mantelpiece.
Mr Philips drew a long breath. “Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up—are in fact, of such a nature as to— Upon my word, I never thought—But the murder! You discovered this, sir?”
“I discovered Brandon’s body,” corrected Sir Richard. “How came you to do this, sir? You had a suspicion? You—”
“None at all. It was a warm evening, and I stepped out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight. Chance alone led my footsteps to the wood where I found my unfortunate young friend’s body. It is only since making that melancholy discovery that I have pieced together the—er—evidence.”
Mr Philips had a hazy idea that chance had played an over-important part in Sir Richard’s adventures, but he was aware that the punch he had drunk had slightly clouded his intellect. He said guardedly: “Sir, the story you have unfolded is of a nature which—in short, it must be carefully sifted. Yes, indeed. Carefully sifted! I must request you not to remove from this neighbourhood until I have had time—pray do not misunderstand me! There is not the least suggestion, I assure you, of—”
“My dear sir, I don’t misunderstand you, and I have no intention of removing from this inn,” said Sir Richard soothingly. “I am aware that you have, so far, only my word for it that I am indeed Richard Wyndham.”
“Oh, as to that, I am sure—no suggestion of disbelieving—But my duty is prescribed! You will appreciate my position, I am persuaded!”
“Perfectly!” said Sir Richard. “I shall hold myself wholly at your disposal. You, as a man of the world, will, I am assured, appreciate the need of the exercise of—ah—the most delicate discretion in handling this affair.”
Mr Philips, who had once spent three weeks in London, was flattered to think that the imprint of that short sojourn was pronounced enough to be discernible to such a personage as Beau Wyndham, and swelled with pride. Native caution, however, warned him that his investigation had better be postponed to a more sober moment. He rose to his feet with careful dignity, and set his empty glass down on the table. “I am obliged to you!” he pronounced. “I shall wait upon you to-morrow—no, to-day! I must consider this affair. A terrible business! I think one may say, a terrible business!”
Sir Richard agreed to this, and after a meticulous exchange of courtesies, Mr Philips took his leave. Sir Richard snuffed the candles, and went up to bed, not dissatisfied with his night’s work.
In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with a gentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: “Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!”
Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.
He did not. He said: “Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shocking crime, were you not, young man?”
“Well, not precisely,” said Pen.
“Oh? How is that?”
“I was, and I wasn’t,” Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. “I didn’t see the body.”
“No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?”
“Well, sir, there was an owl,” confided Pen unblushingly.
“Come, come! An
“Yes: my cousin said that too.”
“Said what?”
“Come, come! He is not interested in bird-life.”
“Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?”
“Yes, and also I like to watch birds.”
Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. “Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so you were not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?”
“No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.”
“I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,” said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.
Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. “If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?”
Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. “A young person?” she repeated.
“Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.”
“Oh!” said Pen. “Oh, very well! Thank you!”
She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to —“Wyndham Esq.,” and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.
It was plain that Miss Daubenay had written this missive in considerable agitation. Greatly intrigued, Pen enquired the way to Major Daubenay’s house of a baker’s boy, and set off down the dusty road.
By the time she had reached the appointed rendezvous it was half-past eight, and Miss Daubenay was pacing up and down impatiently. A thick, high hedge shut the orchard off from sight of the house, and a low wall enclosed it from the road. Pen climbed on to this without much difficulty, and was greeted by an instant accusation: “Oh, you are so late! I have been waiting ages!”
“Well, I am sorry, but I came as soon as I had read your letter,” said Pen, jumping down into the orchard. “Why do you wish to see me?”
Miss Daubenay wrung her hands, and uttered in tense accents: “Everything has gone awry. I am quite distracted! I don’t know what to do!”
Pen betrayed no particular solicitude at this moving speech, but critically looked Miss Daubenay over.
She was a pretty child, about the same age as Pen herself, but shorter, and much plumper. She had a profusion of nut-brown ringlets, a pair of fawn-like brown eyes, and a soft rosebud of a mouth. She was dressed in a white muslin dress, high-waisted, and frilled about the ankles, and with a great many-pale-blue bows of ribbon with long fluttering ends. She raised her melting eyes to Pen’s face, and breathed: “Can I trust you?”
Miss Creed was a literal-minded female, and instead of responding with promptness and true chivalry, she replied cautiously: “Well, probably you can, but I am not sure till I know what it is that you want.”
Miss Daubenay seemed a little daunted for a moment, and said in a soft moan: “I am in such a taking! I have been very, very silly!”
Pen found no difficulty in believing this. She said: “Well, don’t stand there wringing your hands! Let us sit down under that tree.”
Lydia looked doubtful. “Will it not be damp?”
“No, of course not! Besides, what if it were?”
