The magistrate nodded his comprehension. The rum punch was warming him quite as much as the fire, and he had a not unpleasant sensation of mixing with exalted persons.
“Happily—or perhaps I should say, in the light of future events, unhappily,” continued Sir Richard, “I recalled that Beverley Brandon—he was Saar’s younger son, I should mention—was staying in this neighbourhood. I repaired instantly to this inn, therefore, and, being fortunate enough to meet Brandon just beyond the village, gave the necklace to him without further ado.”
The magistrate set down his glass. “You gave the necklace to him? Did he know that it had been stolen?”
“By no means. He was as astonished as I was, but engaged himself to restore it immediately to his father. I considered the matter satisfactorily settled—Saar, you know, having the greatest dislike of any kind of notoriety, such as must accrue from the theft, and the subsequent proceedings.”
“Sir!” said Mr Philips, “do you mean to imply that this unfortunate young man was murdered for the sake of the necklace?”
“That,” said Sir Richard, “is what I fear may have happened.”
“But this is shocking! Upon my word, sir, I am quite dumbfounded!—what—who can have known that the necklace was in his possession?”
“I should have said that no one could have known it, but, upon consideration, I imagine that the individual who hid it in my pocket may well have followed me to this place, waiting for an opportunity to get it back into his possession.”
“True! very true! You have been spied upon! Yet you have not seen that man in Queen Charlton?”
“Do you think he would—er—let me see him?” enquired Sir Richard, evading this question.
“No. No, indeed! Certainly not! But this must be looked to!”
“Yes,” agreed Sir Richard, pensively swinging his eyeglass on the end of its ribbon. “And I think you might, with advantage, look to the sudden disappearance from this inn of a flashy person calling himself Captain Trimble, Mr Philips.”
“Really, sir! This becomes more and more—Pray, what reason have you for supposing that this man may be implicated in the murder?”
“Well,” said Sir Richard slowly, “some chance words which I let fall on the subject of—ah—waistcoats, sent Captain Trimble off hot-foot to Bristol.”
The magistrate blinked, and directed an accusing glance towards his half-empty glass. A horrid suspicion that the rum punch had affected his understanding was dispelled, however, by Sir Richard’s next words.
“My acquaintance at the inn near Wroxhall wore a catskin waistcoat. A casual reference to this circumstance had the surprising effect of arousing the Captain’s curiosity. He asked me in what direction the man in the catskin waistcoat had been travelling, and upon my saying that I believed him to be bound for Bristol, he left the inn—er—incontinent.”
“I see! yes, yes, I see! An accomplice!”
“My own feeling,” said Sir Richard, “is that he was an accomplice who had been—er—bubbled.”
The magistrate appeared to be much struck by this. “Yes! I see it all! Good God, this is a terrible affair! I have never been called upon to—But you say this Captain Trimble went off to Bristol, sir?”
“He did. But I have since learned, Mr Philips, that he was back at this inn at six o’clock this evening. Ah! I should, I see, say yesterday evening,” he added with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Mr Philips drew a long breath. “Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up—are in fact, of such a nature as to—Upon my word, I never thought—But the murder! You discovered this, sir?”
“I discovered Brandon’s body,” corrected Sir Richard. “How came you to do this, sir? You had a suspicion? You—”
“None at all. It was a warm evening, and I stepped out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight. Chance alone led my footsteps to the wood where I found my unfortunate young friend’s body. It is only since making that melancholy discovery that I have pieced together the—er—evidence.”
Mr Philips had a hazy idea that chance had played an over-important part in Sir Richard’s adventures, but he was aware that the punch he had drunk had slightly clouded his intellect. He said guardedly: “Sir, the story you have unfolded is of a nature which—in short, it must be carefully sifted. Yes, indeed. Carefully sifted! I must request you not to remove from this neighbourhood until I have had time—pray do not misunderstand me! There is not the least suggestion, I assure you, of—”
“My dear sir, I don’t misunderstand you, and I have no intention of removing from this inn,” said Sir Richard soothingly. “I am aware that you have, so far, only my word for it that I am indeed Richard Wyndham.”
“Oh, as to that, I am sure—no suggestion of disbelieving—But my duty is prescribed! You will appreciate my position, I am persuaded!”
“Perfectly!” said Sir Richard. “I shall hold myself wholly at your disposal. You, as a man of the world, will, I am assured, appreciate the need of the exercise of—ah—the most delicate discretion in handling this affair.”
Mr Philips, who had once spent three weeks in London, was flattered to think that the imprint of that short sojourn was pronounced enough to be discernible to such a personage as Beau Wyndham, and swelled with pride. Native caution, however, warned him that his investigation had better be postponed to a more sober moment. He rose to his feet with careful dignity, and set his empty glass down on the table. “I am obliged to you!” he pronounced. “I shall wait upon you to-morrow—no, to-day! I must consider this affair. A terrible business! I think one may say, a terrible business!”
Sir Richard agreed to this, and after a meticulous exchange of courtesies, Mr Philips took his leave. Sir Richard snuffed the candles, and went up to bed, not dissatisfied with his night’s work.
In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with a gentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: “Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!”
Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.
He did not. He said: “Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shocking crime, were you not, young man?”
“Well, not precisely,” said Pen.
“Oh? How is that?”
“I was, and I wasn’t,” Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. “I didn’t see the body.”
“No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?”
“Well, sir, there was an owl,” confided Pen unblushingly.
“Come, come! An owl?”