay before him that
day, but even as the thought came into his mind he decided against it.
Opportunity must be nailed like false coin to the counter, and there
could be no question of leaving a meeting to the last moment of chance.
He had to make sure of his man; that was the first step.
During the course of an idle morning, Coryndon wandered to the church,
and saw that at 5.30 p.m. the Rev. Francis Heath was holding service.
After the service there would be a choir practice, and Coryndon, having
made a mental note of the hour, went back to luncheon with Hartley.
The afternoon sunlight was dreaming in the garden, and the drowsy air
was full of the scent of flowers. Coryndon had something to do, and he
was wise enough to make no settled plan as to how he would do it,
beforehand. He put away all thought of Absalom and the other lives
connected with the disappearance of the Christian boy, and let his
thoughts drift out, drawing in the light and colour of the world
outside.
Yesterday has power over to-day; to-morrow even greater power, for
to-morrow holds a gift or a whip, and Coryndon knew this, thinking out
his little philosophy of life. To be able to handle a situation which
may require a strength that is above tact or diplomacy, he knew that all
those yesterdays must give their store of gathered strength and
knowledge.
As there was no running water to watch, Coryndon watched the shadows and
the light playing hide-and-go-seek through the leaves, through his
half-closed eyes. They made a pattern on the ground, and the pattern was
faultless in its beauty. Nature alone can do such things. He looked at
the far-off trees of the park, green now, to turn into soft blue masses
later on when the day waned, and the intrinsic value of blue as colour
flitted over his fancy. The music that was part of his nature rippled
and sang in obligato to his thoughts, and because he loved music he
loved colour and knew the connection between sound and tint. Colour, to
its lightest, least value, was music, expressing itself in another way.
Hartley went out with his dog; went softly because he believed his
friend slept, and Coryndon did not stir. Somewhere in the centre of
things actual, Hartley lived his cheerful, happy life, dreaming when he
was lonely of the woman who darned his socks and smiled at him. In
Coryndon's life there was no woman either visionary or real, and he
wondered why he was exempt from these natural dreams of a man. He was
very humble about himself. He knew that he was only a tracker, a brain
that carried a body, not a healthy animal body that controlled the
greater part of a brain. He was given the power to grip motives and to
read hearts, and beyond that he only lived in his fingers when he
played. He had his dreams for company when he shut the door on the other
half of his active brain, and he had his own thrills of excitement and
intense joy when he found what he was seeking, but beyond this there was
nothing, and he asked for nothing. Blue shadows, and a drifting into
peace, that was the end. He pulled himself together abruptly, for it was
five o'clock, and time for him to start.
When Coryndon had drunk some tea, he started out on foot to St. Jude's
Church. He knew that he would get there in time to find the Rev. Francis
Heath. The choir practice did not take very long, and as he walked into
the church they were singing the last verses of a hymn. Heath sat in one
of the choir pews, a sombre figure in his black cassock, listening
attentively.
"Happy birds that sing and fly
Round Thy altars, O Most High."
The choir sang the "Amen," and sang it false, because they were in a
hurry to troop out of the church; the girls were whispering and
collecting gloves and books, and the boys were already clattering off
with an air of relief. Heath spoke to the organist, making some
suggestion in his grave, quiet voice, and when he turned, Coryndon was
standing in the chancel.
"Can I speak to you for a moment?" he asked easily.
"Come into the vestry," said Heath quietly. "We shall be undisturbed
there."
He went down the chancel steps and opened a door at the side, waiting
for Coryndon to go in, and closing the door behind them. A table stood
in the middle of the room with a few books and papers on it, and a
square window lighted it from the western wall; there were only two
chairs in the room, and Heath put one of them near the table for his
visitor, and took the other himself.
He did not know what he expected Coryndon to say; men very rarely came
to him like this, but he felt that it was possible that he was in
search of something true and definite. Truth was in his eyes, and his
dark, fine face was earnest as he bent forward and looked full at the
clergyman.
"What can I do for you?"
Heath put the question tentatively, conscious of a sudden quick tension
in the atmosphere.
Coryndon's eyes fixed on him, like gripping hands, and he leaned a
little over the table.
"You can tell me how and when you got Rydal out of the country."
For a moment, it seemed to Heath that the whole room rocked, and that
blackness descended upon him in waves, blotting out the face of the man
who asked the question, destroying his identity, and leaving him only
the knowledge that the secret that he had guarded with all the strength
of his soul was known, inexplicably, to Hartley's friend. He tried to
frame a reply, but his words faltered through dry lips, and his face was
white and set.
"Why should you say that I helped Rydal?"
"Because," Coryndon's answer came quickly, "you told me so yourself last
night at dinner."
He heard Coryndon speak again, very slowly, so that every word came
clear into the confusion of his throbbing brain.
"I knew from Hartley that you were in Paradise Street on the evening of
the twenty-ninth of July, and that you saw and spoke to Absalom. I am
concerned in the case of finding that boy or his murderer, and anything
you can tell me may be of help to me in putting my facts together. I had
to come to your confidence by a direct question. Will you pardon me
when you consider my motive? I am not concerned with Rydal: my case is
with Absalom."
He looked sympathetically at the worn, drawn face across the table, that
was white and sick with recent fear.
"Tell me the events just as they came," he said gently. "You may be able
to cast light on the matter."
Heath looked up, and his eyes expressed his silent acceptance of
Coryndon's honesty of purpose.
"I will tell you, Mr. Coryndon. God knows that the case of this boy has
haunted me night and day. He was my best pupil, and when Hartley accused
me by inference, of complicity, I suffered as I believe few men have had
to suffer because I could not speak. I may not be able to assist you
very far, but all I know you shall know if you will listen to me
patiently."
Heath relapsed into silence for some little time, and when he spoke
again it was with the manner of a man who gives all his facts
accurately. He omitted no detail and he set the story of Rydal before
Coryndon, plainly and clearly.
Rydal had been a clerk in the Mangadone Bank, and had been in the place
for some years before he went home and returned with a wife. He was an
honest and kindly young fellow and he worked hard. There was no flaw in
his record, and Heath believed that he was under the influence of a very
genuine religious feeling. He frequently came to see Heath, who knew his
character thoroughly, and knew that he was weak in many respects. He
talked enthusiastically of the girl he was going to marry, and Heath saw
him off on the liner when Rydal got his leave and, full of glad
anticipation, went away to bring out his wife.
When the clergyman had reached this point in his story, he got up and
paced the floor a couple of times, his monkish face sad and troubled,
and his eyes full of the tragic revelations that had yet to be made.
Coryndon did not hurry the narrative. He was engaged in calling up the
mental presentment of the young happy man. Heath had described him as
"fresh-looking," and had said that his manner was frank and always
kindly; he was friendly to weakness, kindly to weakness, his virtues all
tagged off into inefficient lack of grip; but he was honest and he found
life good. That was how Rydal had started, that was the Rydal who had
gripped Heath's hand as he stood on the deck of the _Worcestershire_ and
thought of the girl whom he was going home to marry.
"I still see him as I saw him then," said Heath, with a catch in his
voice. "He was so sure of all the good things of life, and he had
managed to save enough to furnish the bungalow by the river. I had gone
over it with him the day before he sailed, and his pride in it all was
very touching."
Coryndon nodded his head, and Heath took up the story again, standing
with his hands on the back of the chair.
"Rydal came back at the end of three months, his wife with him. She was
a pretty, silly creature, and her ideas of her social importance were
out of all keeping with Rydal's humble position in the Bank. She dressed
herself extravagantly, and began to entertain on a scale that was
ridiculous considering their poverty. Before their marriage, Rydal had
told me that it was a love match, and that she was as poor as he, as all
her own people could do for her was to make a small allowance sufficient
for her clothes."
Coryndon sat very still. Heath had come to the point where the real
interest began: he could see this on the sad face that turned towards
the western window.
"In the early hours of one morning towards the end of July," went on
Heath wearily, "I was awakened by Rydal coming into my room. I could see
at once that he was in desperate trouble, and he sat down near me and
hid his face in his hands and cried like a child. There was enough in
his story to account for his tears, God knows. His wife was ill, perhaps
dying; he told me that first, but that I already knew, and then he made
his confession to me. He had embezzled money from the bank and it could
only be a matter of hours before a warrant was issued for his arrest. I
must not dwell too long on these details, but they are all part of the
story, and without them you could not understand my own place in what
follows. It is sufficient to tell you that I returned at once with him,
and his wife added her appeal to mine to make her husband agree to leave
the country. If she lived, she could join him later, but if he was
arrested before she died, she could only feel double torment and
remorse. In the end we prevailed upon him to agree to go. The sin was
not his morally"--Heath's voice rose in passionate vindication of his
act--"in my eyes, and, I believe, in the eyes of God, the man was not
responsible. I grant you his criminal weakness, I grant you his fall
from honour and honesty, but then and now I know that I did right. The
one chance for his soul's welfare was the chance of escape. Prison would
have broken and destroyed him. A white man among native criminals. His
life had been a good life, and an open, honest life up to the time that
his wife's constant demand for what he could not give broke down the
barriers and made him a felon."
He wiped his face with his handkerchief and drew a deep breath. This was
how he had argued the point with himself, and he still held to the
validity of his argument.
"That was early on the morning of July the twenty-ninth?" asked
Coryndon.
"Yes, that was the date. There was a small tramp in port, going to South
America. I had once been of some little assistance to the captain, and I
knew that he would do much to serve me. I went on board her at once, and
saw him, disguising none of the facts or the risk it entailed, and he
agreed willingly to assist Rydal. He was to be at a certain point below
the wharves that evening, and the _Lady Helen_ was to send a boat in to
pick him up."
"I understand," said Coryndon, "the warrant was issued about noon the
same day?"
"As far as I know, Joicey gave information against him just about then,
but he had already left the bungalow. I went down Paradise Street to
make my way out along the river bank at a little after six o'clock. I
passed Absalom in the street and spoke a word to the boy, but time was
pressing and I did not dare to be late. It was of the utmost importance
that there should be no hitch in any part of the plan, for the _Lady
Helen_ could not delay over an hour. I got to the appointed place by the
river just after twilight had come on--"
"Were you seen by anyone?"
Heath paused and thought for a moment.
"I would like to deal entirely candidly with you, Mr. Coryndon, but,
with your permission, I must avoid any mention of names. As it happened,
I _was_ seen, but I believe that the person who saw me has no connection
with either my own place in this story or the story itself so far as it
affects Absalom. I saw Rydal go. He went in silence, an utterly
broken-hearted and ruined man, and only ten months divided that day from
the day that he stood on the deck of the _Worcestershire_ filled with
every hope the heart of a man knows. Behind him, his wife lying near
death in the little house his love had provided for her, and nothing lay
before him but utter desolation. I watched the boat take him away into
the darkness, and I saw the lights of the _Lady Helen_ quite clearly,
and then I saw her move slowly off, and I knew that Rydal was safe."
He paused and stared into the darkness of the room, seeing the whole
picture again, and feeling the awful misery of the broken man who had
gone by the way of transgressors. The man who had once been
light-hearted and happy, who had sung in his choir, and who had read the
lessons for the Rev. Francis Heath and helped him with his boys.
Coryndon's face showed his tense, close interest as the clergyman spoke
again.
"I was standing there for some time, how long I do not know, when I saw
that I was not alone, and that I was being watched by a Chinaman. I knew
the boy by sight, and must have seen him before somewhere else. He was a
large, repulsive creature, and appeared to have come from one of the
houses near the river, where there are Coringyhis and low-caste natives
of India. At the time I remarked nothing, but when the boy saw that he
had attracted my attention, he started into a run, and left me without
speaking. The incident was so trifling that it hardly made me uneasy. No
one had seen me actually with Rydal--"
"You are quite clear on that point? Not even the other person you
alluded to?"
"I can be perfectly clear. I passed the other person going in the
opposite direction, before I joined Rydal. On the way back I saw Absalom
again, and he was with the Chinaman whom I already mentioned; they did
not notice me, and they were talking eagerly; my mind was overful of
other things, and you will understand that I did not think of them then,
but, as far as I remember, they went towards the fishermen's quarter on
the river bank. I cannot be sure of this."
Coryndon did not stir; the gloom was deep now, and yet neither of the
men thought of calling for lights.
"And the Chinaman?"
Heath flung out his arms with a violent gesture.
"He had seen and recognized Rydal, and he had the craftiness to realize
that his knowledge was of value. Next day everyone in Mangadone knew
that the hue and cry was out after the absconded clerk. He had betrayed
his trust, cheated and defrauded his employers, and left his wife to die
alone, for she died that night, and I was with her. That was the story
in Mangadone. It was known in the Bazaar, and how or when it came to the
ears of the Chinaman I cannot tell you, but out of his knowledge he came
to me, and I paid him to keep silence. He has come several times of
late, and I will give him no more money. Rydal is safe. I have heard
from him, and the law will hardly catch him now. I know my complicity, I
know my own danger, but I have never regretted it." Again the surging
flood of passion swept into Heath's voice. "What is my life or my
reputation set against the value of one living soul? Rydal is working
honestly, his penitence is no mere matter of protestation, his whole
nature has been strengthened by the awful experience he has passed
through. How it may appear to others I cannot say, and do not greatly
care. In the eyes of God I am vindicated, and stand clear of blame."
He towered gaunt against the light from the window behind him, and
though Coryndon could not see his face, he knew that it was lighted with
a great rapture of self-denial and spiritual glory.
"You need fear no further trouble from the boy," he said, rising to his
feet. "I can tell you that definitely. I am neither a judge nor a
bishop, Mr. Heath, but I can tell you honestly from my heart that I
think you were justified."
He went out into the darkness that had come black over the evening
during the hour he had sat with Heath, and as he walked back to the
bungalow he thought of the man he had just left. There had been no need
for Coryndon to question him about Mrs. Wilder: her secret mission to
the river interested him no further. Heath had protected her and had
kept silence where her name was concerned, and yet she chose to belittle
him in her idle, insolent fashion.
He thought of Heath sitting by the bed of the dying woman, and he
thought of him following the wake of the _Lady Helen_ down the dark
river with sad, sorrowful eyes, and through the thought there came a
strange thrill to his own soul, because he touched the hem of the
garment of the Everlasting Mercy, hidden away, pushed out of life, and
forgotten in garrulous hours full of idle chatter.
Yet Mrs. Wilder had announced with her regal finality no less than three
times in the hearing of Coryndon the previous evening that the Rev.
Francis Heath was "a bore."
XIX
IN WHICH LEH SHIN WHISPERS A STORY INTO THE EAR OF SHIRAZ, THE PUNJABI;
THE BURDEN OF WHICH IS: "HAVE I FOUND THEE, O MINE ENEMY?"
A man with a grievance, however silent he may be by nature, is,
generally speaking, voluble upon the subject of his wrongs, real or
imaginary; but a man with a grudge is intrinsically different. An old
grudge or an old hate are silent things, because they have deep roots
and do not require attention, and it is only in flashes of sudden
feeling, or when the means to the end is in view, that the man with a
grudge reveals details and tells his story. Shiraz paid several visits
to, and spent some time in the shop of, Leh Shin before he arrived at
what he wanted to know.
He went also to Mhtoon Pah's shop, but came away without discovering
anything. Into the ears of Hartley, Head of the Police, the Burman raged
and screamed his passionate hate, because he believed it promoted his
object; but to the Punjabi he was smooth and complaisant, and refused to
be drawn into any admission. Leh Shin, the Chinaman, was Bazaar dust to
his dignity, and he knew naught of him, save only that the man had an
evil name earned by evil deeds, and Shiraz, who was as crafty as Mhtoon
Pah, saw that he had come to a "no thoroughfare" and turned his wits
towards Leh Shin.