“You’re sure?” Anthony asked.
“Well, it isn’t mine, it didn’t belong to John, it isn’t Diggle’s—he was questioned by the police, you know—and it certainly isn’t the chauffeur’s.”
“Humph!” Anthony seemed annoyed.
They walked on to the gate in silence. Anthony nodded an adieu and set off down the white, dusty road with his long horseman’s stride.
XV
Anthony’s Busy Day
I
He covered the distance to the village in a time creditable for so hot a day. As he passed the Bear and Key, a knot of men stopped their conversation to eye him with thirsty interest. He smelt reporter and passed by, giving silent thanks to the efficiency of Boyd. Now that the case seemed, to the public at least, as good as over, there was no real danger; but had the news-hungry hordes been let loose at first to overrun Abbotshall, Heaven alone knew how impossible things would have been.
For the case of the murdered minister had seized violently on public imagination. It was so like, so very like, the books the public had read yesterday, were reading today, and would read tomorrow and tomorrow. Great Britain (and Ireland) was divided now into two camps—pro and anti-Deacon. The antis had a vast majority. Many of them held that to waste time on a trial which would be purely formal was disgraceful. The wretch, they said, should be hanged at once. Not a few were convinced that hanging was too merciful. It was all very funny, really, thought Anthony, and wished he could laugh. But whenever he tried to realise how funny it was, he thought of Deacon, and then found that it wasn’t funny at all, but rather terrible.
On this morning, though, he was at least on the road to high spirits, and walked on down the twisting, cobbled street towards the police-station, whistling beneath his breath. The whistle bewailed the cruel death of Cock Robin.
Still whistling, he ran up the steps of the police-station. As he passed through the doorway the whistling stopped, cut off in the middle of a bar. He stepped to one side, away from the door. Coming towards it were Lucia Lemesurier and her sister.
Neither at once saw Anthony. Then, with a gracious smile to officialdom, Lucia turned and looked full at him. He raised his hat and looked grim. He didn’t mean to look grim; he was merely trying to behave well in a police-station to a lady he loved and had offended. Lucia flushed and bowed coldly and walked down the steps. She hadn’t meant to do any of these things; but the man did look so forbidding. “Conceited idiot!” she said to herself, referring to Anthony and not meaning it in the least.
“Hell!” said Anthony under his breath, and went rather white.
Dora Masterson held out her hand. “Good morning,” she said, and looked curiously at him.
From somewhere he dragged out a smile.
“Morning. Feeling better?”
She beamed at him. “Oh, ever so much! Archie seems so—so exactly as if everything was the same as usual. He’s wonderful! And I haven’t forgotten what you said about miracles. You will do one, won’t you?” With another smile she ran down the steps and after her sister. She had scented an intriguing mystery in the behaviour of these two.
Anthony emerged from thought to find the inspector looking at him with barely veiled curiosity. He essayed a cheerful manner. Perhaps the inspector would be so good as to let him see Mr. Deacon. If the inspector remembered, Superintendent Boyd—
In less than two minutes he was alone with the prisoner.
Deacon put down the book he was reading.
“Hallo-allo! More visitors for the condemned man. Good job you’re early. I believe they’re moving me to the county clink about eleven.”
Anthony sat down upon the bed. “How are you?” he said. He said it to gain time. His thoughts, once so carefully ordered, had been thrown into much confusion. That bow had been so extremely distant.
“To tell you the truth,” Deacon said slowly and heavily, “I feel absolutely rotten! It’s beginning to get on my nerves—all this!” He made a sweeping gesture. “It—I feel—” He broke off and laughed. “Fan-tods won’t do any good, will they? And it’s only what I might have expected. Nurse always told me my middle name was Crippen.”
Admiration and sympathy cleared Anthony’s head. “When’s the magistrate’s court?” he asked abruptly.
“The balloon, I believe, goes up at 10 a.m. the day after tomorrow.”
Anthony muttered: “Day after tomorrow, eh? Well, it may,” and relapsed into silence.
Deacon half rose, then sat down again. “After you left me last night,” he said, after a pause, “I had a visit from Crabbe—the solicitor Digby-Coates got. We had a long talk, and he’s going to prime Marshall, who’s going to come and see me tomorrow himself. So all the legal business is fixed up.”
“Good,” said Anthony. “What I came for this morning was to ask you two questions. Are you ready?”
“Aye ready!”
“Have you any money? Beside the salary you got from Hoode, I mean.”
“About two hundred and fifty a year,” said Deacon. “When Cousin James dies of port it’ll be about three thousand.”
“That’s good. You made that point with the solicitor, I hope. It tends to destroy that insane theft theory.”
“I told the bloke all right. But it won’t count much, I’m afraid. You see, I’ve been awfully broke for quite a time now. One thing and another, you know. However!” He shrugged.
Anthony said: “Now the second question. And it’s really important! Think carefully before you answer. When recently—say within the last week—have you had in your hands any implement of any kind with a wooden handle four inches long and about three and a half round? Think, man, think!”
