When the landlord came into the parlour, Sir Richard was shaking the sand off the single sheet of paper. He folded it, and sealed it with a wafer, and upon being told that Mr John Philips, of Whitchurch, was the nearest available magistrate, wrote this gentleman’s name on the note. As he wrote, he said in his calm way: “I shall be obliged to you if you will have this letter conveyed directly to Mr Philips.”
“To-night, sir?”
“To-night. Mr Philips will, I imagine, come back with your messenger. If he asks for me, show him into this room. Ah, and landlord!”
“Sir?”
“A bowl of rum punch. I will mix it myself.”
“Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!” said the landlord, relieved to receive such a normal command.
He lingered for a moment, trying to summon up sufficient resolution to ask the fine London gentleman why he wanted to see a magistrate thus urgently. Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass came up, and the landlord withdrew in haste. The waiter would have followed him, but was detained by Sir Richard’s uplifted forefinger.
“One moment! Who gave you the note which you delivered to me this evening?”
“It was Jem, sir—the tapster. It was when I went up to the bar for a pint of burgundy for a gentleman dining in the coffee-room that Jem gave it to me. It was Captain Trimble who picked it up off the ground, where it was a-laying. It got swep’ off the bar, I dessay, sir, the taproom being crowded at the time, and Jem with his hands full.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Richard. “That is all.”
The waiter went away considerably mystified. Sir Richard, on the other hand, felt that the mystery had been satisfactorily explained, and sat down to await the landlord’s return with the ingredients for a bowl of punch.
Mr Philips’ residence was situated some five miles from Queen Charlton, and it was consequently some time before the clatter of horses’ hooves in the street heralded his arrival. Sir Richard was squeezing the lemon into the punch bowl when he was ushered into the parlour, and looked up fleetingly to say: “Ah, how do you do? Mr Philips, I apprehend?”
Mr Philips was a grizzled gentleman with a harassed frown, and a slight paunch.
“Your servant, sir! Have I the honour of addressing Sir Richard Wyndham?”
“Mine, sir, is the honour,” said Sir Richard absently, intent upon his punch.
“Sir,” said Mr Philips, “your very extraordinary communication—I may say, your unprecedented disclosure—has, as you perceive, brought me immediately to enquire into this incredible affair!”
“Very proper,” said Sir Richard. “You will wish to visit the scene of the crime, I imagine. I can give you the direction, but no doubt the village constable is familiar with the locality. The body, Mr Philips, is—or was—lying in the clearing in the middle of the spinney, a little way down the road.”
“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that this story is true?” demanded the magistrate.
“Certainly it is true. Dear me, did you suppose me to be so heartless as to drag you out at this hour on a fool’s errand? Are you in favour of adding the juice of one or of two lemons?”
Mr Philips, whose eyes had been critically observing Sir Richard’s proceedings, said, without thinking: “One! One is enough!”
“I feel sure you are right,” said Sir Richard.
“You know, sir, I must ask you some questions about this extraordinary affair!” said Philips, recollecting his errand.
“So you shall, sir, so you shall. Would you like to ask them now, or after you have disposed of the body?”
“I shall first repair to the scene of the murder,” declared Philips.
“Good!” said Sir Richard. “I will engage to have the punch ready against your return.”
Mr Philips felt that this casual way of treating the affair was quite out of order, but the prospect of returning to a bowl of hot rum punch was so agreeable that he decided to overlook any trifling irregularity. When he returned to the inn, half an hour later, he was feeling chilled, for it was now past midnight and he had not taken his overcoat with him. Sir Richard had caused a fire to be kindled in the wainscoted parlour, and from the bowl on the table, which he was stirring with a long-handled spoon, there arose a very fragrant and comforting aroma. Mr Philips rubbed his hands together, and could not refrain from ejaculating: “Ha!”
Sir Richard looked up, and smiled. His smile had won more hearts than Mr Philips’, and it had a visible effect on that gentleman.
“Well, well, well! I won’t deny that’s a very welcome smell, Sir Richard! A fire, too! Upon my word, I’m glad to see it! Gets chilly at night, very chilly! A bad business, sir! a very bad business!”
Sir Richard ladled the steaming brew into two glasses, and gave one to the magistrate. “Draw up a chair to the fire, Mr Philips. It is, as you say, a very bad business. I should tell you that I am intimately acquainted with the family of the deceased.”
Mr Philips fished Sir Richard’s note out of his pocket. “Yes, yes, just as I supposed, sir. I do not know how you would otherwise have furnished me with the poor man’s name. You know him, in fact. Precisely! He was travelling in your company, perhaps?”
“No,” said Sir Richard, taking a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “He was staying with a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. The name was, I think, Luttrell.”
“Indeed! This becomes more and more—But pray continue, sir! You were not, then, together?”
“No, nothing of the sort. I came into the west country in family affairs. I need not burden you with them, I think.”
“Quite, quite! Family affairs: yes! Go on, sir! How came you to discover Mr Brandon’s body?”
“Oh, by accident! But it will be better, perhaps, if I recount my share in this affair from its start.”
“Certainly! Yes! Pray do so, sir! This is a remarkably good bowl of punch, I may say.”
“I am generally thought to have something of a knack with a punch bowl,” bowed Sir Richard. “To go back, then, to the start! You have no doubt heard, Mr Philips, of the Brandon diamonds?”
From the startled expression in the magistrate’s eyes, and the slight dropping of his jaw, it was apparent that he had not. He said: “Diamonds? Really, I fear—No, I must confess that I had not heard of the Brandon diamonds.”
“Then, I should explain that they make up a certain famous necklace, worth, I dare say, anything you like.”
“Upon my word! An heirloom! Yes, yes, but in what way—”
“While on my way to Bristol with a young relative of mine, a slight accident befell our coach, and we were forced to put up for the night at a small inn near Wroxhall. There, sir, I encountered an individual who seemed to me—but I am not very well-versed in these matters—a somewhat questionable character. How questionable I did not know until the following morning, when a Bow Street Runner arrived at the inn.”
“Good God, sir! This is the most—But I interrupt you!”
“Not at all,” said Sir Richard politely. “I left the inn while the Runner was interrogating this individual. It was not until my young cousin and I had proceeded some way on our journey that I discovered in my pocket a purse containing the Brandon necklace.”
The magistrate sat bolt upright in his chair. “You amaze me, sir! You astonish me! The necklace in your pocket? Really, I do not know what to say!”
“No,” agreed Sir Richard, rising and refilling his guest’s glass. “I was rather taken aback myself. In fact, it was some time before I could think how it came to be there.”
“No wonder, no wonder! Most understandable, indeed! You recognized the necklace?”
“Yes,” said Sir Richard, returning to his chair. “I recognized it, but—really, I am amazed at my own stupidity!—I did not immediately connect it with the individual encountered near Wroxhall. The question was then not so much how it came, to be in my possession, as how to restore it to Lord Saar with the least possible delay. I could picture Lady Saar’s dismay at such an irreparable loss! Ah—a lady of exquisite sensibility, you understand!”