YULETIDE
Alan could make nothing of Miss Grison’s final remark, for after
stating—and in a somewhat hysterical fashion—that the peacock would
ruin her, she asked him to leave. In vain he asked for a more detailed
explanation. Recovering her usual wooden manner, she declined to speak
further, and Fuller returned to the rooms at Barkers Inn to report the
result of his visit to Dick. It was unsatisfactory, and Alan said as
much.
“I don’t agree with you,” remarked Latimer, after some reflection. “You
have seen Jotty ticketed as Alonzo—what a name; and have learned the
early history of this unfortunate brother and sister. Finally, you have
met with Mr. Morad-Bakche.”
“He’s got nothing to do with the matter anyhow.”
“My dear son, George Inderwick obtained this treasure you are looking
for, in India. Simon Ferrier manufactured the peacock in India, and Mr.
Morad-Bakche comes from India.”
“So do half a hundred other students of the kind,” retorted Fuller.
“You are too suspicious, Dick, and see a bird in every bush.”
“Perhaps I am. But I should like to know why Mr. Bakche was so friendly
with you and told you so much about himself. Orientals are generally
reserved and don’t talk all over the shop. Mr. Bakche told you that he
had come to look after some family property. How do we know but what it
consists of those gems which the Begum of Kam gave to George
Inderwick?”
“Over one hundred years ago, remember. How could Bakche know about
them?”
“Orientals have long memories. However, I admit that I may be unduly
suspicious, as you observe, Alan. All the same I should like to know
what Mr. Bakche is doing in Miss Grison’s house and why he was so
friendly to you even to the extent of hinting that you might be his
solicitor.”
“Well then, if he does consult me he will have to state his reason. And
if that has to do with the Begum’s gems, I shall know where I am. Your
imagination is too vivid, Dick.”
“It is not imagination but the use of a sixth sense, which gives me
impressions contrary to facts,” insisted Mr. Latimer, “and if——”
“Oh, I know you believe in all that occult rubbish,” interrupted Fuller
in a rather rude way, “but I am too matter-of-fact to be
superstitious.”
“Too obstinate to change your opinion, you mean,” replied Dick equably,
“Well, well, my son, we will not quarrel over the matter. Time will
show if I am right. In the meantime what do you make of Miss Grison’s
statement that the peacock would ruin her?”
“I can make nothing of it, and ask you for an explanation.”
“Humph! The riddle is hard to guess. The only thing I can say is that
she dreads lest Sorley should learn of her theft. If so, he would
prosecute her and so she would be ruined.”
“She is not afraid of Sorley.”
“Not now, because he doesn’t know—so far as we can see—that she stole
the peacock.”
“But why did she tell me that? If I told Sorley——”
“Miss Grison knows that you are on her side, so to speak, and will not
say anything to Sorley, who is dead against your marriage with Miss
Inderwick.”
Alan ruffled his hair, as was his custom when perplexed. “I can make
nothing of the matter,” he cried, greatly exasperated. “What’s to be
done?”
“See Sorley at Christmas when you go down to Belstone,” advised Dick in
a calm way, “and hear why he wants to discuss cryptograms with you. In
that way you may get on the trail of the lost peacock.”
“But if Sorley has it, Miss Grison need not be afraid that he will ruin
her, Dicky. If she is a thief, Sorley is a murderer.”
“We can’t be sure of that.”
“If he has the peacock we can be sure.”
“First catch your hare,” observed Latimer sententiously. “In other
words, my son, wait and learn if Sorley has the thing. It’s no use
theorizing, Alan; we can do nothing until we learn more. Bakche
probably will call and see you, so we shall learn what he has to do
with the matter.”
“He has nothing to do with it, I am sure,” said Fuller vehemently.
“My sixth sense tells me otherwise,” observed Dick dryly.
“Hang your sixth sense.”
“By all means. But to continue: Jotty will come and see you, sooner or
later, I feel convinced, and then you can learn.” Dick paused.
“Learn what?”
“My sixth sense doesn’t tell me. Wait and see.”
“Oh, hang it, Dick, what nonsense you talk! It’s all moonshine.”
“I grant that,” returned Latimer serenely. “Until we can gather more
facts it is certainly all moonshine. But since seeing you last I have
learned a fact which may startle you. Moon told me when I went to look
him up yesterday, Baldwin Grison was a murderer.”
“What’s that you say?” cried Alan, as startled as Dick could wish.
“Ah, I thought I’d raise your hair. Yes, my son. A couple of months
ago, in the opium den kept by Chin-Chow—or rather in the lane outside
it—a well-dressed man was found dead. He had been knocked on the head
with some blunt instrument of the bludgeon kind. From letters and cards
found in his pockets it was discovered that he was an independent
gentleman who lived in the west end, and who went down to Rotherhithe
to indulge in the black smoke. His watch and studs and purse had been
taken, so it was supposed that he had been robbed by some scoundrel
haunting those very shady parts. Inspector Moon could find nothing,
however, to point out the criminal, but has always been on the hunt.
The other day he came across the dead man’s watch, which had been
pawned by Mother Slaig. She said that Grison had given it to her
instead of money for his rent and had stated that it was his own watch.
Moon thinks that Mother Slaig is quite innocent of guilty knowledge and
that Grison, being hard up, must have knocked down and robbed the dead
man when they both left Chin-Chow’s opium den. Search was made in
Grison’s room afterwards, and under a loose board the studs of the
victim were discovered. So there is no doubt that Grison murdered the
man for money and was afterwards murdered by his unknown assassin for
the sake of the peacock. It is just as well that Grison is dead, as he
certainly would have been arrested and hanged for his crime.”
“Destiny gave him a dose of his own gruel,” said Alan thoughtfully. “He
must have been a bad lot, in spite of his sister’s eulogies.”
“Well,” remarked Dick with a shrug, “Sorley’s opinion of the man seems
to be more correct than Miss Grison’s. Poor soul, I wonder what she
will say when she learns that her brother acted in this way?”
“She will be thankful that his violent death prevented his appearance
on the scaffold,” said Alan dryly. “What is Moon doing about the
matter?”
“Nothing. What can he do? Grison is dead, and the relatives of the
victim, being of good position and well off, are not anxious to have a
fuss made over the matter, since the murder took place in such a
locality. You can well understand that, Alan, my son.”
“Yes, I can well understand that. Well, Grison had to pay very speedily
for his wickedness. You don’t think that a relative of the dead man
killed him out of revenge.”
“Oh, dear me, no! The relatives are most respectable, and never went
near Rotherhithe. The first murder has nothing to do with the second, I
assure you, Alan. However, there is nothing more to be said about
Grison’s crime and we must content ourselves in learning who killed
him.”
“After what you have told me, I don’t think he is worth it.”
“Worth revenging, do you mean? Well, perhaps not; but the peacock is
worth the search for the assassin, since finding him means finding the
means to discover the treasure.”
“And you suspect Sorley, with Bakche as a factor in the case?”
“I suspect no one at present, and only my sixth sense, which is not
invariably to be relied upon, thinks that your Indian friend may be
mixed up with the matter. Go down to Belstone, Alan, and see if Sorley
still talks about cryptograms. If he does, and submits one for your
solution, it will probably have to do with the peacock, if Miss
Inderwick’s tale of her ancestor and Ferrier is to be believed.”
“Of course it is to be believed,” said Alan tartly; “however, I shall
make quite sure by seeing Ferrier’s manuscript for myself.”
“It will be just as well,” said Latimer, ending the conversation, and
so matters were settled for the end of the year. Shortly afterwards
Dick went to Paris to keep his Christmas as a kind of heathen festival
with an artist friend in the Latin Quarter, while Alan packed his kit
to journey to Belstone and enjoy the simpler pleasures of a British
Yuletide.
The great season of the Church was on this occasion quite one of the
old style, such as would have delighted the heart of Dickens. That is,
it had plenty of snow and holly and mistletoe peace-on-earth,
good-will-to-men and such like traditional things which had to do with
the Holy Birth. The undulating hills around Belstone were clothed in
spotless white, and the ancient trees in the park of the Inderwicks
stood up gaunt and bare and black amidst the chilly waste. Coals and
blankets, food and drink were bestowed on the villagers by the gentry
around, who suddenly seemed to recollect that Belstone existed, so that
the poor had what Americans call “the time of their lives.” Mr. Fuller
also behaved philanthropically, although he was by no means rich, and
the sole person who did not act in the traditionally charitable manner
was Mr. Randolph Sorley. He said bluntly that he had enough to do to
look after himself, and gave his blessing instead of more substantial
gifts. As to Marie, she never had a single penny, which she could call
her own, and lamented that poverty, and Sorley’s niggardly ways as her
guardian, prevented her from obeying the kind dictates of her heart.
“But when I am of age and have my money,” she informed Alan after
church on Christmas Day, “I shall make everyone happy.”
“You have made me happy anyhow,” replied Fuller, enjoying the stolen
moment which they had obtained by evading Sorley, “so nothing else
matters.”
“You greedy boy,” laughed Marie, patting his cheek, “you are not the
only person in the world I have to consider. My uncle is my uncle.”
“And your uncle is your guardian,” said Fuller grimly. “I wish he were
not, my dearest, for the course of our true love will never run smooth
so long as he has a say in the matter. I don’t like him.”
“You must like him to-night when he comes to dinner at the vicarage,”
said Marie with alarm. “If you aren’t agreeable, Alan, he will be so
unpleasant.”
“I am always agreeable, in my father’s house,” said Alan stiffly, and
then he kissed away her fears. “There, dear, don’t worry; I am a most
diplomatic person, I assure you.”
Marie agreed, for everything that Alan did was right in her eyes, and
afterwards ran away across the snow to join her uncle, who was looking
for her. Alan returned to the vicarage to find his mother much
exercised in her mind over the Christmas dinner, and had to console her
as usual. Every year Mrs. Fuller doubted the success of the meal, and
every year it proved to be all that could be desired. Alan reminded her
of this.
“My dear mother, you have never had a failure yet. To-night we shall
have a very jolly meal.”
“I hope so,” sighed the vicar’s wife, “but I confess that I am not
quite at rest in my mind about the pudding.”
“And there may be something wrong with the mince pies?”
“It’s very likely there will be, since the oven doesn’t heat properly.”
“And the roast beef will not be up to the mark?”
“Now, Alan, you are making fun of me. You don’t know what it is to be a
housewife, my dear.”
“I don’t, mother. Dick and I are very rough and ready in our domestic
arrangements. You have asked Sorley to dinner as usual, I hear from
Marie.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Fuller complacently, “your father knows he is
not well off, and wishes to show him this yearly attention. Besides,
since you love Marie, who is a sweet girl, you should be pleased.”
“I am pleased,” said her son gravely, “although Sorley doesn’t approve
of my attentions to his niece.”
Mrs. Fuller bristled. “What better match does the man want for the
girl,” she demanded, all her maternal feathers on end; “you have good
blood in your veins, Alan, and good prospects, besides being very
handsome and——”
“I’m a paragon, mother, there’s no doubt of that. All the same, Sorley,
as you observed when I was last here, wants a title and wealth for
Marie.”
“He’ll never find either in this back-water of life’s river,” retorted
Mrs. Fuller rather crossly, “and since Marie loves you there is no more
to be said, in my opinion.”
“There’s a good deal more to be said in Sorley’s,” said Alan dryly.
“He should remember his own love romance, dear, and be more sympathetic
with Marie’s desire to become your wife.”
“I never knew that Sorley had a love romance, mother. I thought he was
wrapped up body and soul in his book on precious stones.”
“Oh, he has always been writing that, Alan,” said Mrs. Fuller, with a
shrug to hint that she did not think much of the man’s literary
abilities, “but he was courting Miss Marchmont over twenty years
ago—that was shortly after Squire Inderwick’s death, and before Marie
was born. You know, dear, her father died almost immediately after the
sweet girl’s birth, and appointed Mr. Sorley to be her guardian. He
settled at The Monastery with his sister. Mr. Inderwick and that
miserable man Grison were with them for a time. His sister also stayed
as Mrs. Inderwick’s companion, but when her brother was dismissed, she
went to London and started that boarding-house in Thimble Square,
Bloomsbury. Marie was brought up by old Granny Trent, who was the
housekeeper. When she grew too old, and Marie went to school at
Brighton, her granddaughters, Jane and Henrietta, came to look after
the house, and do the active work, although Granny superintends still,
I believe. Then Marie returned from school, and——”
“Mother, mother, you are repeating history,” interrupted Alan, vexed by
this prolix narrative. “I know all this. What about Sorley’s love
affair?”
“He loved Miss Marchmont, and she died.”
“Was she one of the Marchmonts of Augar Place, near Lewes?”
“Yes; the only daughter and heiress. Mr. Sorley would have got a lot of
money and property had he married her. But she died, and the Manor,
along with the income, passed to distant cousins after the death of old
Mr. Marchmont some ten years ago.”
“What did Miss Marchmont die of?”
“A chill contracted by getting wet in the hunting-field, dear. Mr.
Sorley was very fond of her, and greatly lamented her death.”
“Or the loss of her money,” said the solicitor doubtfully.
“No, dear. He really and truly loved her. I sometimes think, Alan, that
you are not quite fair to Mr. Sorley. He has had his troubles.”
“I don’t like him personally,” said Fuller roundly, “there is an
insincere air about him.”
“I am not particularly fond of him myself,” confessed Mrs. Fuller in an
apologetic way, “but he is always agreeable to me. And, although he has
lived here for quite five and twenty years, if not more, there has
never been a word said against his character save that he is not
generous. And his poverty excuses that, Alan. So try and be agreeable
to him this evening, dear,” finished Mrs. Fuller, making the same
request as Marie had done.
“Of course I shall be agreeable. I wish to be very friendly with him.”
“That is natural, dear, since you desire to gain his consent to your
marriage with Marie. But, dear me, I am quite forgetting the dinner,”
and Mrs. Fuller hastened to the kitchen with her mind full of the
pudding, the mince pies, and the roast beef.
Alan’s reason for being friendly with Sorley was not entirely due to
the cause mentioned by his mother, although he was anxious enough to
gain the man’s consent to his wooing. But he felt confident that—unless
for a purpose—Sorley would never give that same consent, since he did
not think that the vicar’s son was a good match for his pretty and
long-descended niece. In a year when Marie was of age, the consent of
the guardian could be dispensed with; so that particular matter did not
trouble the young man overmuch. He really desired to establish friendly
relations with Sorley in order to learn if he had the peacock of jewels
in his possession, as it was Marie’s property and should be given to
her. Since the uncle loved jewels, and probably knew that the peacock,
besides being covered with precious stones, could indicate the
whereabouts of a box filled with similar gems, it was probable that he
would seek to keep the ornament to himself. Always provided that he
possessed it, of which Alan was not quite sure. But if he did have it,
then the supposition would be that he had murdered Baldwin Grison for
its possession. It was difficult for Fuller to see what he would say in
the way of excuse for owning it.
“But, of course,” thought the young man, when he went to dress for
dinner, and threshed out the matter in his own mind, “if he has it he
won’t make any fuss about my seeing it, should he desire me to solve
the riddle since at present there has been no public mention that
Grison was murdered for its sake.
“But if he does show it to me——” here he paused, greatly perplexed, as
he foresaw how difficult it would be to know how to act. Even if the
possession of the Peacock proved Sorley to be a criminal, for the sake
of Marie, Alan was unwilling to bring him to justice. And yet, on the
face of it, the man should pay for his crime. “It’s confoundedly
difficult to know what to do,” was Fuller’s natural conclusion.
The Christmas dinner was a great success in spite of the doubts
expressed by the hostess, and the five people who sat down to enjoy it,
passed a very agreeable hour. Marie had a healthy appetite, and had no
reluctance in satisfying it on fare, which was much more dainty than
that prepared by Henny Trent, who acted as cook at The Monastery. The
girl in a simple white dress and without any ornaments, save a childish
necklace of red coral, looked very pretty, and behaved very charmingly.
By the end of the quiet evening Alan was more in love with her than
ever, and wondered if the earth contained a more delightful little
lady. Sorley also made himself most agreeable, being soothed by the
excellent dinner, and showed no disposition to frown on the young
couple. As to Mrs. Fuller, now that the dinner was off her mind, she
beamed on everyone, including her rosy-faced sturdy little husband, who
overflowed with Christian charity, which did not need the season of
Yuletide to enhance its ready generosity.
Mr. Sorley was perfectly dressed as usual, and looked wonderfully well
in his young-old way, which was so deceptive. He was well-informed too,
and talked on this subject and that, in a most exhaustive manner,
arguing with the vicar and agreeing with Mrs. Fuller, and giving an
occasional word to Alan. Afterwards in the quaint old drawing-room the
conversation turned on the death of Grison, although Mr. Fuller did his
best to taboo the subject, on the plea that it upset his wife.
“Mrs. Fuller always liked the poor man,” said the vicar finally.
“He was agreeable and clever, but woefully weak,” confessed the old
lady. “If he had only stayed here, he would never have met with such a
death.”
“I would willingly have kept him at The Monastery,” explained Sorley in
a frank manner, “but he was rude to my sister, and, owing to his
drunken habits, kept the house in a constant state of turmoil. I had to
dismiss him although I gave him every chance to reform. And you heard,
Alan,” he added, turning to the young man, who was listening intently,
“how his sister blamed me for his death.
“What’s that?” asked the vicar sharply.
“Not directly,” said the guest calmly. “She could scarcely do that
seeing I was fifty miles away at The Monastery when Grison was murdered
in Rotherhithe. But his sister said that my dismissal made him take
more than ever to opium smoking, and that drove him to the slum where
he met with this tragic end.”
“Pooh! pooh! Louisa Grison talks rubbish,” said Mr. Fuller sturdily.
“She was always crazy about Baldwin, although he certainly had his good
points, foolish as he was. Don’t let us talk any more about the matter.
It upsets my wife, and is not a topic for Christmas Day.”
“Oh, I don’t mind hearing of his death,” protested Mrs. Fuller, “I am
only too anxious to know who killed him, poor creature.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he killed himself,” remarked
Sorley in an abrupt way.
“Oh, that’s impossible,” said Alan quickly; “the medical evidence
proved conclusively that he was murdered, stabbed to the heart.”
“Well, my boy, a man can stab himself to the heart, can’t he?”
“Yes,” replied the young man dryly, “but he could scarcely hide the
instrument with which he killed himself after his death, and that, as
we know, is missing.”
“What sort of instrument was it, Alan?” asked Mrs. Fuller.
“A stiletto, it is thought, mother.”
“That sounds as though an Italian had a hand in the crime,” remarked
the vicar; “they generally use the stiletto!”
“I can’t say who killed him, or of what nationality the assassin was,
father, since nothing can be learned likely to cast light on the
subject. But I am sure of one thing from what Latimer has told me,
which is that Grison did not stab himself. He had no reason to.”
“Mad people never do have any reason,” remarked Mr. Sorley pointedly.
“But Grison was not mad.”
“Indeed I have every reason to believe that he was,” insisted the
other; “the father was an eccentric doctor who practised in Canterbury,
and the mother of Louisa and Baldwin died in a lunatic asylum.”
Mrs. Fuller nodded sadly. “Yes, Louisa told me as much,” she said, “and
for that reason I excused her oddities and those of her brother. They
certainly had queer ways, hadn’t they, John?”
“Yes! yes! yes! But no worse than other people,” rejoined Fuller
senior, in his vigorous fashion, “but Louisa certainly manages her
boarding-house in a sane enough manner, as I found when I stayed
there.”
“Did you stay there, father?” asked Alan.
“Twice or thrice when I went to town years and years ago, although I
have not stayed there lately. I wanted to help Louisa, poor soul. But
now she is doing so well that there is no need for me to assist her by
becoming a few days’ boarder. Baldwin may have been a trifle mad,”
added the vicar, addressing Sorley, “since he sank so low and displayed
such weakness; but his sister is sane enough, I am sure of that.”
“She did not speak very sanely the other day when attacking me, as Alan
heard,” said Mr. Sorley significantly. “We were quietly having
afternoon tea when Miss Grison rose and suddenly denounced me. She is
mad.”
“I don’t agree with you,” retorted the vicar.
“What do you say, Alan?”
The young man shook his head with an embarrassed laugh. “I have not
seen sufficient of Miss Grison to pronounce an opinion,” he said, and
turned to Marie, who was feeling rather neglected. “This is rather dull
for you.”
“And the subject, as I said before, is not a suitable one for Christmas
Day,” observed Mr. Fuller. “Marie, my dear, give us some music.”
The girl obeyed with alacrity, as she had been yawning during the
dreary talk of her elders. In a very musicianly style she played two or
three classical pieces, and then with Alan sang some of Mendelssohn’s
duets, in which their voices blended far more agreeably than Mr. Sorley
approved of. The late conversation seemed to have upset his nerves, for
he wandered in a restless manner round the room and betrayed a
disposition to come between the young people, in strange contrast to
his earlier demeanor. When Mrs. Fuller was playing an old-fashioned
selection of melodies, called “Irish Diamonds,” which her husband
loved, Sorley came to sit beside Alan and engage him in quiet
conversation, while Marie and the vicar remained near the piano,
listening to the variations on Garry Owen.
“You must come over to The Monastery during this week, Alan,” said Mr.
Sorley in a discreet whisper. “I should like to show you my collection
of jewels, which will belong to Marie after I am gone.”
“Oh, you will live for a long time yet,” said Alan affably.
“I doubt it. I have my enemies like other men, and you need not be
surprised if I meet with Grison’s fate, poor wretch.”
“Whatever do you mean?” demanded the other sharply.
“I mean that in the midst of life we are in death,” rejoined Sorley
tartly, and in a somewhat enigmatic manner, “What else should I mean?”
“I’m hanged if I know,” said Alan frankly, and spoke from his heart. He
really could not understand the man’s strange reference to a violent
end.
“Well! well! well!” remarked his companion with affected cheerfulness,
“it may be all imagination on my part. But when one has such a
collection of gems as I have in the house, it is not improbable that an
attempt may be made to get them on the part of some thief.”
“Have you any idea that such an attempt will be made?”
“Oh dear no. I speak generally. For my collection is valuable, Alan,
although perhaps not worth so much money as those gems which were given
to George Inderwick over one hundred years ago, by the Begum of Kam.
Why do you start?” he asked in surprise. “Marie told me that she
related the story of the jewels to you.”
“Yes—that is—she did say something about the matter,” stammered Alan,
“only I did not know that Kam was the place where George Inderwick went
on behalf of the H.E.I.C. to serve as a native drill sergeant.”
“Oh yes. The Rajah of Kam’s town and state in the Madras Presidency.
You can see the manuscript to-morrow when you come over. Hush, the
music is stopping; don’t say anything more. Let us keep these matters
to ourselves,” and having thus forced Fuller, as it were, to be his
confidant, Sorley strolled across the room to congratulate Mrs. Fuller
on her still brilliant touch.
Alan remained where he was on the sofa, staring at the carpet, and
wondering what revelations would be forthcoming when he visited The
Monastery the next day, for he was determined to pay the promised visit
as soon as he could, lest Sorley should change his mind. But what
startled him most was to learn that the jewels had belonged to the
Begum of Kam. And that was the very place mentioned by Morad-Bakche as
the former territory of his family.
“Dick was right,” thought Alan. “Bakche _is_ after the gems of the
peacock.”