Ronald's strange silence after his arrest decided Colwyn to relinquish
his investigations and return to Durrington. His tacit admissions,
coupled with the damaging evidence against him, enforced conviction in
the young man's guilt in spite of the detective's previous belief to the
contrary. In assisting Queensmead in his search Colwyn had cherished the
hope that Ronald, if captured, would declare his innocence and gladly
respond to his overture of help. But, instead of doing so, Ronald had
taken up an attitude which was suspicious in the highest degree, and one
which caused the detective to falter in his belief that the Glenthorpe
murder case was a much deeper mystery than the police imagined. Ronald's
attitude, by its accordance with the facts previously known or believed
about the case, belittled the detective's own discoveries, and caused
him to come to the conclusion that it was hardly worth while to go
farther into it.
Nevertheless, it was in a perplexed and puzzled state of mind that he
returned to Durrington, and his perplexity was not lessened by a piece
of information given to him at luncheon by Sir Henry. The specialist
started up from his seat as soon as he saw the detective, and made his
way across to his table.
"My dear fellow," he burst out, "I have the most amazing piece of news.
Who do you think this chap Ronald turns out to be? None other than James
Ronald Penreath, only son of Sir James Penreath--Penreath of
Twelvetrees--one of the oldest families in England, dating back before
the Conquest! Not very much money, but very good blood--none better in
England, in fact. The family seat is in Berkshire, and the family take
their name from a village near Reading, where a battle was fought in 800
odd between the Danes and Saxons under Ethelwulf. You won't get a much
older ancestry than _that_. Sir James married the daughter of Sir
William Shirley, the member for Carbury, Cheshire--her family was not so
good as his, but an honourable county family, nevertheless. This young
man is their only child. A nice disgrace he's brought on the family
name, the foolish fellow!"
"Who told you this?" asked Colwyn.
"Superintendent Galloway told me last night. The description of the
young man was published in the London press in order to assist his
capture, and it appears it was seen by the young lady to whom he is
affianced, Miss Constance Willoughby, who is at present in London,
engaged in war work. I have never met Miss Willoughby, but her aunt,
Mrs. Hugh Brewer, with whom she is living at Lancaster Gate, is
well-known to me. She is an immensely wealthy woman, who devotes her
life to public works, and moves in the most exclusive philanthropic
circles. The young lady was terribly distressed at the similarity of
details in the description of the wanted man and that of her betrothed,
particularly the scar on the cheek. Although she could not believe they
referred to Mr. Penreath, she deemed it advisable to communicate with
the Penreath family solicitor, Mr. Oakham, of Oakham and Pendules.
"Mr. Oakham called up Superintendent Galloway on the trunk line
yesterday, to make inquiries, and shortly afterwards the news came
through of Ronald's arrest. Superintendent Galloway was rather perturbed
at learning that the arrested man resembled the description of the heir
of one of the oldest baronetcies in England, and sought me to ask my
advice. As he rather vulgarly put it, he was scared at having flushed
such high game, and he thought, in view of my professional connection
with some of the highest families in the land, that I might be able to
give him information which would save him from the possibility of making
a mistake--if such a possibility existed."
"Superintendent Galloway did not seem much worried by any such fears the
last time I saw him," said Colwyn. "His one idea then was to catch
Ronald and hang him as speedily as possible."
"The case wears another aspect now," replied Sir Henry gravely,
oblivious of the irony in the detective's tones. "To arrest a nobody
named Ronald is one thing, but to arrest the son of Penreath of
Twelvetrees is quite a different matter. The police--quite rightly, in
my opinion--wish to guard against the slightest possibility of mistake."
"There is no certainty that Ronald is the son of Sir James Penreath,"
said Colwyn thoughtfully. "Printed descriptions of people are very
misleading."
"Exactly my contention," replied Sir Henry eagerly. "I told Galloway
that the best way to settle the point was to let the young lady see the
prisoner. The police are acting on the suggestion. Mr. Oakham is coming
down with Miss Willoughby and her aunt from London by the afternoon
train. They will go straight to Heathfield, where they will see Ronald
before his removal to Norwich gaol. Superintendent Galloway is driving
over from here in a taxicab to meet them at the station and escort them
to the lock-up, and I am going with him. It is a frightful ordeal for
two highly-strung ladies to have to undergo, and my professional skill
may be needed to help them through with it. I shall suggest that they
return here with me afterwards, and stay for the night at the hotel,
instead of returning to London immediately. The night's rest will serve
to recuperate their systems after the worry and excitement."
"No doubt," said Colwyn, who began to see how Sir Henry Durwood had
built up such a flourishing practice as a ladies' specialist.
Sir Henry, having imparted his information, promised to acquaint him
with the result of the afternoon's interview, and bustled out of the
breakfast room in response to the imperious signalling of his wife's
eye.
It was after dinner that evening, in the lounge, that Sir Henry again
approached Colwyn, smoking a cigar, which represented the amount of a
medical man's fee in certain London suburbs. But as Sir Henry counted
his fees in guineas, and not in half-crowns, he could afford to be
luxurious in his smoking. He took a seat beside the detective and,
turning upon him his professionally portentous "all is over" face,
remarked:
"There is no mistake. Ronald is Sir James Penreath's son."
"Miss Willoughby identified him, then?"
"It was a case of mutual identification. Mr. Penreath, to give him his
proper name, was brought under escort into the room where we were
seated. He started back at the sight of Miss Willoughby--I suppose he
had no idea whom he was going to see--and said, 'Why, Constance!' The
poor girl looked up at him and exclaimed, 'Oh, James, how could you?'
and burst into a flood of tears. It was a very painful scene."
"I have no doubt it was--for all concerned," was Colwyn's dry comment.
"Why did Miss Willoughby greet her betrothed husband in that way, as
though she were convinced of his guilt? What does she know about the
case?"
"Superintendent Galloway prepared her mind for the worst during the ride
from the station to the gaol. She asked him a number of questions, and
he told her that there was no doubt that the man she was going to see
was the man who had murdered Mr. Glenthorpe."
"I suspected as much. But what else transpired during the interview? How
did Penreath receive Miss Willoughby's remark?"
"Most peculiarly. He seemed about to speak, then checked himself with a
half smile, looked down on the ground, and said no more. Superintendent
Galloway signed to the policemen to remove him, and we withdrew. The
interview did not last more than a minute or so."
"Miss Willoughby did not see him alone, then?"
"No. Galloway told her that she would not be permitted to see him
alone."
"And nothing more was said on either side while Penreath was in the
room?"
"Nothing. Penreath's attitude struck me as that of a man who did not
wish to speak. He appeared self-conscious and confused, like a man with
a secret to hide."
"Perhaps his silence was due to pride. After Miss Willoughby's tactless
remark he may have thought there was no use saying anything when his
sweetheart believed him guilty." Colwyn spoke without conviction; the
memory of Penreath's demeanour to him after his arrest was too fresh in
his mind.
"You wrong Miss Willoughby. She is only too anxious to catch at any
straw of hope. When she learnt that you had been making some
investigations into the case she expressed an anxiety to see you. She
and her aunt yielded to my advice, and returned here to spend the night
at the hotel before going back to London. As they did not feel inclined
to face the ordeal of public scrutiny after the events of the day they
are dining in private, and they have asked me to take you to their room
when you are at liberty. Mr. Oakham has gone to Norwich, where he will
stay for some days to prepare the defence of this unhappy young man, but
he is coming here in the morning to see the ladies before they depart
for London. He asked me to tell you that he would like to see you also."
"I shall be glad to see him, and Miss Willoughby as well. Have the
ladies asked you your opinion of the case?"
"Naturally they did. I gave them the best comfort I could by hinting
that in my opinion Mr. Penreath is not in a state of mind at present in
which he can be held responsible for his actions. I did not say anything
about epilepsy--the word is not a pleasant one to use before ladies."
"Did you tell them this in front of Galloway?"
"Certainly not. A professional man in my position cannot be too careful.
I am glad now that I was so circumspect about this matter in my dealings
with the police--very glad indeed. It was my duty to tell Mr. Oakham,
and I did so. He was interested in what I told him--exceedingly so, and
was anxious to know if I had given my opinion of Penreath's condition to
anybody else. I mentioned that I had told you--in confidence."
"And it was then, no doubt, that Mr. Oakham said he would like to see
me. I fancy I gather his drift. And now shall we visit Miss Willoughby?"
"Yes, I should say the ladies will be expecting us," said Sir Henry,
looking at a fat watch with jewelled hands which registered golden
minutes for him in Harley Street. He beckoned a waiter, and asked him to
conduct them to Mrs. Brewer's sitting-room. The waiter led them along a
corridor on the first floor, tapped deferentially, opened the door
noiselessly in response to a feminine injunction to "come in," waited
for the gentlemen to enter, and then closed the door behind them.
Two ladies rose to greet them. One was small and overdressed, with
fluffy hair and China blue eyes. She carried some knitting in her hand,
and a pet dog under her arm. Colwyn had no difficulty in identifying her
with the frequent photographs of Mrs. Brewer which appeared in Society
and illustrated papers. She belonged to a class of women who took
advantage of the war to advertise themselves by philanthropic
benefactions and war work, but she was able to distance most of her
competitors for newspaper notoriety by reason of her wealth. Her niece,
Miss Constance Willoughby, was of a different type. She was tall and
graceful, with dark eyes and level brows. A straight nose and a firm
chin indicated that their possessor was not lacking in a will of her
own. Her manner was self-possessed and assured--a trifle too much so for
a sensitive girl in the circumstances, Colwyn thought. Then he
remembered having read in some paper that Miss Willoughby was one of the
leaders of the new feminist movement which believed that the war had
brought about the complete emancipation of English woman-hood, and with
it the right to possess and display those qualities of character which
hitherto were supposed to be peculiarly masculine. It was perhaps owing
to her advocacy of these claims that Miss Willoughby felt herself called
upon to display self-possession and self-control at a trying time.
Colwyn, appraising her with his clear eye as Sir Henry introduced him,
found himself speculating as to the reasons which had caused Penreath
and her to fall in love with one another.
"Please sit down, Mr. Colwyn," said Mrs. Brewer, resuming a comfortable
arm-chair in front of the fire, and adjusting the Pekingese on her lap.
"I am so grateful to you for coming to see us in this unconventional
way. I have been so anxious to see you! Everybody has heard of you, Mr.
Colwyn--you're so famous. It was only the other day that I was reading a
long article about you in some paper or other. I forget the name of the
paper, but I remember that it said a lot of flattering things about you
and your discoveries in crime. It said----Oh, you naughty, naughty
Jellicoe." This to the dog, which had become entangled in the skein of
wool on her lap, and was making frantic efforts to free itself. "Bad
little doggie, you've ruined this sock, and some poor soldier will have
to go with bare feet because you've been naughty! Are you a judge of
Pekingese, Mr. Colwyn? Don't you think Jellicoe a dear?"
"Do you mean Sir John Jellicoe, Mrs. Brewer?"
"Of course not! I mean my Pekingese. I've named him after our great
gallant commander, because it is through him we are all able to sleep
safe and sound in our beds these dreadful nights."
"Sir John Jellicoe ought to feel flattered," said Colwyn gravely.
"Yes, I really think he should," replied Mrs. Brewer innocently.
"Jellicoe is not a pretty name for a dog, but I think we should all be
patriotic just now. But tell me what you think of this dreadful case,
Mr. Colwyn. I am so frightfully distressed about it that I really don't
know what to do. How could Mr. Penreath do such a shocking thing? Why
didn't he go back to the front, if he had to kill somebody, instead of
hiding away from everybody and murdering this poor old man in this wild
spot? Such a disgrace to us all!"
"Mr. Penreath has been in the Army, then?" asked Colwyn.
"Of course. Didn't you know? He was in Mesopotamia, but was sent to the
West Front recently, where he won the D.S.O. for an act of great
gallantry under heavy fire, but was shortly afterwards invalided out of
the Army. It was in all the papers at the time."
"You forget, my dear lady, that Mr. Penreath did not disclose his full
name while he was staying here," interposed Sir Henry solemnly. "I
myself was in complete ignorance of his identity until last night."
"Why, of course--you told me this afternoon. My poor head! Whatever
induced Mr. Penreath to do such a thing as to conceal his name? So
common and vulgar! What motive could he have? What do you think his
motive was, Mr. Colwyn?"
"I think, Aunt Florence, as your nerves are bad, that you had better
permit me to talk to Mr. Colwyn," said Miss Willoughby, speaking for the
first time. "Otherwise we shall get into a worse tangle than the
Pekingese."
"I am sure I shall be only too relieved if you will talk to Mr. Colwyn,"
rejoined the elder woman. "My head is really not equal to the task--my
nerves are so frightfully unstrung."
Mrs. Brewer returned to the task of untangling the dog from the knitting
wool, and the girl faced the detective earnestly.
"Mr. Colwyn," she said, "I understand you have been investigating this
terrible affair. Will you tell me what you think of it? Do you believe
that Mr. Penreath is guilty? You need not fear to be frank with me."
"I will not hesitate to be so. I shall be pleased to give you my
conclusions about this case--so far as I have formed any--but I should
be greatly obliged if you would answer a few questions first. That might
help me to clear up one or two points on which I am at present in doubt,
and make my statement to you clearer."
"Ask me any questions you wish."
"Thank you. In the first place, how long is it since Mr. Penreath
returned from the front, invalided out of the Army?"
"About two months ago."
"Was he wounded?"
"No. I understand that he broke down through shell-shock, and the
doctors said that it would be some time before he completely recovered.
I do not know the details. Mr. Penreath was very sensitive and reticent
about the matter, and so I forbore questioning him."
Colwyn nodded sympathetically.
"I understand. Have you noticed much difference in his demeanour since
he returned from the front?"
"That question is a little difficult to answer," said the girl,
hesitating.
"I can quite understand how you feel about it. My motive in asking the
question is to see if we can ascertain why Penreath came to Norfolk
under a concealed name, and then wandered over to this place, Flegne, in
an almost penniless condition, when he had plenty of friends who would
have supplied his needs, and, I should say, had money of his own in the
bank, for it is quite certain that he would be in receipt of an
allowance from his father. He acted most unusually for a young man of
his standing and position, and I am wondering if shell-shock left him in
that restless, unsettled, reckless condition which is one of its worst
effects."
"I have seen so little of him since he returned from the front that it
is difficult for me to answer you," said the girl, after a pause. "He
went down to Berkshire to his father's place on his return, and stayed
there a month. Then he came to London, and we met several times, but
rarely alone. I am very deeply engaged in war work, and was unable to
give him much of my time. When I did see him he struck me as rather
moody and distrait, but I put that down to his illness, and the fact
that he must naturally feel unhappy at his forced inaction. My friends
paid him much attention and sent him many invitations--in fact, they
would have made quite a fuss of him if he had let them--and, of course,
he had friends of his own, but he didn't seem to want to go anywhere,
and he told me once or twice that he wished people would let him alone.
I pointed out to him that he had his duty to do in Society as well as at
the front, but he said he disliked Society, particularly in war-time.
About three weeks ago he told me one night at a dance that he was sick
of London, and thought he would be better for a change of air. He was
looking rather pale, and I agreed he would be the better for a change. I
asked him where he intended going, and he said he thought he would try
the east coast--he didn't say what part. He left me with the intention
of going away the next day. That was the last I saw of him--until
to-day."
"You got no letter from him?"
"I did not hear from him--nor of him--until I saw his description
published in the London newspapers as that of a criminal wanted by the
police."
Miss Willoughby uttered the last sentence in some bitterness, with a
sparkle of resentment in her eyes. It was apparent that she considered
she had been badly treated by her lover, and that his arrest had
hardened, instead of softening, her feelings of resentment.
"I am much obliged to you for answering my questions, Miss Willoughby,"
said the detective. "As I told you before, they are not dictated by
curiosity, but in the hope of eliciting some information which would
throw light on this puzzling case."
"A puzzling case! You consider it a puzzling case, Mr. Colwyn?" She
glanced at him with a more eager and girlish expression than he had yet
seen on her face. "I understood from the police officer that there was
no room for doubt in the matter. Sir Henry Durwood shares the police
view." She turned a swift questioning glance in the specialist's
direction.
Sir Henry caught the glance, and felt it incumbent upon himself to utter
a solemn commonplace.
"I beg of you not to raise false hopes in Miss Willoughby's breast, Mr.
Colwyn," he said.
"I have no intention of doing so," returned the detective. "On the other
hand, I protest against everybody condemning Penreath until it is
certain he is guilty. And now, Miss Willoughby, I will tell you what I
have discovered."
He entered upon a brief account of his investigations at the inn, with
the exception that he omitted the visit of Peggy to the murdered man's
chamber and her subsequent explanation. Miss Willoughby listened
attentively, and, when he had concluded, remarked:
"Do you think the wax and tallow candle-grease dropped in the room
suggests the presence of two persons?"
"I feel sure that it does."
"And who do you think the other was?"
"It is not yet proved that Penreath was one of them."
She flushed under the implied reproof, and hurriedly added:
"Have you acquainted the police with your discoveries, Mr. Colwyn?"
"I have, and I am bound to say that they attach very little importance
to them."
"Do you propose to go any further with your investigations?"
"I would prefer not to answer that question until I have seen Mr. Oakham
to-morrow."