Crow's Inn Tragedy Read online

  Then for the first time Cecily’s self-possession really deserted her.

  “No, no! You must not!” she cried feverishly. “Tony, you must not—you do not know what harm—what terrible harm you might do if you did. Promise me—promise me you will not!” She caught at his arm with trembling hands, as though to stop his threatened action by actual physical force. If ever fear had looked out of human eyes, stark, tragic fear, Anthony saw it then as he met her terrified gaze.

  Some shadow of it communicated itself to him. He felt suddenly cold, his face turned a sickly grey beneath its tan. In that moment he realized fully that he was up against some very real and tangible obstacle that stood definitely between Cecily and himself.

  “Cecily!” he said hoarsely. “Cecily!”

  The girl looked at him a moment, her lips twitching; then, as if coming to some sudden resolution, she bent forward and whispered a few words in his ear.

  As he heard them he started back.

  “What do you say, Cecily? That you—that you know— But you are mad—mad!”

  “Hush!” the girl looked round fearfully. “No, I am not mad, Anthony,” she said beneath her breath. “God knows I often wish I were.”

  Then Anthony looked at her.

  “Cecily! I can’t believe it. You didn’t—” she questioned beneath her breath.

  “Did you never suspect—that?”

  “Never! Before Heaven, never! How should I? It is inconceivable! But the horrible danger—” His eyes voiced the dread he dared not put into words, and with a stifled cry the girl turned from him.

  Tony took off his hat and wiped away the sweat that was standing in great drops on his forehead.

  “It—it isn’t possible! Cecily!” he murmured hoarsely. “It—it is a lie!”

  “I—I wish it was!” the girl said beneath her breath. “Oh, Tony, Tony, I wish it was all a dream—a dreadful horrible dream. Last night I woke and thought it was, and then I remembered. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She shivered from head to foot. “I wish I were dead—oh, I wish I were dead!”

  Anthony mopped his forehead again. “In God’s name what are we to do?”

  Cecily’s mouth twisted in something like a wry smile.

  “It is not ‘we’ Tony. It never will be ‘we’ again. And I—I cannot tell what I shall do yet. I must stay at the Residence of course until the police—” She stopped, her throat working. “Until I am free to go away,” she finished forlornly. “Then—then God knows what will become of me! I—I expect I shall live out of England if—if I can.”

  “Yes,” said Anthony slowly. “Yes. But that will not be for ever. We are both young, and we can wait. And some day I will come and fetch you home again.”

  “No, no!” The horror in the girl’s eyes deepened. “Won’t you understand, Tony? I shall never come back. I shall never be safe. From to-day I shall be dead to you! But—but wait, Tony. Sometimes I do not think that I shall get away—that I shall escape. For everywhere they follow me. Always I know that I am being watched. They will never let me go away. It is like a cat playing with a mouse. Just when the poor little mouse thinks at last it is safe, the blow falls. Even to-day—to-day— Oh, Tony, look!” As she spoke, she sprang to her feet.

  Anthony turned. At first sight there seemed nothing to account for her agitation—just a very ordinary-looking man coming towards them from the direction of the Broad Walk.

  But as Tony looked he caught his breath sharply.

  Cecily did not wait for him to speak.

  “Stop him! Stop him!” she cried feverishly. “Don’t let him come after me. Keep him here until I have got away!”

  She sped down the path towards Lancaster Gate.

  Anthony went forward to meet the new-comer.

  “Good morning, Mr. Steadman,” he said, endeavouring to make his voice sound as natural as possible.

  “Good morning, Tony.” John Steadman shook hands with him warmly, his keen eyes taking in all the tokens of disturbance on the young man’s face. “I am afraid my appearance is rather inopportune,” he went on. “Isn’t that your young woman beating a hasty retreat down there?” In the distance Cecily’s scurrying figure could plainly be seen.

  “Yes, she is in a hurry,” Anthony said lamely.

  “Obviously!” The barrister smiled. “But I am glad to have this opportunity of seeing you, Tony. I have been hoping to meet you.”

  Mindful of Cecily’s parting injunction Tony turned to the seat behind.

  “Have a cigarette, sir?”

  The barrister shook his head as he glanced at the open cigarette case.

  “De Reszke! No, thanks! You are a bit too extravagant for me, young man! I always smoke gaspers myself.” He sat down and took out his own case. “You of course don’t condescend to Gold Flake,” he went on. “I am rather glad of this opportunity of having a chat with you, Tony.”

  Tony lighted his cigarette and threw the match away before he spoke, then he turned and looked John Steadman squarely in the face.

  “I dare say you are, Mr. Steadman. So is your friend, Inspector Furnival, whenever I meet him, I notice.”

  The barrister paused in the act of lighting his match.

  “You mean—?”

  “I mean that, if folks think I murdered my uncle, I would just as soon they said so straight out, as come poking around asking questions and trying to trap me,” Anthony retorted bitterly.

  John Steadman finished lighting his cigarette and blew a couple of spirals in the clear air before he spoke, then he said slowly:

  “The thought that you murdered your Uncle Luke is about the last that would enter my head, Tony. No. What I wanted to ask you was, does that job of yours stand—bear-leader to the young brother of a friend of yours, I mean. The last time I saw you, you spoke as if it were off.”

  “So it is!” Anthony returned moodily. “People don’t want a man who is as good as accused of murdering his own uncle to look after their children. I might strangle the kid if he got tiresome.”

  The barrister paid no attention to this outburst.

  “Then I think I heard of something yesterday that may suit you. A friend of mine has a son who was frightfully injured in the War. Both his legs have been amputated and one wrist is practically helpless. Now he wants some one to act as his secretary, for he has taken to writing novels; passes the time for him, you know, and folks need not read them if they don’t want to.”

  “It is very good of you to think of me,” Anthony said gratefully. “But I don’t know that I should make much hand at secretarial work. And probably he wouldn’t look at me if he knew.”

  “He does know,” contradicted John Steadman. “And he is quite anxious to have you. It won’t be all secretarial work, though you will be called a secretary. But you will be wanted to motor with him, to go with him to race meetings; he is a great motoring enthusiast—keeps two touring cars. Before the War he was one of our finest amateur jockeys, and they say he never misses a meeting under N.H. rules now. I believe he even has a couple of hurdlers at one of the big trainers. You will have to go with him wherever he wants you. How does it strike you?”

  “The question is, how shall I strike him?” Tony countered. “Will he think he is safe with me?”

  “Tony, my lad, you must not get morbid,” reproved the barrister. “My friends know all about your connection with the Bechcombes, and are quite prepared to take you on my recommendation. You would not be required to live in, and there is a nice little cottage on the estate near the house that will be placed at your disposal. Your salary will be good, and with what your uncle left you will make matrimony quite possible. Now what do you say?”

  “Say? What can I say but take it and be thankful,” Tony responded, trying to make his tones sound as grateful as he could. “Would it be far from town—this cottage?”

  “Oh, not far!” the barrister said at once. “At Bramley Hall, near Burford, in the New Forest. It is young Bramley, Sir John’s eldest son, you are wanted for.�
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  “Bramley Hall,” Tony repeated musingly. “I seem to know the name. Wasn’t there a burglary there a little while ago?”

  “About eighteen months ago,” the barrister assented. “The house was practically cleared of valuables in one night. Even Sir John’s safe, which he had deemed impregnable, was rifled. Oh, yes, it made quite a stir. It was said to be the work of this Yellow Gang that folks are always talking about, you know.”

  CHAPTER XII

  “I guess you are Inspector Furnival, sir.”

  The inspector, with Mr. Steadman, was just about to enter New Scotland Yard. He glanced keenly at his interlocutor. He saw a tall, lantern-jawed, lean-shanked man who seemed in some indescribable way to carry Yankee writ large all over him.

  The detective’s face cleared.

  “Why, certainly, I am William Furnival, sir.”

  “And you are in charge Of the Bechcombe case?”

  “Well, I may say I am,” the inspector agreed. “And I think you are Mr. Cyril B. Carnthwacke.”

  “Sure thing. And no reason to be ashamed of my name either,” the other said truculently, rather as if he expected the inspector to challenge his statement.

  The inspector, however, was looking his blandest.

  “The name of Cyril B. Carnthwacke is one to conjure with not only in your own country but in ours,” he said politely. “Did you wish to speak to me, sir?”

  “I did, very particularly,” responded Mr. Carnthwacke. “But”—with a glance at Mr. Steadman—“this gentleman?”

  “Mr. Steadman, sir, the late Mr. Bechcombe’s cousin, and at one time one of the best-known criminal lawyers practising at the bar. He has been kind enough to place his experience at our disposal in this most perplexing case. Will you come into my office, Mr. Carnthwacke?”

  “Sure thing, we can’t stand out in the street,” responded the millionaire.

  The inspector led the way to his private room and then clearing a lot of papers from the nearest chair set it forward.

  Mr. Carnthwacke sat down with a word of thanks. John Steadman took up his position with his back to the fireplace, the inspector dropped into his revolving chair and looked at his visitor.

  “I am at your service, sir.”

  Cyril B. Carnthwacke settled himself in his chair and looked back.

  “I guess you two gentlemen know pretty well what has brought me here. Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke is at home laid up in bed with the worry of the past few days. I calculate she isn’t exactly the stuff criminals are made of. So here I have come in her place for a straight talk face to face. She has told me all about her doings on the day Luke F. Bechcombe was murdered. And she told me that she had been to you on the same subject. So I guess you fairly well know what I have come to talk about.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carnthwacke did come to us,” the inspector assented. “It would have been wiser to have come earlier.”

  “Sure thing it would,” agreed Mr. Carnthwacke. “But women an’t the wisest of creatures, even if they are not scared out of their wits as Mrs. Carnthwacke was when she realized that she was the ‘lady of the glove,’ that every news sheet in the kingdom was making such a clamour about.”

  “Perhaps it was a good thing for her that she was,” remarked the inspector enigmatically.

  Cyril Carnthwacke stared at him.

  “I don’t comprehend. I wasn’t aware you dealt in conundrums, inspector.”

  “No,” the inspector said as he opened a drawer and began to rummage in it. “Ah, here we are! This is the report of the expert in finger-prints and it shows that it was impossible for the fingers that fitted into this glove to have made the prints on Mr. Bechcombe’s throat. They were much too small.”

  “I grasp your meaning.” Mr. Carnthwacke sat back in his chair and put his elbows on the arms, joining the tips of his fingers together and surveying them with much interest. “But I reckon I didn’t need this corroboration. My wife’s word is the goods for me. I guess you gentlemen have tumbled to it that it is to make some inquiries about the diamonds that I have come butting in this morning.”

  The inspector bowed. “I thought it quite likely.”

  “Now, I have made certain that by your laws as well as ours the late Mr. Bechcombe’s estate is liable for the value of Mrs. Carnthwacke’s jewels since he gave my wife a receipt for them, which I believe is held by you gentlemen now,” the American said speaking with a strong nasal accent.

  Again the inspector nodded his assent.

  “Certainly it is. What do you suppose to be the value of the diamonds, Mr. Carnthwacke?”

  “Wal, I couldn’t figure it off in a minute,” the millionaire said in a considering tone. “But a good many thousands of dollars anyway. I did not buy them all at once, but picked up a few good ones when I got a chance. Thought to myself diamonds were always an investment. The gem of the whole lot was the necklace; it was part of the Russian crown jewels and had been worn by the ill-fated Czarina herself. But anyhow I guess my wife’s diamonds were pretty well known in London and they were valuable enough to excite the cupidity of this gang of criminals that have been so busy about London of late. You see, I suppose, that it was in order to get them that they broke in to Mr. Bechcombe’s office and strangled him.”

  John Steadman raised his eyebrows as he looked across at the inspector. That worthy coughed.

  “You are rather jumping to conclusions, it seems to me, Mr. Carnthwacke. In the first place Mr. Bechcombe’s office was not broken into. The murderer, whoever he might have been, entered in the usual fashion and apparently in no way alarmed Mr. Bechcombe. In fact all the indications go to prove that the assassin was some one known to Mr. Bechcombe.”

  “I don’t figure that out.” Cyril B. Carnthwacke hunched his shoulders and looked obstinate. “I will take what odds you like that my wife was followed and that, unable to get what he wanted without, the thief strangled Mr. Bechcombe and walked off with the diamonds.”

  “The diamonds certainly provide a very adequate motive,” John Steadman said slowly, taking part in the conversation for the first time. “But there are some very weak points in your story, Mr. Carnthwacke. You must remember that the rubber gloves worn by the assassin as well as the chloroform used seem to prove conclusively that the murder was planned beforehand.”

  There was a pause.

  “That may be, but I don’t see that it precludes the motive being the theft of my wife’s diamonds,” said Mr. Cyril B. Carnthwacke truculently.

  “You spoke of Mrs. Carnthwacke’s being followed, and of the ‘follower’ assaulting Mr. Bechcombe and strangling him in the struggle. That rather suggests an accidental discovery of Mrs. Carnthwacke’s errand to me,” John Steadman hazarded mildly.

  “It doesn’t suggest anything of the kind to me,” the American contradicted obstinately. “Of course somebody had discovered my wife’s errand, what it was and what time she was to be there, and followed her there for the express purpose of getting them.”

  “I should have thought it would have been easier to snatch them from Mrs. Carnthwacke than to get them from Mr. Bechcombe,” John Steadman went on, his eyes watching every change of expression in the other’s face.

  “You wouldn’t have if you had heard the strength of Mrs. Carnthwacke’s lungs,” Mr. Carnthwacke contradicted. “It would have been devilish difficult to get the diamonds from her. She only left the car at the archway, too, and she carried the jewels concealed beneath her coat. It would have been a bold thief who would have attacked her, crossing that bit of a square in front or coming up the steps to the office. No. It was a wiser plan to wait and take them from Mr. Bechcombe.”

  “I don’t think so, and I think you are wrong,” John Steadman dissented. “The most probable thing would have been for Mr. Bechcombe to have deposited the diamonds in the safe while Mrs. Carnthwacke was there. That he did not do so is one of the minor puzzles of the case. I cannot understand why he should put them in the cupboard pointed out by Mrs. Carnthwac
ke, and why he should call it his safe I cannot imagine. He might almost have intended to make things easy for the thief.”

  “I wonder whether he did,” Cyril B. Carnthwacke said very deliberately.

  His words had all the force of a bombshell. The other two men stared at him in amazement.

  “I do not understand you,” John Steadman said at last, his tone haughty in its repressive surprise.

  But Cyril B. Carnthwacke was not to be easily repressed.

  “Wal, I reckoned I might as well mention the idea—which is an idea that has occurred to more than me. But then I didn’t want to put up the dander of you two gentlemen, and you in particular”—with a polite inclination in the direction of Mr. Steadman—“being a cousin of the late Mr. Bechcombe. But I was at a man’s dinner last night, and it was pretty freely canvassed. It is hinted that Mr. Bechcombe might have been in difficulties in his accounts—I understand that there are pretty considerable deficiencies in his balance. And though they are all put down by the police to that clerk that can’t be found—well, doesn’t it pretty well jump to your eye that the late Mr. Bechcombe himself knew all about them, and that it might have suited his book to have my wife’s jewels stolen, perhaps by a confederate—the clerk Thompson or another—”

  “And arranged to get himself murdered to get suspicion thrown off himself?” Mr. Steadman inquired satirically as the other paused for breath.

  “No, not that exactly, though I guess he was pretty slick,” returned Mr. Cyril B. Carnthwacke equably. “But I am inclined to size it up that the two had a quarrel and that the other one killed Mr. Bechcombe.”

  “Are you indeed?” questioned John Steadman, a glitter in his eye that would have warned his juniors that the old man was going to be nasty. But the K.C. had rarely lost his temper so completely as to-day. “I can tell you at once that your idea is nothing but a lie—a lie, moreover, that has its foundation in your own foul imagination!” he said very deliberately. “Luke Bechcombe was the soul of honour. I would answer for him as I would for myself.”