Crow's Inn Tragedy (16 page)

“Wonderful man, Mr. Todmarsh,” he began conversationally. “We in the police see a lot of his work. Mrs. Phillimore too, supports practically every philanthropic work in the East End. Yes, this engagement will be good news to many a poor outcast, Mr. Anthony.”

Tony mechanically acquiesced. As a matter of fact mention of Aubrey Todmarsh's good works left him cold. He had no great liking for Mrs. Phillimore either, though the rich American had rather gone out of her way to be amiable to him. This morning, however, he was too much occupied in wondering what was the ulterior motive for the inspector's friendliness to have any thought to spare for his  cousin's engagement. He was anxious to ascertain whether the inspector, like himself, had caught sight of Cecily Hoyle and followed her, though he could not form any idea as to the inspector's object in doing so. Still one never knew where the clues spoken of by the papers might lead the police. Thinking of Cecily as the inspector's possible objective a cold sweat broke out on Anthony's brow.

When the train came in the inspector stood aside for Anthony to enter and followed him in. The carriage was full. Anthony had an uncomfortable feeling that people were looking at him. Possibly, he thought, they were pointing him out to one another as Luke Bechcombe's nephew, the one who stood to benefit largely by the murdered man's death, still more largely at the death of the widow, were wondering possibly what he was doing in that half-hour of the day of the murder which he could only account for by saying he was wandering about looking for the Field of Rest. That the general public had at first looked upon him as suspect on this account Anthony knew, but he knew also that the discovery of the clerk Thompson's dishonesty and later on of the loss of Mrs. Carnthwacke's diamonds had been taken as clearing him to a great extent. Until the mystery surrounding the death of Luke Bechcombe had been solved, however, he recognized that he would remain a potential murderer in the eyes of at least a section of the public. Possibly, he reflected grimly, seeing him with the inspector this morning they thought he was in custody.

“Going far, inspector?” he asked at the first stopping-place.

“Same station as yourself, sir,” the inspector returned affably. “Matter of fact I am going to the same house too. A message came along for Mr. Steadman just after he had started, and as it seemed to be of some importance I thought I would come after him with it myself. I am hoping to be in time to have a word with him before luncheon. Perhaps you could help me, sir.”

“Well, if I can,” Anthony said doubtfully. “There won't be much time to spare, though.”

“Well, if I am too late I am too late,” the inspector remarked philosophically. “It was just a chance. We don't seem to hear of Thompson, sir.”

“We don't,” Anthony assented. “And I expect he is taking care we shouldn't. You'll forgive me, inspector, but the way Thompson has managed to disappear doesn't seem to me to reflect much credit on the police.”

“Ah, I know that is the sort of thing folks are saying,” the inspector commented with apparent placidity. “And it is a great deal easier to say it about the police methods than to improve upon them. However, like some others, Thompson may find himself caught in time. One of our great difficulties is that so little is known about him, his friends, habits, etc. Even you don't seem able to help us there, Mr. Anthony.” The inspector shot a lightning glance at the young man's unconscious face.

Anthony shook his head.

“Always was a decent sort of chap, old Thompson, or he seemed so—I always had a bit of a rag with him when I went to the office. Known him there years, of course. But, if you come to ask me about his friends, I never saw the old chap in mufti, as you might say, in my life. Still, I don't think Thompson had any hand in murdering Uncle Luke.”

“I know. You have said so all along,” the inspector remarked. “But, if you don't think he had anything to do with the murder, what do you think of his disappearance?”

“Suppose the old chap had been helping himself to what wasn't his, and got frightened and bolted.”

“Um, yes!” The inspector stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you think you would recognize Thompson in the street, Mr. Anthony?”

“Should think I was a blithering idiot if I didn't,” Anthony responded. “Never saw him with a hat on certainly, but a hat don't matter—it can't alter a man beyond recognition.”

“Not much of a disguise, certainly,” the inspector admitted, looking round him consideringly as they entered Carlsford Square. “Still, I wonder—”

Anthony came to a standstill.

“Now
I
wonder what you are getting at. Do you think I have seen Thompson anywhere?”

The inspector did not answer for a minute, then he said slowly:

“I shouldn't be surprised if a good many of us had seen him, Mr. Anthony.”

Anthony stared. “Then we must be a set of fools.”

“A good many of us are fools,” Inspector Furnival acquiesced as they came to a standstill.

Anthony applied himself to the knocker on the door of the Bechcombes' house. There were a couple of cars in the street, one John Steadman's, the other a luxurious Daimler evidently fitted with the latest improvements.

“You will have time for your talk, old chap,” said Anthony, looking at his watch as the door opened.

Somewhat to his surprise Steadman came out. The barrister for once was not looking as immaculately neat as usual. His coat was dusty and he was carrying his right arm stiffly. He held out a note to his chauffeur.

“There. It's quite close to Stepney Causeway. Get the woman to the hospital as soon as possible. Hello, inspector—a word with you.”

“Have you had an accident?”

“No,” responded the barrister curtly. Then with a jerk of his head in the direction of the other car, “That fellow, Mrs. Phillimore's man, isn't fit to drive a donkey cart. Nearly ran over a child just now. All we could do to get her out alive save with a broken arm, I took her to the Middlesex Hospital and now I'm sending for her mother. Mrs. Phillimore doesn't seem very helpful except in the matter of weeping. Well, so long, my boy—see you again in a minute or two.”

He turned off with the inspector. Anthony went through the hall to the drawing-room where he found his father talking to Mrs. Bechcombe and a small, fair, handsomely dressed woman with brilliant blue eyes—his cousin's American fiancée, Mrs. Phillimore.

Anthony was no stranger to her. He had met her on several occasions and while admitting her undoubted charm he was conscious that somehow or other he did not quite like Mrs. Phillimore, the Butterfly, as he had named her. Apparently the feeling was not mutual, for Mrs. Phillimore always seemed to go out of the way to be gracious to her fiancée's cousin.

To-day, however, he did not receive his usual smile, and he saw that in spite of her make up she was looking pale and worried.

“Where is Aubrey?” he inquired, as he shook hands. “Got a holiday from his blessed Community to-day, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” she returned, “He was to have brought me here, but he was sent for, I couldn't quite understand by whom. But he said he should not be long after me.”

“Nor has he,” interposed Mrs. Bechcombe at this juncture. “He is coming up the steps now with John Steadman.”

Mrs. Phillimore's relief was apparent in her countenance. Anthony felt a touch of momentary wonder as to why his cousin's temporary absence should cause her so much apparent anxiety.

Aubrey was talking to Mr. Steadman in a quick, nervous fashion as they entered the room together.

The first glance was enough to show every one that something had seriously disturbed Aubrey Todmarsh. His face was white, his eyes were bloodshot, he was biting his lips nervously. Altogether he looked strangely unlike the enthusiastic young head of the Community of St. Philip.

Mr. Collyer was the first to speak.

“Aubrey, my dear boy, is anything the matter?”

Apparently Todmarsh only brought himself to speak with difficulty. Twice he opened his lips, but no words came. At last he said hoarsely:

“Hopkins!”

The name conveyed nothing to the majority of his hearers, only the rector of Wexbridge twisted up his face into a curious resemblance to a note of interrogation, and Mrs. Phillimore uttered a sharp little cry.

“Hopkins! Oh, Aubrey!”

“Hopkins!” he repeated. “He—he is my right hand, you know, Uncle James. I—I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”

The clergyman pushed a chair up to his nephew.

“Sit down, my dear boy. What is this about Hopkins? I remember him well. Has he—?”

“He has been away for a few days' holiday. He said his sister was ill and he must go to see her. In the early hours of this morning”—Todmarsh's voice grew increasingly husky—“he was arrested with two other men breaking into Sir Thomas Wreford's house, Whistone Hall in the New Forest. I—I can't believe it!” His head fell forward on his hands.

Mrs. Phillimore drew a long breath, and for a moment nobody spoke. Then the rector said slowly:

“My dear boy, I can hardly believe this is true. Is there no possibility of a mistake? A false report or something of that kind?”

Aubrey shook his head.

“No. The telegram came from Wreford Hall Post Office—Hopkins sent it himself to me at the Community House and it was brought to me here.”

“Dear, dear! I wish I could help. But you must remember, my dear Aubrey, that we workers for others must be prepared to meet trouble and disappointment, ay, even in those of whom we have felt most sure.” The rector laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Pull yourself together, my dear Aubrey. Remember the many signal causes of thankfulness that have been granted to you. The many other lives that you have brightened and saved from shame.”

“How can I tell who will be the next?” Todmarsh groaned. “I tell you, I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”

“We cannot answer for our brothers, any of us,” Mr. Collyer went on. “But now, my boy, you must make an effort. You must think of your Aunt Madeleine, of Mrs. Phillimore.”

There was a moment's silence, then Todmarsh raised his head.

“You are right. You always do me more good than anyone else, Uncle James. But here I am keeping you all waiting. I beg your pardon, Aunt Madeleine. And after lunch there is much to be done. I must see about getting Hopkins bailed out.”

“Where is Hopkins?” questioned Anthony, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

“At a place called Burchester,” Aubrey answered. “I fancy it is quite a small place. Probably it is the nearest police court to Whistone Hall.”

“Whistone Hall, in the New Forest, you said, didn't you?” Anthony went on. “Is it near Burford, do you know?”

He hardly knew what made him ask the question. John Steadman glanced at him sharply.

Aubrey Todmarsh turned a surprised face towards him.

“I don't know. I don't know anything about the place. And I never heard of Burford.”

Luncheon, not a particularly cheerful meal, was over. Mrs. Phillimore's jewelled cigarette case lay on the table beside her, but her cigarette had gone out in its amber holder, and her eyes were furtively watching her fiancée as she chatted with Mr. Collyer, who sat opposite.

Aubrey Todmarsh had taken his uncle's advice and pulled himself together. He was talking much as usual now, but John Steadman watching him from his seat opposite thought that his face looked queer and strained. His eyes no longer seemed to see visions, but were bloodshot and weary. His high cheekbones had the skin drawn tightly across them to-day and gave him almost a Mongolian look, his usually sleek, dark hair was ruffled across his forehead.

John Steadman had not hitherto felt particularly attracted by the young head of the Community of St. Philip. Apart from the natural contempt of the ordinary man for a conscientious objector, there always to Steadman appeared something wild and ridiculous about Todmarsh's visionary speeches and ideas. To-day, however, his sympathies were aroused by the young man's obviously very great disappointment over Hopkins's defection. He felt sorry for Mrs. Phillimore too. The poor little widow was evidently sharing her lover's depression, and, though she did her best to appear bright and cheerful, was watching him anxiously while she talked to her hostess or to Steadman himself.

It seemed to Steadman that he had never realized how protracted a meal luncheon could be until to-day, and he was on the point of making some excuse to Mrs. Bechcombe for effecting an early retreat when the parlourmaid entered the room with two cards—on one of which a few words were written—upon her silver salver.

Mrs. Bechcombe took them up with a murmured excuse. She glanced at them carelessly, then her expression changed. She looked round in indecision then turned to Steadman.

“I—I don't know what to do. That woman—”

The momentary lull in the conversation had passed; every one was talking busily. Under cover of the hum, Steadman edged himself a little nearer his hostess.

“What woman?”

For answer she handed him the larger of the two cards.

“Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke,” he read. He glanced at Mrs. Bechcombe. “What does this mean?”

“That woman—I have always felt certain she was responsible for Luke's death,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned incoherently. “Oh, yes”—as Steadman made a movement of dissent—“if she did not actually kill him herself she took her horrid diamonds to him and let the murderer know and follow her. Oh, yes, I shall always hold her responsible. But to-day you see she—I mean he—the man says their business is important. Perhaps he has found out—something.”

“What am I to do?”

“Why not ask them to come in here?” John Steadman suggested. “We are all members of the family,” glancing round the room.