Mr. Zero (23 page)

“Going to Hangman's Pond or coming away from it, I should say. That gate doesn't lead anywhere else.”

“He was coming away,” said Dr. Hammond—“getting back over the gate into the road—and he looked scared to blazes.”

“I don't wonder. He probably thought you were going to run him down gate and all.”

Dr. Hammond yawned.

“Funny thing is I thought I'd seen his face before, only I can't think where.”

He drifted out of the room, and made short work of getting into his pyjamas, returning to switch out the light and announce as he got into bed,

“If anyone else thinks of having twins, tell 'em to drown 'em. Night, Ju.”

Yet twenty minutes later his head came up from the pillow with a jerk. Judith Hammond, wooing a dream in which the Meaker baby was hers, felt justly annoyed at being not only awakened but shaken.

“Ju, I know who that fellow was.”

“What fellow?” said Judith, half cross and half forlorn. Perhaps she and Jim would never have a child. Perhaps—

Jim Hammond stopped shaking her to thump the bedclothes triumphantly.

“The fellow I saw getting over the gate. What a damned extraordinary thing!”

XXXIV

“But, darling, you can't marry him, so what's the good of saying you're engaged?”

“I'm
going
to marry him,” said Gay with a fighting sparkle in her eyes.

She and Sylvia were in the Parlour, Sylvia in an easy chair, and Gay on her knees before a reluctant fire. She gave it a vicious poke and repeated firmly,

“I'm going to marry him.”

Sylvia leaned forward.

“But, darling, how can you? I mean, you can't marry him if he shot Francis, because they'll hang him, won't they? Besides we
are
cousins—aren't we, and I don't think it would be at all nice.”

Gay whisked round with her cheeks burning.

“He did
not
shoot Francis! And they won't—they
won't!
Sylly, how dare you?”

Sylvia's lovely eyes widened.

“I thought they did if you shot people. I thought that's what they were for.”

“He
didn't
shoot Francis!”

Sylvia was surprised.

“But, darling, it would be such a good thing. I mean, everyone thinks he did, and it would clear it all up and settle everything, and the police would go away and not worry us any more. I do hate that old man with the red face—don't you? They say he bullies his daughters most dreadfully. What I can't understand is why they don't arrest Algy and take him away, because if he didn't do it, they could always let him out again, and if he did—well, I really don't think it's quite nice saying good-morning, and talking about the weather, and asking him to pass the salt—not if he shot Francis—I mean, well, is it?”

Gay caught her by the wrists.

“Sylly, he did
not
shoot Francis! Will you get that into your head and keep it there! If it's the only idea you've got in the world, stick to it! Algy—didn't—shoot—your—husband. It's as simple as pie. Have you got it? Then hold on to it tight and don't let go.
Algy didn't shoot Francis.”

“Then who did?” said Sylvia simply.

“I don't know, but Algy didn't. And when you say you don't like having him in the house, you seem to forget that he's done nothing but say hadn't he better go to an hotel. And Colonel Anstruther kept on saying no and practically insisting on his staying here. You don't suppose he
wants
to—you don't suppose either of us want to? But of course the police like it because it gives them only one house to watch instead of sleuthing you in one place, and me in another, and Algy somewhere else.”

Sylvia said, “Oh, well—” and spread her hands to the small, uneasy flame which had responded to Gay's last vigorous poke. “Of course,” she continued, “I don't want Algy to be hanged if he really didn't do it, even if it would save a lot of trouble. But I don't think I should be engaged to him—just in case, you know.”

“I
am
engaged to him,” said Gay, with smiling lips.

“I know, darling. That's just how I felt when Mummy wouldn't let me go out with Frank Rutherford any more. He wanted me to be engaged, you know, and if it hadn't been for Mummy I might have married him.”

“Suppose you had, Sylly?”

“Darling, he might have gone on being a curate for years, and years, and years, and I don't know what they get, but Mummy said it wasn't enough. And I cried dreadfully, but when Francis asked me to marry him, wasn't I thankful! Because it
doesn't
look nice if you have to break off an engagement—I mean, Francis being so rich, people would have been sure to talk, wouldn't they?”

Gay looked at her with a sort of fascinated interest.

“Do you mean that you would have broken off your engagement to Frank Rutherford if you had been engaged to him when Francis asked you?”

Sylvia heaved a sigh.

“It was much nicer not having to do it—wasn't it?”

“You mean you would have broken it off?”

Sylvia put her handkerchief to her eyes.

“I don't think you're being at all
kind
,” she said, and dropped a tear, but whether for Frank or for Francis was more than Gay could tell. It was only a moment, however, before she looked up with a dawning interest in her eyes. “You know, darling, I rather liked the other one. Couldn't you be engaged to him instead?”

Gay stared, sat back on her heels, and said as firmly as her surprise would allow,

“What other one?”

“The nice polite one,” said Sylvia. “I'm sure he would if you encouraged him a little. I think he's rather shy, but so polite. I think he'd make a really good husband.”

If Sir Francis had been dead a little longer, Gay might have retorted, “Then marry him yourself.” She decided regretfully that it wouldn't be decent. She said in an exasperated voice,

“I suppose you know what you're talking about, Sylly—I don't.”

“That nice polite Mr. Brewster. I really was sorry I didn't see him yesterday when he was here. He'd have been so nice and ordinary after that horrid Colonel Anstruther and all those policemen and people. I think it
would
be much better for you to be engaged to him.”

Gay burst out laughing. She really couldn't help it.

“It's all very well to laugh,” said Sylvia in a protesting voice, “but I do think it would be nice to have a safe, ordinary sort of person like Mr. Brewster coming into the family. I mean, I really do think we want someone like that for a change. It isn't as if we'd been brought up to have criminals in the family, and now they all say Francis was, and you say
yourself
that Algy is going to be arrested. And what do you think Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Brook said to me this morning? Why, they actually said they could send
me
to prison for taking that stupid envelope.”

Gay had stopped laughing.

“I suppose they could,” she said soberly.

“It's all right—they're not going to,” said Sylvia in a reassuring tone. “They said they'd had a conference or something at headquarters, and they weren't going to, because they think it was Francis who made me, and Mr. Brook said he didn't think I realized what I was doing, and there's some law about its being your husband's fault if he tells you to do something like that, so they're not going to arrest me. I think Mr. Brook likes me a little, because I began to cry, and he said not to quite nicely. But Colonel Anstruther only glared and said ‘Tcha!'”

Gay felt a good deal of relief. She thought the law a very convenient one for Sylvia. She said,

“Why do they think it was Francis who made you take the paper? He couldn't have talked to you on the telephone without you knowing his voice.”

“Oh, it wasn't Francis who talked to me on the telephone. I told them it wasn't, and they said they never thought it was. But they think Francis told him to do it—Mr. Zero, you know—and told him what to say and all that.”

“But why should he, Sylly? Why should Francis make you do a thing like that?”

Sylvia wrinkled her smooth white brow.

“He was very jealous about me,” she said in a doubtful voice. “He thought a lot about being older than me, and he used to say things like ‘I'll never let you go. I'll find a way to keep you, my dear.' And once he said, ‘I've thought of a way to put a chain round your neck, my sweet.' That was just before it all began to happen, and when I asked him what he meant he said a very horrid thing. He said, ‘You'll stay because you'll be afraid to go.'”

Gay said, “You think he made you take the paper so as to have a hold over you?”

Sylvia nodded.

“Of course, he wanted the paper too. And he needn't have been jealous—he ought to have known that. I mean, I'm not that sort—am I, darling? No one in our family ever has been—we just
don't
. And Mummy would have had a fit.” Horror widened Sylvia's eyes. “Oh,
darling
, isn't it a good thing they're not going to arrest me? What
would
Mummy have said?”

XXXV

Mr. Brewster was turning things over in his mind. Like Gay Hardwicke, he felt considerably relieved to learn that there was no intention of putting the law in motion against Lady Colesborough. He had been too discreet to ask any direct question, but it had transpired that the lovely Sylvia would grace the witness box and not the dock. It should be a very interesting trial. The trouble was that until the dock could be, so to speak, filled, no trial would take place. Mr. Brewster considered that Algy Somers would be very suitably cast for the part of prisoner at the bar. He had always disliked Algy a good deal, and although concealing this and some other emotions under a precise and formal manner, he now permitted himself to hope.

The matter which exercised him most was the exact line of conduct which it would be correct for him to pursue with regard to the widowed Lady Colesborough. The situation was a very delicate one. She was a newly made widow, and as such to be treated with all possible respect. He, as one of Mr. Lushington's secretaries, must demean himself with the utmost possible tact and discretion. Yet it was in these very circumstances that an indelible impression might be made upon the feelings of a beautiful young woman who had been so suddenly and strangely bereaved. Now was the moment for delicate sympathy and loyal friendship, now was the moment to plant what might later burgeon and bear fruit. Francis Colesborough's widow was lovely, rich, and for the moment, friendless. Mr. Brewster thought deeply on the possibility of stepping forward in a true spirit of chivalry to support and comfort the mourner. On the other hand he would have to be very careful, because it was now certain to come out that Lady Colesborough had compromised herself by abstracting papers from the Home Secretary's despatch-case. There might be no prosecution, but she would remain compromised, he could not afford to associate with persons whose probity was not above suspicion. It was all very delicate and required the most careful handling.

Mr. Brewster looked at his watch and found the time to be half past three. He thought he would take a walk. Fresh air and exercise would assist his mental processes. A strong inclination to walk in the direction of Cole Lester presented itself. He was engaged in a prudent resistance, when the telephone bell rang and a voice demanded Mr. Lushington. He recognized the voice as that of Mr. Brook and made a note of the fact that the tone suggested urgency.

When staying at Railing Place, Mr. Lushington was accommodated with a sitting-room which opened out of his bedroom. Both rooms were provided with telephone extensions. Mr. Brewster informed his chief that he was wanted on the line and withdrew. But at the same moment that Mr. Lushington was saying “Hullo!” his secretary was opening the bedroom door and very carefully closing it again. It was essential that he should discover what had brought that urgent tone into Mr. Brook's voice. He crossed silently to the bedside instrument, lifted the receiver, and listened in. He had lost nothing except the preliminary “Hullo!” for he could hear the Home Secretary saying, “What is it, Brook?” And then Mr. Brook, still with that subdued urgency, “Well, sir, I thought I had better tell you. There's something come to light among those papers we took out of the safe.”

“Yes, Brook?” Montagu Lushington's tone was quiet.

“Well, sir, I'm afraid it's conclusive.”

“Will you tell me what has been found?”

“A scrap of paper with a couple of lines of cipher on it—just a bit that had been torn off and had got caught up in a pile of bills. That's why it wasn't noticed before.” Mr. Brook's voice dropped a shade. “I've just had it decoded. It runs: ‘To have one of Lushington's secretaries in our pay is worth all he asks—and more.' I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid it is quite conclusive. The Chief Constable is having Mr. Somers arrested at once.”

“I see,” said Montagu Lushington in a tired voice. What he saw was family disgrace, public scandal, and the end of his own career.

Mr. Brewster slipped quietly out of the bedroom, and downstairs and out of the house. Whatever prudence counselled, he was going to walk over to Cole Lester. It would be worth some risk to see Algy Somers arrested.

He took a short cut across the fields which would reduce the distance from five miles to three. The path presently skirted a deserted quarry and came by way of a rough cart track out upon the high road again.

XXXVI

Algy Somers looked up from the letter he was trying to write and said, “Come in.” The knock which he thought he had heard was so weak and hesitating that it might have been any chance sound. He was therefore faintly surprised when the door opened and displayed William in a condition of acute embarrassment.