“Yes, that makes the thing as clear as daylight, so far. I hope Marryatt makes good time. Look how slow we’ve been on the murderer’s tracks; we’ve given him two full days already.”
“By the way,” said Gordon, “I’ve just remembered—Thursday’s early closing day at Binver.”
IX
The Animated Picture
“Well,” said Reeves impatiently, as Marryatt came, rather late, into the dining-room, “did you find out?”
“Yes, I went round to Campbell’s—”
“But it’s early closing day.”
“Yes, only … only Campbell was open, for some reason. He made no difficulty about identifying the portrait or about giving me the address. When he told me the name and address I remembered quite a lot about her.”
“Who is she, then?”
“Her name is Miss Rendall-Smith. Her father, old Canon Rendall-Smith, was Rector of Binver for a long time, a learned old man, I believe, but rather a bore. He died some years before the war—I should think it would be about 1910, and left her very badly off; she left the neighbourhood then—that was just before I came. Some time during the early part of the war she came back, apparently in much better circumstances, for she took that old brick house with the white window-frames that stands next the Church and looks as if it was the Rectory but isn’t. She lives there still; she did a good deal of public work during the war, subscriptions and things, but I never actually came across her. She’s a fine-looking woman still, Campbell told me—by the way, there was no reticence about Campbell. He showed me a more recent portrait of her which he was very proud of, and told me he thought it was a pity a lady like that didn’t marry. Altogether, we seem to have struck a public character, and a very good woman, by all that’s said of her.”
“H’m,” said Reeves, “and Brotherhood kept a portrait of her—or rather, Brotherhood in his capacity as Davenant kept a portrait of her, and took it away with him when he meant to leave these parts for a bit. It seems to me she ought to be able to tell us something about him.”
“Good Lord!” said Marryatt, “you aren’t going to introduce yourself to her as the Daily Mail reporter? Hang it all, it’s one thing to take in Mrs. Bramston—”
“And another thing to take in Miss Rendall-Smith, because she’s a lady? I’m afraid that seems to me mere sentimentalism.”
“What I meant was, if you present yourself to Miss Rendall-Smith as a reporter, she’ll turn you out of the house.”
“Ye‑es. There’s something in that. But then, I wouldn’t say I’d come from the Daily Mail; I’d say I’d come from the County Herald, and that I was commissioned to do a write-up of Brotherhood as a prominent local personage.”
“But how,” objected Carmichael, “would you explain the fact that you were coming to her? Remember, it isn’t certain that she knew Brotherhood at all, that is, in his own person. You see it was not to Brotherhood but to Davenant that she gave the photograph. And natural enough—if I had been in that position, I would sooner have gone courting as Davenant than as Brotherhood.”
“I could simply pretend I was coming to her as to one of the oldest residents.”
“Tactful Openings, Number One,” suggested Gordon, crumbling his bread. “No, Reeves, it won’t do. I’d like to see you dressed up as a reporter again, because I think there’s something very fetching about it. But I don’t believe that even in that disguise you will win the heart of a mature female. You’ll have to think out some other dodge.”
“I suppose you’d like me to burgle her house while she’s out,” said Reeves, with unnecessary irritation.
“But you don’t want to see her house,” objected the literal-minded Gordon, “you want to see her.”
“Very well, then,” said Reeves, “I shall go and tell her the truth. At least, I shall tell her that we’re investigating Brotherhood’s murder, and that this portrait of her was found on the body. I shall urge her to tell me if she knows of any enemies that Brotherhood had, any secrets which might throw light upon his end.”
“That’s far the best principle,” agreed Gordon. “Always tell the truth, and people will never believe you.”
“Why shouldn’t she believe me?”
“No reason in the world; only as a matter of fact she won’t. It’s rather a satire on humanity, but I’ve always found that the safest way to conceal a fact is to state it quite baldly. Then people always think you’re pulling their legs, or being sarcastic, and the secret is preserved.”
“You’re a sceptical old Sadducee. I don’t believe a woman like this would have such a low view of humanity.”
“Like what?”
“Like the portrait.”
“Are you falling in love with her already? Marryatt, it seems to me, between funerals and marriages, you’re going to be a busy man.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Reeves. “I don’t know anything about women, except that some of them are so ugly I recognize them when I meet them in the street. This clearly isn’t one of them. But I have trained myself to judge faces a bit, and this looks to me like the face of a woman who’s straight herself and expects others to be straight with her.”
“Let’s have another look,” urged Gordon. Marryatt produced the photograph, and it was passed round once more. “I dare say you’re right,” admitted Gordon. “The curious thing to me is that a good-looking woman like that who’s not actually a beauty—not classic features, I mean—should look so deadly serious when she’s having her photograph taken. I should have thought even Mr. Campbell would have had the sense to make a little photographer’s joke; or at least tell her to moisten her lips.”
“You’re right,” said Carmichael. “The look is a very serious one; but I believe a portrait is all the better for that—as a portrait, I mean. Have you ever thought what an advantage the historians
