“Stay where you are,” said the Colonel, with a brisk authority which I could imagine to have been of notable effect on the battlefields of his youth.
Darkside, already in the process of rising, now sank back, as if almost physically incapable of continuing his upward movement. I at first supposed him merely to have succumbed to the old soldier’s forceful personality and commanding tone of voice; but he had more probably been influenced, I perceived after a moment, by the fact that the Colonel was pointing a pistol at him.
The Irishman gave no sign of being disconcerted by this turn of events. On the contrary, his amber-coloured eyes became bright with what seemed to be amusement, as if at the charming whimsicality of some eccentric but highly valued client. Darkside, though his lips moved in silent protest, appeared to have lost the power of speech: he gazed as if mesmerised at the pistol, and his pallor had taken on a greenish, putrescent tinge.
“You say there’s nothing sinister about this Daffodil business,” said the Colonel. “But one man’s dead and another’s gone missing. And the one who’s gone missing is my nephew. In my book you’ve still got a lot of explaining to do. Right, they’re all yours, Professor — you’re the expert. Fire away.”
Whatever Julia had said to recommend to him my skills in investigation, she had evidently failed to mention my extreme distaste for all forms of physical coercion. It would have seemed unkind to disappoint him, however, by declining to proceed with the questioning of the two witnesses whom he had presented to me at gunpoint with such innocent satisfaction. Moreover, though I did not quite believe that he would actually shoot anyone, I did not so entirely disbelieve it as to feel disposed to vex him.
Searching in vain, in the agitation of the moment, for any useful or appropriate question, I finally enquired, for want of anything better, whether those concerned with the Daffodil Settlement had had, on the previous Monday evening, any particular cause for celebration.
“No,” said Patrick Ardmore, with the tentative care of a man just learning the rules of an interesting new game. “No, I don’t think so, Professor. Why should you suppose we had?”
“To stay in the bar until midnight suggests conviviality.”
“There was nothing convivial about it,” said Darkside, outraged into croaking audibility. “We had important business to discuss.”
“Indeed?” I said. “I am surprised that the bar of your hotel afforded sufficient privacy for the discussion of confidential matters.”
“We had it to ourselves,” said Ardmore. “There was Philip Alexandre behind the bar, of course — the owner of the hotel — but he hardly counts as a stranger. Do please acquit us of conviviality, Professor Tamar — it’s very hard on Gideon to be suspected of such a thing.”
Perceiving that this brief exchange would hardly be sufficient to satisfy the Colonel’s expectations, I cast about rather desperately in my mind for some further line of questioning.
“I wonder if you would care,” I said, “to tell us about the pen?”
The effect was gratifying — the two men stared at me with as much astonishment as if I had put my hand in my pocket and extracted a large white rabbit. I noticed with some relief that the Colonel looked deeply impressed.
“The pen?” said Ardmore, raising an eyebrow. Too late, however, for credibility, even if his companion had not at the same instant exclaimed, “How the hell do you know about that?”
“The fountain pen belonging to the Contessa di Silvabianca, which you found on the Coupee near the place where Edward Malvoisin fell to his’ death. If you happen to have it with you, Mr. Ardmore, I should be most interested to see it.”
The Irishman hesitated — he was evidently a good deal more troubled by my knowing about the pen than by being held up at gunpoint in a gentlemen’s club in the West End of London. He must have decided, however, that since I knew so much there could be no further harm in compliance. After an enquiring glance at the Colonel, who gave a brisk nod of assent, he opened his briefcase and produced something which gleamed prettily in the dusty sunlight from the library window. He handed it across to me — a fountain pen made, as I judged, of solid gold, engraved with a graceful and intricate design which incorporated the initials of Gabrielle di Silvabianca.
“Would you care,” I said, “to tell me how you came to find it?”
“I understood,” said the Irishman, “that you were already informed on the subject.”
“It would interest me,” I said, “to know the precise details.”
“Very well,” said Ardmore, “if they interest you, then by all means — but I can’t think why they should. It was on Monday morning, when we were on our way back across the Coupee — Miss Derwent, Gideon, and myself. Miss Derwent had run on ahead — I think she rather had the jitters about the place, not surprisingly in the circumstances, and wanted to be across as quickly as possible. I didn’t much care for it myself, but I stopped about half way across to look down at the place where the fishermen had found poor Edward’s body — they’d marked it with some kind of flag. I looked to see if there was any sign of how he’d come to fall — whether the railings were damaged or anything of that kind. There was something shining in the grass at the edge of the road and I bent down and picked it up. Then Gideon came up and wanted to know what it was. As you see, Professor Tamar, a very trivial incident, though I admit I’m a little puzzled about how you happen to know about it — I rather thought Gideon agreed with me that there was no point in mentioning it to anyone else.”
“I haven’t told anyone,” said the accountant. “I said you ought to tell someone, but it’s not my responsibility.”
“Have you any idea,” I said, “how the Contessa happened to drop her pen in that particular place?”
“I doubt very much,” said Ardmore, “that it was she who dropped it. Edward had been having trouble with his fountain pen all afternoon, I remember — making blots on all sorts of vital documents. I suppose the Contessa must have lent him hers, and he still had it, poor fellow, when he went out that night.”
“I didn’t notice him having trouble with his pen,” said Darkside.
“Indeed, why should you, Gideon?” said the Irishman generously. “I’m sure you had more important things to think of. Is there anything further, Professor Tamar, on which we can assist you?”
Glancing at the Colonel, I perceived a slight discontentedness in his expression, as if he did not yet consider that he had quite had his money’s worth.
“There is just one further point,” I said. “I believe that the Contessa has some family connection with Sark. Could you tell me — what precisely is her relationship to Philip Alexandre?” The bow, I admit, was drawn somewhat at a venture; but Cantrip had mentioned her talking in Sercquais, a language not generally studied in the lycées or universities of France.
“Oh, she’s his niece,” said the Irishman casually, evidently not thinking this an important or troublesome question. “Her mother was Rachel Alexandre — she married a businessman from Brittany. Colonel Cantrip, it is a great privilege to have been entertained in a manner, if I may say so, so much in accordance with the traditions of this very distinguished club, but we really ought to go back to the seminar. Oh, come along, Gideon, you don’t suppose that thing’s loaded, do you?”
A loud report and a shattering of plaster established that it was.
“Something further, sir?” enquired the ancient servant, appearing in the doorway of the library.
Problems insoluble to the Junior Bar require the advice of leading Counsel. At the hour when tea is customarily taken I found Selena, Ragwort, and Julia gathered in Basil Ptarmigan’s room, intending to direct his mind on his return from court to the problems created by Cantrip’s continued absence. These were, in ascending order of gravity: the inconvenience of undertaking those of Cantrip’s professional obligations which were of an urgent nature; the lowering effect on morale of Henry’s disaffection and Lilian’s tearfulness — after hearing the latest gossip from the offices of Stingham and Grynne she was now referring to the boy as “poor Mr. Cantrip” and in the past tense; and the impossibility of any longer remaining responsible for the Colonel. Something must be done — Basil was to consider what.