Arrest the Bishop?

by Peck,Winifred

  “If he were one it’s the office not the man who matters,” was Dick’s rapid verdict.

  “And suppose it’s this Chancellor in the end? Would his legal stuff be valid?”

  “Oh yes, in virtue of his office.”

  “And suppose, though mark you I doubt it, that Canon Wye had got hold of the stuff and stood up to preach to you before he went to the gallows?”

  “We’d still have respect for his office!”

  “Damned bureaucracy I call it!” puffed Mack. “Well, till to-morrow evening then. Send Soames here and then Staples! Heaven pity ’em if they’re not in yet!”

  “Telephone for you, Dick. From Scotland Yard.” Bobs gave the message in the doorway, glaring at Mack.

  “I’ll take it in your room if I may, Bobs!” Dick’s one idea was to escape alone, but he owed Bobs the relief of conversation first. “Just watch that Soames doesn’t listen in from the hall!”

  “Tell Tonks to find him and send him here first!” growled Mack.

  “That you, Dick?” (How cool, how detached, how carefree the lucky Herriot sounded on the telephone!) “That name’s just come in and I’m off on duty in a minute so here it is—Edward Kilkelly—yes, KILKELLY—Kilkelly. That all right? You all right? Your Bishop hasn’t murdered you yet? Good! So long!”

  Dick looked round sharply as Soames emerged from the Bishop’s room. “Just pulling down the curtains and making up the fire,” he volunteered, quite unnecessarily, and then darted down the servants’ passage in that eel-like way of his. Damn all the Palace extensions! The butler had clearly been listening in, and heard what was probably his own name, and certainly knew now of the width of Dick’s net around his past. Well, it couldn’t be helped! Tonks would presumably drag Soames from his pantry lair next: the policeman was escorting Staples across the hall to Mack now, and if ever a fellow wore the guise of a convicted criminal it was the poor little red-haired parson. There was Canon Wye rustling towards the stairs in his cassock on his way from Chapel, looking like a murderous saint or a saintly murderer. The Palace might be a Dartmoor convict gang as far as looks were concerned!

  Bobs at least did not look a criminal as he awaited Dick at the door of his room. But his pleasant boyish face was so pale and miserable that Dick forced himself to go in and begin the weary round of discussion again. It was only fair to give Bobs a complete picture of the situation, and there was some comfort in Bob’s reiteration, in such happy contrast with Mack’s, for: “He didn’t do it! He couldn’t have done it!” was his cry. Only as Dick’s voice died away Bobs suddenly burst out, in anguish. “Dick, why don’t you say more? You don’t think—?”

  “No, no, I don’t think of anything at all. I must get away for a bit, Bobs, or I’ll go mad! I’ll go out to my turret just for an hour—don’t stop me, like a good fellow.”

  “In the dark? Oh, all right! Soames has been mending the steps—went out there I noticed as soon as he saw the police car. And remember, Dick, the Bishop isn’t going to tell Mrs. Broome or Sue this story or the whole of it! He can’t help knowing Mack suspects him.”

  “Oh, my God!” groaned Dick, as he went out into the icy darkness and across the lawns as if pursued by fiends. The gale was getting up again: snow still lay in unexpected corners for the unwary, but without hesitation he plunged on through the ruins, and, missing the narrow path, crashed through the undergrowth to the summer parlour. As he lit a match at the bottom of the wooden steps he noticed that some work had evidently been done on them, for one board had been renewed. Still he walked up gingerly in the howling wind, let himself in and lit the candle which Soames had left. Thoughtful of the little wretch—and then Dick stopped suddenly. Wasn’t it rather odd that he had brought a half used candle? The Palace ménage under Mrs. Broome was not at all a home of carelessness or economy. Had Soames brought a used candle, or had he burnt one here before—last night or the night before?

  Dick threw himself down on the dumpy old schoolroom sofa, staring at the plaster walls in their flickering light, and the black narrow windows. He had got to think, and think hard. So many things had happened to-day, one on the top of each other, that he had not been able to sort anything out, and he must do it now. He must put aside all thought of the Bishop for the moment. A brief review was enough to reassure him that Mack’s case was weak, and any defending counsel would have no trouble in getting an acquittal if it got as far as that. What was it which he and Mack had missed altogether in their hurried discussion just now? Why, Judith, of course! Wasn’t it more than probable she was mixed up in it? But then if she had got at the Bishop’s morphia she could not have replaced it before the police were all over the house and the rooms guarded. Every one up to that point had heard only of a suspicion of suicide. And if she1 had taken it, surely her natural instinct would have been to hide it in her dressing-case—and Mack himself had searched that! Why should she have kept it at all? Why not throw it away? The answer to that might be, he supposed, that there is always difficulty in disposing of glass. It does not necessarily burn, its fragments may reappear. Why not throw it away in the ruins or among the bushes or shrubs, or dig it into the earth? Because apparently someone—whoever it was—wished to keep the remaining morphia tablets. That didn’t seem like Judith. It was her nature to give away everything or throw away everything, old clothes or jewellery, position, respectability or a good man’s love. And never certainly, even to defend herself, would she have replaced the morphia in the desk to incriminate her father.

  But someone had taken it and replaced it, if the Bishop’s story were true. Dick had read murder trials enough to realize that hardly any poisoners seemed able to part entirely with their chosen destroyer, or to dispose of it finally even if they tried. Well, it was no use going round and round in a cage like this. He would ring up Judith to-morrow, on the chance of her being at the bottom of it all—as she was indeed at the bottom of most of the trouble, and God pity poor Clive, and thanks be that Bobs had sighed for her in vain!

  Well, he must do something or he’d go mad, for by now fantastic images were beginning to form in his brain. Couldn’t Staples have got down in the night in spite of Parsons, (But how did he get hold of morphia?) No one had suspected Mrs. Broome from first to last? Why? Well, the answer to that was really Mrs. Broome herself, for by all accounts she was not Ulder’s last visitor. But if Judith had intervened for her father’s sake why not his wife, Sue, Bobs, Dick himself? Come, this was sheer lunacy! He must stop and turn his mind to Soames. Suppose the butler took the bag overnight and, alarmed by footsteps, scuttled to hide it in the disused drawing-room, because he felt it a safe temporary hiding-place, and then, suddenly discovered there, dropped it on to the jasmine bush. Next morning (or that night indeed) he had retrieved it and put it in the attics. Alarmed there again by Dick’s search he had brought it to the disused summer parlour, only to find, at Dick’s request, that this cache too was to be disturbed. Well, it was easy for Soames to pretend he had lost the key, easy to imagine that early this morning he had examined the bag here at leisure, and, despairing of keeping it, abstracted what contents he desired and burnt the bag itself. Dick could swear there were bits of burnt leather among those still warm embers this morning. But no! It didn’t work! Soames would never have taken the bag on Wednesday night while Ulder was still alive, and for all he knew would wake next morning to demand it. But then suppose—Dick gave a start—suppose Soames knew that Ulder would never wake again? But here again was a dead end. No one, and specially not that cringing little sneak thief, could murder Ulder for the sake of an old black bag containing a few toilet necessities! But did he know of the papers—did he murder Ulder so as to become heir to his trade of blackmail? Then why did he not abstract the papers and leave the bag? Had he reason to suppose there was something in the bag which he could not find at once and feared to destroy? But what, in Heaven’s name, could he hope for, when he had known nothing of Ulder as far as Dick could gauge; when he could not have foreseen Ulder’s
arrival, for no one had expected the parson; when he could not have heard Dr. Lee’s instruction about Ulder’s dose at any of his beloved key-holes, for Ulder’s door had been half open, Dick stood near it and saw no one in the passage at the time. Would Soames have dared, if he could have acquired the knowledge, to go from room to room while Mrs. Broome, servants and guests were all about the passages, collect the Chancellor’s bottle (which was now proved harmless!) and morphia from the Bishop’s room, which was so emphatically Doris’ province and forbidden ground to him? No, it didn’t make sense and yet! Every one knows when they work at a difficult jigsaw how they complain that some pieces must be missing, but in the end make a complete whole of the pieces before them all along. So the pieces of this jigsaw must all be here, if only Dick could fit them together. The room was growing very cold and the candle was burning low. It was not worth lighting the fire, for it was after seven o’clock now, and he could hardly retreat here after dinner. Unless he cut Chapel—for how could he think there among the tortured faces of Mack’s suspects? No, he must go back to the Palace now, and he must promise himself to turn away from all thoughts of the murder and possess his own soul, which was indeed in no state for the Ordination. But at one glance at the stove, to see if it was laid, all his detective instincts revived. It was laid but it had not been thoroughly cleared out. There were still ashes beneath paper and sticks. These last were removed in a minute, and Dick eagerly yet carefully poked among the debris below. Just ashes he was telling himself, nothing save ashes. And then, pulling out the iron of the stove, he felt a catch. There was something left, something which kept the damper from pulling out properly. Soames had probably not been thorough enough, in his haste over his holocaust this morning, to do more than rake out the embers above and below, leaving the iron in its place. Dick pulled very cautiously and drew out a crumpled, browned slip of card board with a red circular hole. A half was burnt, string was missing, but here clearly was a luggage label. He turned over the scrap with peering eyes to read:

  Rev. Th. Uld … Add

  In a moment he was up and stuffing the slip into his note case—no, safer still in that ticket pocket which tailors always make and no man ever uses. He hadn’t a moment to lose for he must catch Mack with this final proof of Soames’ theft before the police car left. He strode across and tugged at the door. It was abominably stiff and the wind blew out his candle at once, raging against him as if witches rode it to the rescue of Soames. But it gave at last, Dick pushed through it, and clattered out on to the steps impatiently. He had only taken one when there was a rending noise, the snapping of wood. His feet gave beneath him, the steps collapsed with a violent crack. And the crack was followed by a heavy thud, because Dick had fallen with the wreckage and lay stunned on the rough floor below.

  Dick was not unconscious for long, it appeared afterwards, though naturally he had no way of knowing what time had elapsed when he fought his way out of a confused dream in which his head was a bomb bursting in a snow field, being kicked about ignominiously by a soccer team. His head was in a drift all right, was his first conscious thought; snow had no doubt drifted into the turret with the wind, and softened his fall perhaps on the uneven stones, but it was cruelly cold. He tried to move himself very cautiously. Men who have played rugger all their youth, and spent their first manhood among the wounded on the fields of Flanders, come to assess their own injuries pretty accurately. His left ankle was hurting ferociously—a strain if not a break, probably. His left arm and shoulder were so badly bruised that they felt numb, but with luck it was bruises not breaks. Yes, he could just shift a little, so probably he’d be able to get up and drag himself back soon, but he’d give himself a few minutes more in spite of this confounded cold, before he faced the torture of the attempt. It was no use to shout for help probably: the Palace windows, twinkling with restored electricity to-night, seemed infinitely far away. Someone seemed to be closing shutters and curtains, so he did essay a shout, for the loss of those lights would somehow make everything worse, but no sound came. There was a chance, of course, that someone might have heard the crash when the staircase fell, but in stormy weather it was no unusual thing to hear the thud of a stone falling from a roof, or the collapse of an arch, and the crash might rouse no interest. No, he had just decided that he must make the attempt alone and was trying to roll to his comparatively unhurt left side when, to his infinite relief, he heard light footsteps and saw the flash of a torch. And then, relief changed at once into an almost sick apprehension, for the newcomer was Soames.

  Dick’s thoughts raced in his racking confused brain. In spite of his pain he recognized clearly that here was a chance to see what the butler’s intentions really were. Had Soames come, knowing nothing of Dick’s presence, to this hiding-hole of his, or had he heard the noise and come to give aid to one who was injured? Or was he hoping, having seen Dick’s destination, to find him involved in some accident and finish him off? At all risks he must find out, thought Dick. He would shut his eyes and keep quiet. If the butler tried any funny stuff over Dick’s prostrate form, well, here was his left arm as good as ever, ready with a punch which would knock the starveling out! But he had to confess that the moment in which Soames padded up to him and bent over his prostrate form was not among the most pleasant of his life. At least the butler wasn’t coming up behind with a blunt instrument to bang his head and finish the job! It was only very dubiously that he knelt down by Dick’s side and fumbled through his waistcoat to feel his heart: even in his pain and apprehension Dick nearly smiled when Soames proceeded to pull out his notecase from its pocket; for so clearly was the ex-thief considering if it was worth the risk of discovery to steal a parson’s slender store. With a sigh Soames replaced it. “Ah, that’s lucky, for I nearly put something in it just now, and what was it, what on earth was it?” groaned Dick to himself. He must be going mad or light-headed, he decided next minute, for surely he was not seeing Soames aright. What on earth was the fellow doing?

  He was apparently taking no further interest in Dick. He stood instead, staring at the broken steps, picked one up to examine it closely by his torch, and then began to hunt on the ground beneath, sweeping up the wreckage, as far as Dick could judge. But what on earth did that matter? Why was he throwing his light on a broken tread and regarding it with such satisfaction? Should Dick end this farce and startle the idiot by a sudden groan or question?

  And then Soames suddenly started and swung round violently, and as he turned Dick saw another torch flash in the butler’s face, heard light footsteps and a voice calling, and it was Sue’s voice.

  “Soames! What has happened? What was that noise. I was afraid there must have been an accident! Oh! Oh! Dick. Soames, is he hurt? What are you doing fiddling with those bits of wood? Are you mad? Oh, Dick!” Sue was sobbing in an agony of fear and fury. “Don’t you see Mr. Marlin lying here? Run to the house for help at once. Mr. Borderer! Mr. Parsons! A stretcher!”

  “You run, miss, and I’ll ’old his head up for him, and make him more comfy,” muttered Soames, with chattering teeth.

  “No!” Dick achieved speech at last with a great effort. “You stay, Sue!”

  “Oh Dick, you can speak!” Sue suddenly pulled herself together in a wholly commendable way. “You’re not dead! Are you terribly hurt? I can see you are! Look, here’s my coat under your poor wet head. No, don’t try to talk or tell me what’s happened!”

  Dick wanted to talk, for the shock and chill together were making him a little feverish, and his brain began to work with the clarity of a rising temperature. If only it wasn’t so difficult to think or see straight or speak at all. But he got out his demand at last.

  “Sue! Flash your torch on that step, will you? The step which Soames was looking at just now.”

  “Why on earth—oh, never mind!” Sue, true to her stoical principles about not asking questions, did as he asked. Light shone through the gathering mist in Dick’s brain as he stared. The outer ends of the step which ha
d broken into two halves showed the signs of ordinary fractured wood. But at the broken centre were marks clearly made by a crosscut saw, cut up to about an eighth of an inch from the upper surface. Now, too, he could see the little heap which Soames had swept together: they were not made of the splinters produced by an ordinary breakage, but of clear clean sawdust. Soames was a clever devil! Under pretence of mending the stairs he had framed these fractures on the under side of the top step, on the chance that the hasty tread of a heavy man would break it and precipitate the victim below. Well, that was the plot, and a pretty simple and effective one, but why was Soames trying to get rid of him? Why not Mack, Tonks, any one in authority? What did he think Dick knew which made him so desperate? The flowers? His absence? The attics? No, he had not seemed unduly upset then. It must be something which had happened to-day, something which Dick had done or said which Soames had overheard. At some keyhole or on the telephone? And then with a wave of sudden gathering force Dick began to understand. Soames had been in the old library when Dick was taking Herriot’s message in the hall. Not much of a message, just a name and what was the name? What was it?

  But before memory aided him again he and Sue saw lights and heard voices, and in the torture of being hoisted on to an amateur stretcher, Dick lost consciousness in good earnest.

  XIII

  SATURDAY MORNING

  “Well, lucky it’s not a successful murder this time!” These cheerful, if hardly tactful, words of Dr. Lee were the first to which Dick attached any importance. “You’re in luck! Slight concussion … you’ll be sick presently and feel much better! That’s a nasty sprain but I don’t think any of the ankle bones are broken. Shoulder hurt you most? They’re nasty bruises but no more. You’ve got to keep your bed till Monday, Dick, and I’ll expect to find you nicely put together by then!”