“I beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.”
“The wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred and—well, I can’t really read without my glasses—one hundred and something to Lucerne.”
“It’s the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the 18th.”
“No, no, surely. At least—I mean—today is Wednesday the 18th.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Today is the 19th.”
“The 19th!” The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had to be convinced. Today was the 19th. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.
“Then that means—that means—dear me, it means the Congress at Lucerne has taken place today.”
He stared in deep dismay across the counter; but there were many others travelling; the Canon and his perplexities were elbowed aside. He stood sadly, holding the useless ticket in his hand. His mind ranged over various possibilities. Perhaps his ticket could be changed? But that would be no use—no indeed—what time was it now? Going on for 9 o’clock? The conference had actually taken place; starting at 10 o’clock this morning. Of course, that was what Whittaker had meant at the Athenaeum. He thought Canon Pennyfather had already been to the Congress.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Canon Pennyfather, to himself. “What a muddle I have made of it all!” He wandered sadly and silently into the Cromwell Road, not at its best a very cheerful place.
He walked slowly along the street carrying his bag and revolving perplexities in his mind. When at last he had worked out to his satisfaction the various reasons for which he had made a mistake in the day, he shook his head sadly.
“Now, I suppose,” he said to himself, “I suppose—let me see, it’s after nine o’clock, yes, I suppose I had better have something to eat.”
It was curious, he thought, that he did not feel hungry.
Wandering disconsolately along the Cromwell Road he finally settled upon a small restaurant which served Indian curries. It seemed to him that though he was not quite as hungry as he ought to be, he had better keep his spirits up by having a meal, and after that he must find a hotel and—but no, there was no need to do that. He had a hotel! Of course. He was staying at Bertram’s; and had reserved his room for four days. What a piece of luck! What a splendid piece of luck! So his room was there, waiting for him. He had only to ask for his key at the desk and—here another reminiscence assailed him. Something heavy in his pocket?
He dipped his hand in and brought out one of those large and solid keys with which hotels try and discourage their vaguer guests from taking them away in their pockets. It had not prevented the Canon from doing so!
“No. 19,” said the Canon, in happy recognition. “That’s right. It’s very fortunate that I haven’t got to go and find a room in a hotel. They say they’re very crowded just now. Yes, Edmunds was saying so at the Athenaeum this evening. He had a terrible job finding a room.”
Somewhat pleased with himself and the care he had taken over his travelling arrangements by booking a hotel beforehand, the Canon abandoned his curry, remembered to pay for it, and strode out once more into the Cromwell Road.
It seemed a little tame to go home just like this when he ought to have been dining in Lucerne and talking about all sorts of interesting and fascinating problems. His eye was caught by a cinema.
Walls of Jericho.
It seemed an eminently suitable title. It would be interesting to see if biblical accuracy had been preserved.
He bought himself a seat and stumbled into the darkness. He enjoyed the film, though it seemed to him to have no relationship to the biblical story whatsoever. Even Joshua seemed to have been left out. The walls of Jericho seemed to be a symbolical way of referring to a certain lady’s marriage vows. When they had tumbled down several times, the beautiful star met the dour and uncouth hero whom she had secretly loved all along and between them they proposed to build up the walls in a way that would stand the test of time better. It was not a film destined particularly to appeal to an elderly clergyman; but Canon Pennyfather enjoyed it very much. It was not the sort of film he often saw and he felt it was enlarging his knowledge of life. The film ended, the lights went up, the National Anthem was played and Canon Pennyfather stumbled out into the lights of London, slightly consoled for the sad events of earlier in the evening.
It was a fine night and he walked home to Bertram’s Hotel after first getting into a bus which took him in the opposite direction. It was midnight when he got in and Bertram’s Hotel at midnight usually preserved a decorous appearance of everyone having gone to bed. The lift was on a higher floor so the Canon walked up the stairs. He came to his room, inserted the key in the lock, threw the door open and entered!
Good gracious, was he seeing things? But who—how—he saw the upraised arm too late….
Stars exploded in a kind of Guy Fawkes’ display within his head….
Chapter Eight
I
The Irish Mail rushed through the night. Or, more correctly, through the darkness of the early morning hours.
At intervals the diesel engine gave its weird banshee warning cry. It was travelling at well over eighty miles an hour. It was on time.
Then, with some suddenness, the pace slackened as the brakes came on. The wheels screamed as they gripped the metals. Slower…slower…The guard put his head out of the window noting the red signal ahead as the train came to a final halt. Some of the passengers woke up. Most did not.
One elderly lady, alarmed by the suddenness of the deceleration, opened the door and looked out along the corridor. A little way along one of the doors to the line was open. An elderly cleric with a thatch of thick white hair was climbing up from the permanent way. She presumed he had previously climbed down to the line to investigate. The morning air was distinctly chilly. Someone at the end of the corridor said: “Only a signal.” The elderly lady withdrew into her compartment and tried to go to sleep again.
Farther up the line, a man waving a lantern was running towards the train from a signal box. The fireman climbed down from the engine. The guard who had descended from the train came along to join him. The man with the lantern arrived, rather short of breath and spoke in a series of gasps.
“Bad crash ahead…Goods train derailed….”
The engine driver looked out of his cab, then climbed down also to join the others.
At the rear of the train, six men who had just climbed up the embankment boarded the train through a door left open for them in the last coach. Six passengers from different coaches met them. With well-rehearsed speed, they proceeded to take charge of the postal van, isolating it from the rest of the train. Two men in Balaclava helmets at front and rear of the compartment stood on guard, coshes in hand.
A man in railway uniform went forward along the corridor of the stationary train, uttering explanations to such as demanded them.
“Block on the line ahead. Ten minutes’ delay, maybe, not much more….” It sounded friendly and reassuring.
By the engine, the driver and the fireman lay neatly gagged and trussed up. The man with the lantern called out:
“Everything OK here.”
The guard lay by the embankment, similarly gagged and tied.
The expert cracksmen in the postal van had done their work. Two more neatly trussed bodies lay on the floor. The special mailbags sailed out to where other men on the embankment awaited them.
In their compartments, passengers grumbled to each other that the railways were not what they used to be.
Then, as they settled themselves to sleep again, there came through the darkness the roar of an exhaust.
“Goodness,” murmured a woman. “Is that a jet plane?”
“Racing car, I should say.”
The roar died away….
II
On the Bedhampton Motorway, nine miles away, a steady stream of night lorries was grinding its way north. A big white racing car flash
ed past them.
Ten minutes later, it turned off the motorway.
The garage on the corner of the B road bore the sign CLOSED. But the big doors swung open and the white car was driven straight in, the doors closing again behind it. Three men worked at lightning speed. A fresh set of number plates were attached. The driver changed his coat and cap. He had worn white sheepskin before. Now he wore black leather. He drove out again. Three minutes after his departure, an old Morris Oxford, driven by a clergyman, chugged out onto the road and proceeded to take a route through various turning and twisting country lanes.
A station wagon, driven along a country road, slowed up as it came upon an old Morris Oxford stationary by the hedge, with an elderly man standing over it.
The driver of the station wagon put out a head.
“Having trouble? Can I help?”
“Very good of you. It’s my lights.”
The two drivers approached each other—listened. “All clear.”
Various expensive American-style cases were transferred from the Morris Oxford to the station wagon.
A mile or two farther on, the station wagon turned off on what looked like a rough track but which presently turned out to be the back way to a large and opulent mansion. In what had been a stableyard, a big white Mercedes car was standing. The driver of the station wagon opened its boot with a key, transferred the cases to the boot, and drove away again in the station wagon.
In a nearby farmyard a cock crowed noisily.
Chapter Nine
I
Elvira Blake looked up at the sky, noted that it was a fine morning and went into a telephone box. She dialled Bridget’s number in Onslow Square. Satisfied by the response, she said:
“Hallo? Bridget?”
“Oh Elvira, is that you?” Bridget’s voice sounded agitated.
“Yes. Has everything been all right?”
“Oh no. It’s been awful. Your cousin, Mrs. Melford, rang up Mummy yesterday afternoon.”
“What, about me?”
“Yes. I thought I’d done it so well when I rang her up at lunchtime. But it seems she got worried about your teeth. Thought there might be something really wrong with them. Abscesses or something. So she rang up the dentist herself and found, of course, that you’d never been there at all. So then she rang up Mummy and unfortunately Mummy was right there by the telephone. So I couldn’t get there first. And naturally Mummy said she didn’t know anything about it, and that you certainly weren’t staying here. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did you do?”
“Pretended I knew nothing about it. I did say that I thought you’d said something about going to see some friends at Wimbledon.”
“Why Wimbledon?”
“It was the first place came into my head.”
Elvira sighed. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to cook up something. An old governess, perhaps, who lives at Wimbledon. All this fussing does make things so complicated. I hope Cousin Mildred doesn’t make a real fool of herself and ring up the police or something like that.”
“Are you going down there now?”
“Not till this evening. I’ve got a lot to do first.”
“You got to Ireland. Was it—all right?”
“I found out what I wanted to know.”
“You sound—sort of grim.”
“I’m feeling grim.”
“Can’t I help you, Elvira? Do anything?”
“Nobody can help me really…It’s a thing I have to do myself. I hoped something wasn’t true, but it is true. I don’t know quite what to do about it.”
“Are you in danger, Elvira?”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Bridget. I’ll have to be careful, that’s all. I’ll have to be very careful.”
“Then you are in danger.”
Elvira said after a moment’s pause, “I expect I’m just imagining things, that’s all.”
“Elvira, what are you going to do about that bracelet?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ve arranged to get some money from someone, so I can go and—what’s the word—redeem it. Then just take it back to Bollards.”
“D’you think they’ll be all right about it?—No, Mummy, it’s just the laundry. They say we never sent that sheet. Yes, Mummy, yes, I’ll tell the manageress. All right then.”
At the other end of the line Elvira grinned and put down the receiver. She opened her purse, sorted through her money, counted out the coins she needed and arranged them in front of her and proceeded to put through a call. When she got the number she wanted she put in the necessary coins, pressed Button A and spoke in a small rather breathless voice.
“Hallo, Cousin Mildred. Yes, it’s me…I’m terribly sorry…Yes, I know…well I was going to…yes it was dear old Maddy, you know our old Mademoiselle…yes I wrote a postcard, then I forgot to post it. It’s still in my pocket now…well, you see she was ill and there was no one to look after her and so I just stopped to see she was all right. Yes, I was going to Bridget’s but this changed things…I don’t understand about the message you got. Someone must have jumbled it up…Yes, I’ll explain it all to you when I get back…yes, this afternoon. No, I shall just wait and see the nurse who’s coming to look after old Maddy—well, not really a nurse. You know one of those—er—practical aid nurses or something like that. No, she would hate to go to hospital…But I am sorry, Cousin Mildred, I really am very, very sorry.” She put down the receiver and sighed in an exasperated manner. “If only,” she murmured to herself, “one didn’t have to tell so many lies to everybody.”
She came out of the telephone box, noting as she did so the big newspaper placards—BIG TRAIN ROBBERY. IRISH MAIL ATTACKED BY BANDITS.
II
Mr. Bollard was serving a customer when the shop door opened. He looked up to see the Honourable Elvira Blake entering.
“No,” she said to an assistant who came forward to her. “I’d rather wait until Mr. Bollard is free.”
Presently Mr. Bollard’s customer’s business was concluded and Elvira moved into the vacant place.
“Good morning, Mr. Bollard,” she said.
“I’m afraid your watch isn’t done quite as soon as this, Miss Elvira,” said Mr. Bollard.
“Oh, it’s not the watch,” said Elvira. “I’ve come to apologize. A dreadful thing happened.” She opened her bag and took out a small box. From it she extracted the sapphire and diamond bracelet. “You will remember when I came in with my watch to be repaired that I was looking at things for a Christmas present and there was an accident outside in the street. Somebody was run over I think, or nearly run over. I suppose I must have had the bracelet in my hand and put it into the pocket of my suit without thinking, although I only found it this morning. So I rushed along at once to bring it back. I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Bollard, I don’t know how I came to do such an idiotic thing.”
“Why, that’s quite all right, Miss Elvira,” said Mr. Bollard, slowly.
“I suppose you thought someone had stolen it,” said Elvira.
Her limpid blue eyes met him.
“We had discovered its loss,” said Mr. Bollard. “Thank you very much, Miss Elvira, for bringing it back so promptly.”
“I felt simply awful about it when I found it,” said Elvira. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Bollard, for being so nice about it.”
“A lot of strange mistakes do occur,” said Mr. Bollard. He smiled at her in an avuncular manner. “We won’t think of it anymore. But don’t do it again, though.” He laughed with the air of one making a genial little joke.
“Oh no,” said Elvira, “I shall be terribly careful in future.”
She smiled at him, turned and left the shop.
“Now I wonder,” said Mr. Bollard to himself, “I really do wonder….”
One of his partners, who had been standing near, moved nearer to him.
“So she did take it?” he said.
“Yes. She took it all right,” said Mr. Bollard.
“She brought it back,” agreed Mr. Bollard. “I didn’t actually expect that.”
“You mean you didn’t expect her to bring it back?”
“No, not if it was she who’d taken it.”
“Do you think her story is true?” his partner inquired curiously. “I mean, that she slipped it into her pocket by accident?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said Bollard, thoughtfully.
“Or it could be kleptomania, I suppose.”
“Or it could be kleptomania,” agreed Bollard. “It’s more likely that she took it on purpose…But if so, why did she bring it back so soon? It’s curious—”
“Just as well we didn’t notify the police. I admit I wanted to.”
“I know, I know. You haven’t got as much experience as I have. In this case, it was definitely better not.” He added softly to himself, “The thing’s interesting, though. Quite interesting. I wonder how old she is? Seventeen or eighteen I suppose. She might have got herself in a jam of some kind.”
“I thought you said she was rolling in money.”
“You may be an heiress and rolling in money,” said Bollard, “but at seventeen you can’t always get your hands on it. The funny thing is, you know, they keep heiresses much shorter of cash than they keep the more impecunious. It’s not always a good idea. Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever know the truth of it.”
He put the bracelet back in its place in the display case and shut down the lid.
Chapter Ten
The offices of Egerton, Forbes & Wilborough were in Bloomsbury, in one of those imposing and dignified squares which have as yet not felt the wind of change. Their brass plate was suitably worn down to illegibility. The firm had been going for over a hundred years and a good proportion of the landed gentry of England were their clients. There was no Forbes in the firm anymore and no Wilboroughs. Instead there were Atkinsons, father and son, and a Welsh Lloyd and a Scottish McAllister. There was, however, still an Egerton, descendant of the original Egerton. This particular Egerton was a man of fifty-two and he was adviser to several families which had in their day been advised by his grandfather, his uncle, and his father.
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