Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Why, Miss Blanche!” cried a voice. “And your old lady-in-waiting figured I should find you flown!”

  Hilton Toye was already a landsman and a Londoner from top to toe. He was perfectly dressed — for Bond Street — and his native simplicity of bearing and address placed him as surely and firmly in the present picture. He did not look the least bit out of it. But Cazalet did, in an instant; his old bush clothes changed at once into a merely shabby suit of despicable cut; the romance dropped out of them and their wearer, as he stood like a trussed turkey-cock, and watched a bunch of hothouse flowers presented to the lady with a little gem of a natural, courteous, and yet characteristically racy speech.

  To the lady, mark you; for she was one, on the spot; and Cazalet was a man again, and making a mighty effort to behave himself because the hour of boy and girl was over.

  “Mr. Cazalet,” said Toye, “I guess you want to know what in thunder I’m doing on your tracks so soon. It’s hog-luck, sir, because I wanted to see you quite a lot, but I never thought I’d strike you right here. Did you hear the news?”

  “No! What?”

  There was no need to inquire as to the class of news; the immediate past had come back with Toye into Cazalet’s life; and even in Blanche’s presence, even in her schoolroom, the old days had flown into their proper place and size in the perspective.

  “They’ve made an arrest,” said Toye; and Cazalet nodded as though he had quite expected it, which set Blanche off trying to remember something he had said at the other house; but she had not succeeded when she noticed the curious pallor of his chin and forehead.

  “Scruton?” he just asked.

  “Yes, sir! This morning,” said Hilton Toye.

  “You don’t mean the poor man?” cried Blanche, looking from one to the other.

  “Yes, he does,” said Cazalet gloomily. He stared out at the river, seeing nothing in his turn, though one of the anglers was actually busy with his reel.

  “But I thought Mr. Scruton was still—” Blanche remembered him, remembered dancing with him; she did not like to say, “in prison.”

  “He came out the other day,” sighed Cazalet. “But how like the police all over! Give a dog a bad name, and trust them to hunt it down and shoot it at sight!”

  “I judge it’s not so bad as all that in this country,” said Hilton Toye. “That’s more like the police theory about Scruton, I guess, bar drawing the bead.”

  “When did you hear of it?” said Cazalet.

  “It was on the tape at the Savoy when I got there. So I made an inquiry, and I figured to look in at the Kingston Court on my way to call upon Miss Blanche. You see, I was kind of interested in all you’d told me about the case.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, that was my end of the situation. As luck and management would have it between them, I was in time to hear your man—”

  “Not my man, please! You thought of him yourself,” said Cazalet sharply.

  “Well, anyway, I was in time to hear the proceedings opened against him. They were all over in about a minute. He was remanded till next week.”

  “How did he look?” and, “Had he a beard?” demanded Cazalet and Blanche simultaneously.

  “He looked like a sick man,” said Toye, with something more than his usual deliberation in answering or asking questions. “Yes, Miss Blanche, he had a beard worthy of a free citizen.”

  “They let them grow one, if they like, before they come out,” said Cazalet, with the nod of knowledge.

  “Then I guess he was a wise man not to take it off,” rejoined Hilton Toye. “That would only prejudice his case, if it’s going to be one of identity, with that head gardener playing lead in the witness-stand.”

  “Old Savage!” snorted Cazalet. “Why, he was a dotard in our time; they couldn’t hang a dog on his evidence!”

  “Still,” said Blanche, “I’d rather have it than circumstantial evidence, wouldn’t you, Mr. Toye?”

  “No, Miss Blanche, I would not,” replied Toye, with unhesitating candor. “The worst evidence in the world, in my opinion, and I’ve given the matter some thought, is the evidence of identity.” He turned to Cazalet, who had betrayed a quickened interest in his views. “Shall I tell you why? Think how often you’re not so sure if you have seen a man before or if you never have! You kind of shrink from nodding, or else you nod wrong; if you didn’t ever have that feeling, then you’re not like any other man I know.”

  “I have!” cried Cazalet. “I’ve had it all my life, even in the wilds; but I never thought of it before.”

  “Think of it now,” said Toye, “and you’ll see there may be flaws in the best evidence of identity that money can buy. But circumstantial evidence can’t lie, Miss Blanche, if you get enough of it. If the links fit in, to prove that a certain person was in a certain place at a certain time, I guess that’s worth all the oaths of all the eye-witnesses that ever saw daylight!”

  Cazalet laughed harshly, as for no apparent reason he led the way into the garden. “Mr. Toye’s made a study of these things,” he fired over his shoulder. “He should have been a Sherlock Holmes, and rather wishes he was one!”

  “Give me time,” said Toye, laughing. “I may come along that way yet.”

  Cazalet faced him in a frame of tangled greenery. “You told me you wouldn’t!”

  “I did, sir, but that was before they put salt on this poor old crook. If you’re right, and he’s not the man, shouldn’t you say that rather altered the situation?”

  VI. VOLUNTARY SERVICE

  “And why do you think he can’t have done it?”

  Cazalet had trundled the old canoe over the rollers, and Blanche was hardly paddling in the glassy strip alongside the weir. Big drops clustered on her idle blades, and made tiny circles as they met themselves in the shining mirror. But below the lock there had been something to do, and Blanche had done it deftly and silently, with almost equal capacity and grace. It had given her a charming flush and sparkle; and, what with the sun’s bare hand on her yellow hair, she now looked even bonnier than indoors, yet not quite, quite such a girl. But then every bit of the boy had gone out of Cazalet. So that hour stolen from the past was up forever.

  “Why do the police think the other thing?” he retorted. “What have they got to go on? That’s what I want to know. I agree with Toye in one thing.” Blanche looked up quickly. “I wouldn’t trust old Savage an inch. I’ve been thinking about him and his precious evidence. Do you realize that it’s quite dark now soon after seven? It was pretty thick saying his man was bareheaded, with neither hat nor cap left behind to prove it! Yet now it seems he’s put a beard to him, and next we shall have the color of his eyes!”

  Blanche laughed at his vigor of phrase; this was more like the old, hot-tempered, sometimes rather overbearing Sweep. Something had made him jump to the conclusion that Scruton could not possibly have killed Mr. Craven, whatever else he might have done in days gone by. So it simply was impossible, and anybody who took the other side, or had a word to say for the police, as a force not unknown to look before it leaped, would have to reckon henceforth with Sweep Cazalet.

  Mr. Toye already had reckoned with him, in a little debate begun outside the old summer schoolroom at Littleford, and adjourned rather than finished at the iron gate into the road. In her heart of hearts Blanche could not say that Cazalet had the best of the argument, except, indeed, in the matter of heated emphasis and scornful asseveration. It was difficult, however, to know what line he really took; for while he scouted the very notion of uncorroborated identification by old Savage, he discredited with equal warmth all Toye’s contentions on behalf of circumstantial evidence. Toye had advanced a general principle with calm ability, but Cazalet could not be shifted from the particular position he was so eager to defend, and would only enter into abstract questions to beg them out of hand.

  Blanche rather thought that neither quite understood what the other meant; but she could not blink the fact that the old friend ha
d neither the dialectical mind nor the unfailing courtesy of the new. That being so, with her perception she might have changed the subject; but she could see that Cazalet was thinking of nothing else; and no wonder, since they were approaching the scene of the tragedy and his own old home, with each long dip of her paddle.

  It had been his own wish to start upstream; but she could see the wistful pain in his eyes as they fell once more upon the red turrets and the smooth green lawn of Uplands; and she neither spoke nor looked at him again until he spoke to her.

  “I see they’ve got the blinds down still,” he said detachedly. “What’s happened to Mrs. Craven?”

  “I hear she went into a nursing home before the funeral.”

  “Then there’s nobody there?”

  “It doesn’t look as if there was, does it?” said poor Blanche.

  “I expect we should find Savage somewhere. Would you very much mind, Blanche? I should rather like — if it was just setting foot — with you—”

  But even that effective final pronoun failed to bring any buoyancy back into his voice; for it was not in the least effective as he said it, and he no longer looked her in the face. But this all seemed natural to Blanche, in the manifold and overlapping circumstances of the case. She made for the inlet at the upper end of the lawn. And her prompt unquestioning acquiescence shamed Cazalet into further and franker explanation, before he could let her land to please him.

  “You don’t know how I feel this!” he exclaimed quite miserably. “I mean about poor old Scruton; he’s gone through so much as it is, whatever he may have done to deserve it long ago. And he wasn’t the only one, or the worst; some day I’ll tell you how I know, but you may take it from me that’s so. The real villain’s gone to his account. I won’t pretend I’m sorry for him. De mortuis doesn’t apply if you’ve got to invent the bonum! But Scruton — after ten years — only think of it! Is it conceivable that he should go and do a thing like this the very moment he gets out? I ask you, is it even conceivable?”

  He asked her with something of the ferocity with which he had turned on Toye for suggesting that the police might have something up their sleeves, and be given a chance. But Blanche understood him. And now she showed herself golden to the core, almost as an earnest of her fitness for the fires before her.

  “Poor fellow,” she cried, “he has a friend in you, at any rate! And I’ll help you to help him, if there’s any way I can?”

  He clutched her hand, but only as he might have clutched a man’s.

  “You can’t do anything; but I won’t forget that,” he almost choked. “I meant to stand by him in a very different way. He’d been down to the depths, and I’d come up a bit; then he was good to me as a lad, and it was my father’s partner who was the ruin of him. I seemed to owe him something, and now — now I’ll stand by him whatever happens and — whatever has happened!”

  Then they landed in the old, old inlet. Cazalet knew every knot in the post to which he tied Blanche’s canoe.

  It was a very different place, this Uplands, from poor old Littleford on the lower reach. The grounds were five or six acres instead of about one, and a house in quite another class stood farther back from the river and very much farther from the road.

  The inlet began the western boundary, which continued past the boat-house in the shape of a high hedge, a herbaceous border (not what it had been in the old days), and a gravel path. This path was screened from the lawn by a bank of rhododendrons, as of course were the back yard and kitchen premises, past which it led into the front garden, eventually debouching into the drive. It was the path along which Cazalet led the way this afternoon, and Blanche at his heels was so struck by something that she could not help telling him he knew his way very well.

  “Every inch of it!” he said bitterly. “But so I ought, if anybody does.”

  “But these rhododendrons weren’t here in your time. They’re the one improvement. Don’t you remember how the path ran round to the other end of the yard? This gate into it wasn’t made.”

  “No more it was,” said Cazalet, as they came up to the new gate on the right. It was open, and looking through they could see where the old gateway had been bricked. The rhododendrons topped the yard wall at that point, masking it from the lawn, and making on the whole an improvement of which anybody but a former son of the house might have taken more account.

  He said he could see no other change. He pretended to recognize the very blinds that were down and flapping in the kitchen windows facing west. But for the fact that these windows were wide open, the whole place seemed as deserted as Littleford; but just past the windows, and flush with them, was the tradesmen’s door, and the two trespassers were barely abreast of it when this door opened and disgorged a man.

  The man was at first sight a most incongruous figure for the back premises of any house, especially in the country. He was tall, rather stout, very powerfully built and rather handsome in his way; his top-hat shone like his patent-leather boots, and his gray cutaway suit hung well in front and was duly creased as to the trousers; yet not for one moment was this personage in the picture, in the sense in which Hilton Toye had stepped into the Littleford picture.

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?” he demanded bluntly of the male intruder.

  “No harm, I hope,” replied Cazalet, smiling, much to his companion’s relief. She had done him an injustice, however, in dreading an explosion when they were both obviously in the wrong, and she greatly admired the tone he took so readily. “I know we’ve no business here whatever; but it happens to be my old home, and I only landed from Australia last night. I’m on the river for the first time, and simply had to have a look round.”

  The other big man had looked far from propitiated by the earlier of these remarks, but the closing sentences had worked a change.

  “Are you young Mr. Cazalet?” he cried.

  “I am, or rather I was,” laughed Cazalet, still on his mettle.

  “You’ve read all about the case then, I don’t mind betting!” exclaimed the other with a jerk of his topper toward the house behind him.

  “I’ve read all I found in the papers last night and this morning, and such arrears as I’ve been able to lay my hands on,” said Cazalet. “But, as I tell you, my ship only got in from Australia last night, and I came round all the way in her. There was nothing in the English papers when we touched at Genoa.”

  “I see, I see.” The man was still looking him up and down. “Well, Mr. Cazalet, my name’s Drinkwater, and I’m from Scotland Yard. I happen to be in charge of the case.”

  “I guessed as much,” said Cazalet, and this surprised Blanche more than anything else from him. Yet nothing about him was any longer like the Sweep of other days, or of any previous part of that very afternoon. And this was also easy to understand on reflection; for if he meant to stand by the hapless Scruton, guilty or not guilty, he could not perhaps begin better than by getting on good terms with the police. But his ready tact, and in that case cunning, were certainly a revelation to one who had known him marvelously as boy and youth.

  “I mustn’t ask questions,” he continued, “but I see you’re still searching for things, Mr. Drinkwater.”

  “Still minding our own job,” said Mr. Drinkwater genially. They had sauntered on with him to the corner of the house, and seen a bowler hat bobbing in the shrubbery down the drive. Cazalet laughed like a man.

  “Well, I needn’t tell you I know every inch of the old place,” he said; “that is, barring alterations,” as Blanche caught his eye. “But I expect this search is harrowed, rather?”

  “Rather,” said Mr. Drinkwater, standing still in the drive. He had also taken out a presentation gold half-hunter, suitably inscribed in memory of one of his more bloodless victories. But Cazalet could always be obtuse, and now he refused to look an inch lower than the detective-inspector’s bright brown eyes.

  “There’s just one place that’s occurred to me, Mr. Drinkwater, that perhaps may not
have occurred to you.”

  “Where’s that, Mr. Cazalet?”

  “In the room where — the room itself.”

  Mr. Drinkwater’s long stare ended in an indulgent smile. “You can show me if you like,” said he indifferently. “But I suppose you know we’ve got the man?”

  VII. AFTER MICHELANGELO

  “I was thinking of his cap,” said Cazalet, but only as they returned to the tradesmen’s door, and just as Blanche put in her word, “What about me?”

  Mr. Drinkwater eyed the trim white figure standing in the sun. “The more the merrier!” his grim humor had it. “I dare say you’ll be able to teach us a thing or two as well, miss.”

  She could not help nudging Cazalet in recognition of this shaft. But Cazalet did not look round; he had now set foot in his old home.

  It was all strangely still and inactive, as though domestic animation had been suspended indefinitely. Yet the open kitchen door revealed a female form in mufti; a sullen face looked out of the pantry as they passed; and through the old green door (only now it was a red one) they found another bowler hat bent over a pink paper at the foot of the stairs. There was a glitter of eyes under the bowler’s brim as Mr. Drinkwater conducted his friends into the library.

  The library was a square room of respectable size, but very close and dim with the one French window closed and curtained. But Mr. Drinkwater shut the door as well, and added indescribably to the lighting and atmospheric effects by switching on all the electric lamps; they burned sullenly in the partial daylight, exposed as thin angry bunches of red-hot wire in dusty bulbs.