On receiving Ganelon’s instructions, Colbert had made inquiries and discovered that Khyber Cottage, Blackheath, was the address of a Mrs. Marston Woodward. He then proceeded to that suburb by boat to Greenwich and then by cab to the street in question. The residence was substantial and the neighborhood a prosperous one. But the house appeared to have been closed up for some time.
As Colbert stood at the front door wondering what to do next, he was approached by a maid from the house across the street, who asked respectfully if he was with the police. “Not with the British police,” answered Colbert. The maid conveyed this canny reply to her mistress and returned with an invitation for him to step across the street.
Colbert was ushered into an elegant parlor, where a white-haired little ramrod of a woman in mauve taffeta was waiting to receive him. “Am I to understand, then, that Mrs. Woodward has carried her activities abroad?” she asked without ado and in some agitation.
This intriguing question prompted Colbert to tell the woman the entire story. As he spoke, she turned pale, and when he told of the death of Captain Pendry she was visibly staggered. When he had finished, she raised a hand to ask for a moment to compose herself. Then she said,
“Several years ago, I brought into this house a well recommended young woman as governess to my orphaned grandchildren. She was clearly intelligent and seemed of good character and dedication. Her brother, a young man of the cloth, was a frequent visitor here, for they were very close — a fact made all the more poignant because he was preparing himself for the Indian missions and soon would not see her again for years, if ever.
“Now coincidentally, or so I thought, my neighbor across the street had just returned from a twenty-year stay in Calcutta. Marston Woodward was a childless widower in comfortable circumstances. Several times I invited him to my house so that brother and sister could hear at first hand of the distant vineyard to which the young man had chosen to devote his life. This acquaintanceship between my neighbor and my governess blossomed, and within the year she had left me to become Mrs. Marston Woodward, mistress of Khyber Cottage.
“For the next year and a half, our relationship remained cordial. But then Mr. Woodward seemed to have a return of the illness which had obliged him to retire from the Indian service. In spite of his wife’s devoted ministrations, he passed from the human scene. Abruptly, Mrs. Woodward s attitude toward me changed. The cordiality was replaced by a vague politeness. It was as if — how shall I put it? — as if I was no longer a piece on her game-board.”
Here the maid arrived with tea. The lady of the house poured Colbert’s cup with trembling hands. When they had both tasted their tea, the woman continued her story.
“Not long after this mystifying change in Mrs.Woodward’s attitude, I left on a tour of the Lake District, during which I made the acquaintance of an officer from my late husband’s regiment and his wife, who lived in Clampton Regis, which, as it happened, was where Mrs. Woodward had worked as governess before she came to me. I asked them if they knew Mrs. Briscoe, her employer, with whom I had had correspondence on the matter of recommendations. They seemed mystified, for, though Mrs. Briscoe had moved from the district, they knew the young widow in question and she had no children.
“Then they told me how she had originally come to the neighborhood as governess to a local family and married Captain Briscoe, a retired naval officer. She had met him through her brother, a student of naval history who was preparing a chronicle of the blockade of Sevastapol in which the Captain had participated. Not long after the wedding, the Captain had perished in a tragic sailing accident, knocked overboard by a swinging boom before the eyes of his horrified bride and brother-in-law. Need I tell you my growing suspicions as I returned homeward, or my apprehension when I discovered Mrs. Woodward had put the house up for sale and moved away?
“Now my man John had helped the cab man load a trunk to take to the railroad station, and being something of a pry he had noted the name and destination — ‘Miss Venetia Bland, Eskdale Castle, Briggston.’ Were the fatal governess and her chameleon brother stalking their next victim? Or was the whole thing my imagination? After all, as my solicitor had been quick to point out, what proof could I bring to the authorities? A boating accident? The death of a man already in poor health? And he strongly suggested that, under our country’s libel laws, any action I took that failed might threaten my grandchildren’s inheritance. In short, he told a coward everything she wanted to hear.
“To salve my conscience, I subscribed to the Briggston Bugle-Register, telling myself that I was monitoring Mrs. Woodward’s activities from afar. It was in those pages that I read of her marriage to Captain Amos Pendry. This should have driven me to action, but I was still helpless with doubt and the possible consequences. All I did was cancel my subscription to the newspaper and try to put the whole business out of my mind. But I could not. It was a year before I conceived of writing Captain Pendry anonymously, outlining my suspicions and putting him on his guard” She shook her head. “An anonymous letter,” she said distastefully. “Heaven help me, I could do no more than that.”
Ganelon read ahead under his breath for a bit. Then he set the foolscap aside. “There’s nothing more there for us. His suspicions aroused by the woman’s letter, Captain Pendry decides to set a trap with his little business trip. He drives several miles out of town and waits for Bland’s train. Then he returns home by side roads. Who knows what shape the confrontation took? Captain Pendry is struck down and killed. His murderers decide to make it look like Captain Pendry has run off. Using his key, they clean out his strongbox and bury the body by night. After seven years they will go through the process of having him declared legally dead and Venetia Pendry will inherit his estate. It isn’t as long as it sounds. They have each other, after all. And I think investigation will prove them something more than brother and sister.
“But suddenly Sir Blundell returns from the Amazon as the new Earl Eskdale, among the richest noblemen of the realm. And they discover he is still under Mrs. Pendry’s spell, quite prepared to marry her were she free to do so. But he is not the kind of man who will wait forever. Unfortunately, they cannot risk leading the police to the body by some anonymous tip, especially after a reward had been offered. Mr. Swaffham’s dream must have seemed a gift from heaven. And if one gift, why not two? Oh, I’m sure our second dream made them suspicious. But if the risks of burying the cameo were high, so were the rewards. With Swaffham the murderer, the matter of Captain Pendry’s death would be settled once and for all and a very desirable marriage could proceed.”
Ganelon set Swaffham’s letter and Colbert’s report aside. “And now to the question of my fee,” he said. “In your case, the burden that some call excessive will be a light one, a simple trade. A certain Wurtemburger eggcup in my possession for your glorious ancestor’s masterpiece called the Black Emperor.”
“What an extraordinary coincidence!” exclaimed the young dream dowser. “A mathematics professor made me exactly the same offer during my recent trip to London. Of course, I jumped at the chance.” Ganelon’s indoor pallor turned as grey as death. Averting his eyes, he said hoarsely, “Then I will trade you the damned eggcup for that man’s name.”
Ganelon lay in the moonlight shadow cast by the shape of Madame beneath the covers beside him. He had been staring up grimly at the ceiling for several hours. But he knew a man cannot live his life dreading a third part of every day. At last, as determinedly as he had fought off sleep, Ganelon relaxed, closed his eyes, and surrendered himself to the dream. It did not keep him waiting.