HERBERT CANNING, LONDON
“Please, sir, the gentleman says he has an appointment with you.”
Arthur Shepperton looked keenly at the pale, sharp face of the boy who
addressed him, and then stared abstractedly at the card he held in his
fingers, while he muttered to himself: “One hundred pounds for a month!”
He mechanically read the card, which was as follows:
“+Herbert Canning,
London+,”
and then added to himself: “Late of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah yes, of course; Baxter, show him in, please,” and he turned to his
desk to finish reading through the last two paragraphs of an agreement.
Scarcely had he finished, when there entered a tall gaunt man, whose
feet seemed so big that they made him shamble rather than walk.
Shepperton wished him good morning, and invited him to take a seat.
Mr. Canning, in a voice absurdly small for so big a man, remarked idly
that the weather was warm for the time of the year, and abstracting a
large coloured handkerchief from a huge pocket, proceeded to wipe his
head with it.
Shepperton glanced him up and down quickly, and smiled inwardly at the
deceptiveness of the man, who looked too clumsy and dull for anything.
And yet he had the reputation of being one of the shrewdest and, when
necessary, quickest men in action that had ever passed through the
Department.
His hair was dull brown and of the thatchy type; no parting was visible
in it, and, with his ill-fitting clothes, it helped to make him appear
just what he was not—stupid. Like his feet, his hands were huge, but
close inspection revealed supple, mobile fingers, which indicated
strength, as indeed did his whole appearance. Shepperton, although five
feet nine inches, and fairly well-built, felt small as he looked at him.
Mr. Canning was quite unconcerned by the other’s scrutiny, in fact
he lazily gazed out of the window during the process, as though
unconscious of it. All at once he turned a pair of piercing grey eyes
on his scrutiniser, and said abruptly:
“Well, do I suit?”
To his vexation, Shepperton started in his chair, it was done so
suddenly and neatly; and then he smiled sourly, as his interlocutor
gave vent to a short dry laugh.
For the next hour they conversed without pause. Then Shepperton rose,
and with a look of some satisfaction on his face, started to walk
across the room, and back again, in a spirited way. Leaning forward
over the back of his chair, and grasping the arms of it with his hands,
he said:
“The so-called mystery is merely a blind to cover himself. I don’t
think there is a word of truth in it, although he appears to have very
neatly got the Vicar and his sister to fall into the trap. Still, they
may have altered their minds after what I told them the other day.”
“And what is this Hindoo like, whom you mentioned is a servant of this
man?”
“Well,” replied Shepperton, looking at the ceiling, “I should think he
is a very capable villain, almost as clever as his master. He possesses
what looks like hypnotic power, but I have seen so little of him that
it is difficult to say; I can only speak from what I have heard.”
“And all the trouble seems to be centred round the ruins of this old
priory, and this Mr. Brentwood and his Eastern servant?”
Shepperton nodded.
“Though,” continued the detective, “there is so far no evidence against
them except the photograph of those footprints you found, which as far
as I can see undoubtedly belongs to him, as it bears his initials at
the back.”
Shepperton nodded again. “It is rather thin, I will admit, but I don’t
think you will be disappointed, Mr. Canning.”
“The sooner I see those ruins the better,” remarked the other, rising
and stretching himself indolently. Then sharply, and with a keen look:
“Can you meet me there in an hour?”
Shepperton shook his head. “Quite impossible, business won’t permit it
this morning.”
“Very well, I will go myself.” With that he turned and strode toward
the door.
“Half a minute,” called out Shepperton. “What about some lodgings?”
“Oh, I fixed those up before I came here. My address is Mrs. Brown,
Myrtle Cottage, about a mile outside Worlstoke.” Then without saying
good morning he disappeared.
Shepperton watched the door close behind him, and stood for a moment,
with a half frown, half laugh on his face.
“What an extraordinary individual!” he muttered; “and he costs one
hundred pounds a month.”
The next moment the telephone bell rang, and Shepperton immediately
forgot the detective in the vicissitudes of business.
It was eleven o’clock when Mr. Canning left the offices of Dalby &
Co. At two o’clock he was sitting on a part of the crumbled wall of
the ruined chapel in the priory, idly eating bread and cheese with a
clasp knife and, incidentally, earning his salary. Yet, during the
three hours that had elapsed since he departed from Shepperton, he had
passed a busy time. By twelve he had been and compared his employer’s
photograph of the footprints with the impressions at the Westsea police
headquarters. Half an hour later he was drinking ale in the Worlstoke
village hostel, and at one o’clock he was watching an Englishman and a
Hindoo drawing strange hieroglyphics on the flagstones of the chapel
floor in the priory.
While he ate, he thought. Of course, the two men he at once knew, from
what Shepperton had told him. They were the Master of Storton and his
servant, Agar Halfi. No doubt this little work of art was part of
their game to throw dust in other people’s eyes, as suggested by Mr.
Shepperton. But Mr. Herbert Canning did not jump to conclusions, it was
not his business.
Still munching his frugal fare, he looked all around him and, as far as
he could, memorised the place for future guidance.
Then the channel of his thoughts changed, and he repeated slowly:
“Vicar: medium height, slight stoop, iron grey hair, kindly face, about
forty. His sister: between twenty-five and thirty, brown wavy hair,
good-looking, neat figure, medium height, dark blue eyes, bright and
pleasing. Priory haunted! So much for half a pint of ale—good.”
Rising, he yawned, and brushing the crumbs carefully from his coat,
leisurely walked down to the village, and depositing himself on a
seat on the green, dozed pleasantly under the influence of the warm
afternoon sun.
While the detective slept, the unravelling of the mystery upon which
he was engaged went on at headlong pace, thereby saving him an immense
amount of time and labour, also his employer’s pocket; but nothing
disturbed his dreams to tell him so.
Two or three of the villagers stopped to stare at the stranger with his
long legs crossed over each other, and his hands deep in his trouser
pockets, and even the Master of Storton looked at him curiously as he
drove past in his motor-car on his way to the Vicarage.
“Queer-looking chap,” he thought, as he pulled up at Alletson’s gate,
and then dismissed him from his mind.
“I should like to see Miss Alletson if she is at home.”
“Yes, sir,” said Martha importantly, as she pushed back a piece of
rebellious yellow hair behind her cap, and smoothed down her neat
apron. “Miss Alletson is in; will you please walk into the dining-room?”
Constance stopped and took a deep breath to compose herself before she
went in.
Brentwood rose a little awkwardly as she entered, and after exchanging
greetings there was an uncomfortable pause. The Master of Storton was
disagreeably aware that there was a difference since they last met, and
just for a moment he looked at her guiltily, as he thought that the
cause must be what had happened during the experiment at the Manor. It
could not have been more than momentary, and then his face assumed its
natural grave and stern expression. But slight as the change was, it
did not escape Constance’s quick eye, and simply helped to confirm her
belief that he was the culprit.
As he stood with one hand on the mantelpiece and the other in the
pocket of his motor-coat, she could not help seeing that he was
handsome, even noble-looking, and strong as was her feeling that he
was guilty, deep down in her heart she sincerely wished that he was
innocent.
There was something about the man which appealed to her as no other man
had ever done. What it was she did not know, and she put it down to
his personal magnetism.
Still she had a part to play, in loyalty to Mr. Shepperton, and much as
she disliked her task, she would not go back on her word.
She breathed a little more freely as his voice, in cold level tones,
broke the silence.
“I was sorry to hear from my Hindoo friend of your indisposition, Miss
Alletson, but am glad to see that you are looking pretty well now. Can
I do anything for you, or has Dr. Trestlewood successfully dealt with
your case?”
“I’m practically recovered now, Mr. Brentwood. I immediately felt a
change after Mr. Agar Halfi had called; his presence somehow seemed to
do me a lot of good.”
“It is more than probable that he may have cured you without saying
anything about it, Miss Alletson; he has the power to do so!”
“Really,” she replied, surprised. “Anyway, I am much better, but I
thank you for calling on my——”
“Don’t, please,” he interrupted a little harshly. “The truth is I had
another purpose in calling, which I’m afraid is a selfish one.”
He paused, and she looked at him coldly, then turned her eyes to the
window.
Noticing her attitude, he hesitated as to whether he would broach the
subject at all. However, having come over particularly to speak about
what happened to her during the experiment at the Manor, he decided
that it would be folly not to clear the thing up, now he had the
opportunity.
“I hope you will not think me impertinent, Miss Alletson,” he began
lamely. She sat down slowly, while he hesitated, choosing his words.
She knew at once what he was going to say, and her compressed lips
indicated that she had braced herself for an unpleasant interview. She
felt it would be a trial for her.
Then he came abruptly to the point.
“During the experiment that was held at my house, you experienced
something which, according to the known laws of hypnotism, should not
have occurred. Is not that so?”
“Yes.”
His dark eyes hardened a little at her tone, which plainly indicated
that the subject was distasteful. The strong fighting nature of the
man instinctively rose to the surface at the idea of resistance; to
overcome obstacles was one of the charms of his life. But he just as
suddenly remembered that she was a lady, and his breeding forced back
the primitive impulse.
He was not a courtier, however, and his next words were blunt and to
the point:
“If you would rather not discuss this matter, I will withdraw at once.”
Constance took a deep breath, and rising from her chair faced him
squarely, as she replied:
“If you are in earnest, I shall be only too glad to tell you all about
it!”
“In earnest?” he echoed, and his face grew cold and hard.
“Yes, Mr. Brentwood, if you are in earnest,” she replied in a
suppressed voice. Her blue eyes, defiant and hostile, met his brown
ones, cold and unemotional, and for a time her will fought his. She
felt he was playing with her and was angry; but she might as well have
pitted herself against a rock, and gradually she gave way.
“I am certainly in earnest,” he said slowly and deliberately, and
although his voice was icy, his manner was perfectly courteous.
Constance sat down again, fully expecting him to ask her why she
had asked such a question; but in that she was disappointed, for he
remained standing in frigid silence.
“Well, I will tell you,” and she related in detail what she had
experienced. All the time she was speaking, she watched his face
closely, but could not read a sign from his set features.
When she had finished, he thanked her and said:
“May I tell you what has subsequently transpired in this connection?”
“Certainly, if you wish.”
“Well, it troubled me, Miss Alletson, so I decided to test the thing. I
went straight to Mr. Agar Halfi, who, as you will know, is experienced
in these matters, with the intention of putting him into the sleep, so
as to see what impression it made on him. But he was not in; he had
not returned from driving you and your brother home. While waiting—I
knew he would not be long away—it occurred to me that I might as well
experiment on the dog; so I did. All went well until the sleep was
practically in evidence, and then he exhibited similar symptoms to what
you did.”
“And what happened?” interrupted Constance, who had become
unconsciously interested.
“Well, he broke away from my influence, and for a moment I lost
control. In that instant he suddenly made as if to attack me; but I
recovered myself quickly and stopped him.”
“He might have hurt you,” she said slowly.
“Hurt me!” he replied with an amused laugh. “He would undoubtedly have
killed me. I was not armed in any way, and no man could stand the
attack of a dog like Hector.”
She started involuntarily.
“Just then,” he continued, “Agar Halfi came in, and I told him all
about it. Then I experimented on him, fully expecting the same
symptoms, but to my surprise it passed off quite normally. After that,
Agar Halfi put the dog to sleep without the least difficulty.” He
paused, then added:
“You see, Miss Alletson, the matter is also an uncomfortable one from
my standpoint.”
Constance tapped the table with her fingers. She hardly knew what to
think, he spoke so sincerely. And yet all the time he had been in the
room she had been conscious of something about him that made her cold
and shivery, as though he were some dreadful thing, dressed up for the
time being in the shape of a gentleman. She shuddered, but controlling
herself with an effort, remarked quietly:
“You had the same results with the dog as you had with me. What has
been the effect on the dog?”
“Why, he will not come near me!”
“And yet he came voluntarily to me!”
He stared at her meditatively, then suddenly seemed to realise
something. The thought had no sooner entered his head than he bluntly
asked:
“Has it had the same effect on you as it had on the dog?”
She inclined her head.
He drew in his breath slowly, and as he did so he seemed to realise
something else.
“Can it be that you suspect me?” he asked in an unnatural voice.
But Constance had turned her face so that he could not read it, and she
sat perfectly silent.
He opened his mouth as if to speak again, and then pride altered his
mind. Grasping his hat, he strode quickly from the room, and a minute
later Constance half-consciously heard his car drive away, while she
traced patterns on the table with her finger. For several minutes she
sat thus, as though in a dream, and then something warm and moist
falling on her hand roused her, and with a low cry, as though she were
suffering, she rose and swiftly left the room.