Ganelon turned a quizzical eye on the station master.
“The murdered man was last seen at eight-ten,” said Swaffham. “Sir Blundell left that same morning on the nine-twenty train. He arrived with his horse in a great lather and asked me to return it to the castle, saying he’d just received a letter inviting him to take the place of a member of Admiral Denison’s expedition who’d fallen ill on the eve of departure. The same train that carried Sir Blundell away brought Mrs. Pendry’s brother, Mr. Bland. Pendry Hall’s situation was isolated and Mrs. Pendry was uneasy about being there alone. When he traveled on business, the Captain often arranged to have her brother stay at the hall. Mr. Bland and Sir Blundell exchanged frosty bows on the platform, for in the contest for the young lady’s heart Mr. Bland had been a strong partisan of Captain Pendry.
“But wouldn’t Sir Blundell have had enough time to do the dirty deed and catch his train?” insisted Prattmann.
“But why bring the body back seven miles and bury it at the Dry Knight?” demanded Ganelon. “Why wouldn’t the killer bury him where he struck him down?”
“Then it’s this Bland fellow,” said Prattmann. “Riding like the devil, he could have caught up with Captain Pendry on the road. An actor would certainly know how to disguise himself to deceive Mr. Swaffham on the bridge.”
“Again, why bring the body back seven miles?” Ganelon asked him.
“When it comes to that, the man on the bridge could have been Mr. Bland or Sir Blundell.” said the station master. “Anyone who could smuggle himself into the Forbidden Mosque of the Sacred City of Ohm would have to be something of a master of disguise, too.”
Ganelon reached for the bell-cord. In a moment, old Simon was standing in front of his desk. “Do we have a man in England at the moment?” the great detective wondered.
“Colbert, sir,” replied the ancient clerk. “Regarding the matter of the Rothstein Lavalliere.”
“Colbert?” said Ganelon vaguely, scribbling something on a piece of paper.
Old Simon pulled at his nose with a clutch of fingers as if to elongate it and made his ears big by putting the palms of his hands behind them.
“Ah, yes,” remembered Ganelon. He handed over the paper he had been writing on. “Send Colbert this telegraphic communication. We will get a letter off to him tonight with fuller instructions.” When Simon left the inner office, Ganelon said, “Gentlemen, I know who killed Captain Pendry. But to prove it to the authorities is another matter. For that, Mr. Swaffham here must return home and have another dream.”
Within the week Ganelon had received a letter from Mr. Swaffham describing the events that took place on his return to Briggston. He had gone at once to Eskdale Castle, where Sir Blundell received him coolly. “I hope this isn’t about the reward, Swaffham,” he declared. “I’ve no intention of acting in that direction until the court has exonerated you of any part in damned Pendry’s murder. Being led to the body by a dream is a bit much, after all.”
“I do expect considerable legal expenses in the matter, my lord,” said the station master. “That set me wondering if there might not be another reward for the whereabouts of the Eskdale cameo. One payable on recovery.”
“Not another dream, Swaffham?” demanded the master of Eskdale Castle skeptically.
“It told me where to dig, my lord.”
Sir Blundell’s eyes took on a calculating cast. “Two hundred pounds,” he declared.
“Guineas,” insisted Swaffham. “And I’ll take you to the spot tomorrow at dawn.”
“Guineas, then,” said Sir Blundell stiffly. “But the police-inspector fellow from London must be along.”
“As a matter of fact, I just saw Inspector Blossom going into the Chalk and Cheese with Mr. Bland,” said the station master. “If you like, I’ll drive you there and we can make the arrangements.”
They found the Inspector and Reginald Bland drinking brandy and water in the gentlemen’s saloon before the blue flames of a coal fire burning behind the grate. They were deep in a discussion of modem thespians, for Blossom admitted himself to be an addict of the labors of former days, of Edmund Kean and Charles Kemble.
When Sir Blundell explained why they had come, Reginald Bland said with weary amusement, “Surely we’ve had enough of Mr. Swaffham’s dreams.”
With a quick wink, Sir Blundell said, “A word with you, my dear fellow. And with you, too. Inspector. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Swaffham?” He led Bland and Inspector Blossom into a corner, where they held an animated discussion in whispers, with many glances back over their shoulders at the station master.
When they returned. Inspector Blossom eyed Swaffham severely. “This dream of yours if you please, Mr. Swaffham.”
“All right,” said Swaffham. “I dreamed I was standing at night on a hill when six men in full armor stepped out of the darkness and closed in on me from all sides. Joints clashing, six arms pointed down to where I was standing and six ghostly whispers urged, ‘Dig there and you will discover the first Earl and his lady.’ ”
At dawn the next morning, the four men gathered together inside the ancient ring of stones called the Whispering Knights on the knoll above the Wye. The blade of Swaffham’s spade grated against the earth beneath his instep. The morning was clear and bright, his companions quiet and expectant. After five minutes’ digging, there came the sound of metal against metal. The station master drew a cheap tin cigarette-case from the dirt and passed it to Inspector Blossom. The policeman pried open the lid. Inside, wrapped in a square of chamois leather, lay the celebrated green-and-black cameo.
Dark with outrage. Sir Blundell said, In his greed, the murderer has convicted himself! One dream relating to Pendry’s murder might be a coincidence. But we agreed last night that two would point an indelible finger of guilt in any court of law. Inspector, do your sworn duty.”
Inspector Blossom nodded. “Mr. Reginald Bland,” he intoned, “I arrest you for the murder of Captain Amos Pendry.”
“Good God. man!” shouted Sir Blundell. “Not Bland! Swaffham here! He robbed and killed Pendry. When I offered the reward, he dug him up again. Now he’s done the same for the cameo. Can’t you get that through your head?”
“I beg to differ, my lord.” said Inspector Blossom. “Mr. Bland buried the cameo last night with Constable Twigg and myself watching from the shadows. Mr. Bland, you must come with me, sir. You have fallen into a trap prepared for you by Mr. Ambrose Ganelon himself.”
“Who the devil’s that?” demanded the mystified Sir Blundell.
“Only the idol of every detective in the civilized world,” said Inspector Blossom. “The most famous, the most—”
When Prattmann leaned forward as if to try to read this part of the letter himself, Ganelon quickly folded the page and stuffed it back into its envelope.
“No need to continue with Mr. Swaffham’s description of events. Sufficient to say that Bland hoped to fix Pendry s murder on Swaffham once and for all by burying the cameo where our little concocted dream said it would be. Yes, it had to be Bland. Captain Pendry was last seen seven miles from Briggston. But his body was found just outside of town. Neither suspect had any earthly reason to bring the body back. So Captain Pendry came back himself. In fact, he hadn’t been waiting for anyone by the side of the road. He had been waiting for Bland’s train.”
“But why did Bland kill his brother-in-law?”
Ganelon took up two foolscap sheets pinned together. “It’s all here in this report from my man.” The detective consulted the bottom of the second page, frowned, and said, “Colbert?” When Prattmann mimicked old Simon’s gestures indicating a long nose and big ears, Ganelon said, “Ah, yes.” Spreading out the long sheets of paper he began to read aloud.