Collected works of j s f.., p.227
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 227
However, when I left the train — specially stopped for my benefit — at the little roadside station of Elmford, I found myself greeted by what most people would call the beau-ideal of a youthful country squire. The duke was a sandy-haired, fresh-coloured, tallish young man, dressed in a well-worn tweed suit, an old cap, and stout boots; he carried an ash-plant stick, and was attended by two business-like fox-terriers. His hand was as big and strong as a blacksmith’s, and his smile ready and kindly. But I saw at once that he was greatly troubled in mind about something, and that he would be uncommonly glad to make me his father-confessor.
“It is awfully good of you to come down at such short notice, Mr. Campenhaye,” said his Grace, gripping my hand. “I’m much obliged to you. Now, as it’s such a delightful evening, and there’s lots of time before dinner, perhaps you won’t mind if we walk home across the park? Then — then I can talk to you quietly. There’s a dog-cart outside for your luggage,” he added. “Can you manage a two-mile walk?”
I laughingly replied that I was equal to a ten-mile walk if he wished it, and we presently crossed the road and, passing through a small lodge, entered a park which spread away as far as the eye could reach, and was remarkable at first sight for its ancient oaks and spreading beeches, beneath which a vast quantity of deer and cattle moved slowly in the afternoon sunshine. Far away in the remote distance, I caught a glimpse of high gables; that, I supposed to be the house. It was a fair and eminently English prospect, and one to be proud of.
“Mr. Campenhaye,” said the duke, as we set out across the park, “I have heard of you as a man in whom the fullest confidence can be reposed. That is why I sent for you. I am face to face with a very great trouble.”
“If your Grace will be good enough to confide in me,” I said, “I think you will not regret it. Let me hear everything. That is the only stipulation I make with all my clients.”
“Oh, yes!” he answered. “Yes, of course, I shall tell you everything. Let me begin at the beginning. I may as well say, Mr. Campenhaye, that I have no great love for London in spring and summer, and that I prefer this to anything London can give me. That is why I am here during the season. But I am not a hermit, and now and then I gather small parties of friends round me. I have just had one such party staying with me, and out of that the trouble has arisen. I must give you the names of the people. There was, and is, my aunt, Lady Louisa Ashe, who has acted as hostess; then Professor Ridsdale, of Oxford, and his wife; then Colonel Polkard, with whom I was travelling last year in Patagonia; my cousin, Horace Dalrymple — he and I were at school and college together — and my friends, Mrs. Duquesne and Miss Manning.”
I noticed that he gave me some indication of who or what all the members of this house-party were, with the exception of the last-named two ladies; I also observed that he spoke their names with some hesitation.
“And who,” I asked, “are Mrs. Duquesne and Miss Manning?”
Before replying he drew out a cigar-case and offered it to me. He took out a cigar himself when I had got one, and as he lighted it I saw that his fingers trembled a little.
“Mrs. Duquesne,” he answered, “is the widow of Stephen Duquesne, the famous Orientalist. I knew them well before his death.”
“I have heard of him,” said I. “How old is Mrs. Duquesne?”
“I should think about twenty-seven,” he replied; “but really I do not know.”
“And Miss Manning is — —” I enquired.
“The daughter of my old tutor at Oxford, now dead,” he answered. “She is only a girl — nineteen.”
“Proceed, if your Grace pleases,” I said.
“I suppose I had better go straight to the heart of the matter now,” he said, with evident reluctance. “Well, Mrs. Duquesne is the possessor of some famous jewels which her husband collected in the East. Amongst them is a very fine opal, set in diamonds, in a ring. I had often seen it; none of my guests had, because Mrs. Duquesne never wears it, believing it to be unlucky. One night — ten days ago, to be precise — I happened to mention it at dinner; later on, Mrs. Duquesne showed it to all of us. The next afternoon she came to me and told me that the ring had been stolen from her jewel-case. She had placed it in its usual place, in her maid’s presence, on retiring the previous night; having occasion to look in the jewel-case next day, she found that it had disappeared.”
I made no comment, and the duke, having walked a little way in silence, resumed his story.
“I dare say you have had this sort of thing brought before your notice a good many times, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said. “I never had until then, and I was very much upset. I did not know what to do. Before I could do anything, Mrs. Duquesne took action. She communicated that very night with the authorities of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah!” I said, “sending them, no doubt, a full description of the ring.”
“Just so,” replied the duke, looking at me as if he were a little surprised that I should think of that. “She did; and the result was that the Scotland Yard people found that the ring had been pledged that very morning, at half-past ten o’clock, with a firm named Leiter & Nott, who are, I understand, very well-known pawnbrokers in London.”
“Quite so,” I said. “And by whom had the ring been pledged?”
We were just then in a very lonely part of the park, but the duke looked around him and lowered his voice, as if he were afraid of even the red deer hearing what he was about to say.
“It had been pledged,” he replied, “by Arthur Manning — the brother of Miss Manning, of whom I have spoken. And — I am to tell you the whole ugly truth, Mr. Campenhaye — it had been sent to Arthur Manning by his sister, by registered post, the previous night, from our local post office. There, Mr. Campenhaye, that is the truth — and my trouble!”
I stopped and regarded him searchingly. He met my gaze with steady, grief-stricken eyes.
“Why,” I said at last, “why is it your Grace’s particular trouble?”
He threw out one hand with an instinctive gesture and his face flushed. “Why?” he exclaimed. “Why, because I love Miss Manning with my whole heart, and unless she is cleared of this I shall never know a moment’s happiness in life! That’s why, Mr. Campenhaye, that’s why?”
The duke was so obviously moved that I refrained from asking him more at the moment. We walked some little distance in silence; at last he resumed the subject himself.
“I had better finish the wretched story up to this present time, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said. “The officer who had been placed in charge of the matter by the Scotland Yard authorities communicated at once with Arthur Manning, who is a subaltern in one of the Guards regiments, and in consequence of this they both came down to Saxonstowe immediately to see Miss Manning. Now, I beg you to observe, Mr. Campenhaye, that both Manning and his sister have been most candid, most straightforward, most anxious to keep nothing back. They have told all they could. Their story is this: A few days before the disappearance of the opal ring, Arthur Manning — who is only a boy — lost more money at cards than he could afford to pay, for he and his sister are by no means well off. He was very much upset about this, and he wrote to Stella — to Miss Manning. Miss Manning possesses a valuable diamond ring — which was quite recently left to her by a distant relative. Anxious to help her brother out of his difficulties, she sent him this ring, and told him to raise sufficient money on it to pay his debts. Arthur Manning received, not that ring, but Mrs. Duquesne’s ring — —”
“Pardon me,” I said, interrupting him. “Did Mr. Manning know that his sister’s ring was set with diamonds?”
“No,” replied the duke, “he did not; more’s the pity! He knew that a valuable ring had been bequeathed to his sister, but did not know whether it was of diamonds, pearls, or what. In her letter to him, Miss Manning merely said that she sent him Mrs. Trevarthen’s ring, and begged him to pledge it in such a way that he and she could redeem it between them. He, finding an opal ring in the registered packet which his sister sent him, naturally concluded that it was the ring to which she referred.”
“Quite so,” said I. “Your Grace has more to tell me yet?”
“Yes,” he replied, with a sigh, “there is more. All this came out before my aunt, Lady Louisa Ashe, and Mrs. Duquesne. I am sorry to say that Mrs. Duquesne took a very strong line. She immediately accused Miss Manning of having stolen her ring. It then turned out that Mrs. Duquesne had been conducting some investigations on her own part, and that she had found that one of the maids had seen Miss Manning enter Mrs. Duquesne’s room during the afternoon on which the ring was stolen. At that time Mrs. Duquesne and the other ladies of the house-party were all on the lawn, playing croquet. She had also discovered that Miss Manning had taken the trouble to walk to Saxonstowe village to register her packet; our usual plan with such things is to hand them to the postman, who calls at six o’clock. And Mrs. Duquesne was, I am sorry to say, indignant, and perhaps somewhat unreasonable.”
“What followed?” I asked.
The duke shook his head sorrowfully.
“What I should like to forget,” he answered, “and what I want you to clear up. Miss Manning — who had acknowledged that she went into Mrs. Duquesne’s room to fetch a book which had been promised to her, and stayed there several minutes because she could not readily find it — protested that the ring which she sent to her brother was her own. Mrs. Duquesne thereupon dared her to produce the case in which Miss Manning usually kept the ring — dared her, I mean, to send for it there and then, and open it before us without previous interference from herself. Miss Manning accepted this challenge at once.”
“Readily? Without demur?” I asked.
“With the utmost readiness, with the greatest alacrity!” replied the duke. “At her special request, I fetched her jewel-case myself, and opened it with a key which she handed to me. ‘It is impossible that the ring which Mrs. Trevarthen left me should be there,’ she said, ‘because I posted it to Arthur myself.’ But on opening the case, Mrs. Trevarthen’s ring was there!”
“Just so,” said I. “Now, what did Miss Manning say or do?”
“She was naturally much distressed,” he answered. “She protested most emphatically that she had placed Mrs. Trevarthen’s ring in a cardboard box packed with cotton wool, and had sent it with a covering letter to her brother. How it came about that it was found in her own jewel-case, and that Mrs. Duquesne’s ring was delivered to Arthur Manning, she could not explain. And that, Mr. Campenhaye, is all. Do you see any gleam of light; do you?”
“Patience! Patience!” I said. “It is early yet. I suppose Mrs. Duquesne did not give Miss Manning in charge?”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed the duke. “No, indeed! The man from Scotland Yard went back to London, and Arthur Manning took his sister to the vicarage at Saxonstowe — the vicar and his wife are old friends of the family. They are both there now — Arthur has got short leave.”
“And nothing has happened to enlighten you?” I said.
“Nothing,” he replied dolefully. “Nothing! That is why I wired for you, Mr. Campenhaye. Something must be done. It is impossible that Stella Manning could have done this thing — impossible! I have wondered?”
“Yes?” I said encouragingly.
“I have wondered if by any possible chance the rings could have become exchanged the night that Mrs. Duquesne exhibited hers?” he said. “It seems hardly likely, seeing that one was an opal ring, the other a diamond. And yet I cannot think of any other theory — and — —”
“Oh, we may have half a dozen theories yet!” I said, smiling. “Now, I want your Grace to tell me a few things before we reach the house. The Mannings are at Saxonstowe Vicarage, where I will call upon them this evening. Where is Mrs. Duquesne?”
“She is still here,” answered the duke, glancing towards the house, which was by now in sight.
“Oh!” I said. “And the rest of the house-party?”
“My aunt, of course is still here,” he said. “But the Ridsdales and Colonel Folkard are gone. My cousin, Mr. Dalrymple, is here yet.”
“Now for some questions of a more personal nature,” I said. “Your Grace has treated me with your confidence as regards your affection for Miss Manning. That, I suppose, is quite a secret matter?”
“Oh, quite, quite!” he replied hurriedly.
“Yet your liking for Miss Manning may have been made evident,” I remarked. “Women are naturally very sharp-eyed and sharp-eared in those matters. Now, I want to ask your Grace frankly — do you think Mrs. Duquesne has a prejudice against Miss Manning?”
The duke stopped and stared at me hard. I recognised then that he was a very simple-minded young man, and quite guileless.
“But why should she, Mr. Campenhaye?” he asked.
I shook my head and smiled.
“Mrs. Duquesne is a young and doubtless a charming woman,” I said.
“She is certainly charming — and beautiful,” he acknowledged. “And, of course, she is young.”
“Mrs. Duquesne may aspire to the rank of a duchess?” I said.
The duke flushed as hotly as any schoolgirl.
“Oh, no, no!” he exclaimed. “I — I do not think — surely you do not mean to suggest, Mr. Campenhaye, that — —”
“I don’t mean to suggest anything at present,” I answered, and as we were just then entering the gardens, I began to talk about the cultivation of roses, and endeavoured to take my companion’s thoughts away from the theft of the ring. On that matter I had already formed what I called a possible theory, of which I was going to say nothing — just then, at any rate.
The duke himself took me to the rooms which had been prepared for me, and later presented me to his aunt. Lady Louisa Ashe was a well-preserved lady of between fifty and sixty, who was palpably dubious as to how she ought to treat me — whether as a superior policeman or a professor of legerdemain. Finding that I was quite an ordinary person, who moved and spoke like all other persons, she became easier in her manner and gave me a cup of tea.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you that Helena had flown!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning to the duke.
“Helena! Flown?” he said. “Where and when?”
“A telegram came for her soon after you set off to meet Mr. Campenhaye,” replied Lady Louisa. “Somebody wanted her that instant in town. So she looked out the trains and motored to Nottingham. She was sorry to go off so hurriedly.”
“Hum!” said the duke. “Lady Louisa is speaking of Mrs. Duquesne,” he added, turning to me. “It’s a pity she has gone so suddenly. By the by, that is a photograph of her — a very good one.”
But I had already seen it. And I had some notion that the flight of Mrs. Duquesne from the ducal roof was not unconnected with the fact of my arrival, for I had recognised the photograph as that of a lady with whom I was acquainted. Only — I did not know her as Mrs. Duquesne.
There was very little to do at Saxonstowe Park in respect to the theft of Mrs. Duquesne’s opal ring. While the daylight lasted, I examined the room from which the ring had been taken, and had a conversation with the maid who had seen Miss Manning enter it in Mrs. Duquesne’s absence. There was not much to be gained from her or from staring at the room; I was much more interested in the thought of interviewing Miss Manning and her brother. And after dinner the duke took me across the park by a short cut which led to the vicarage garden. There he left me, thinking it best that I should see the young people by themselves; but it needed little observation to see that he would have been very glad to enter the vicarage with me.
The duke had previously sent over a note to advise Miss Manning and her brother of my coming, and I was at once taken to them in the vicar’s study, which the good man had kindly given up for our conference. I had never had any thought of the young lady as a guilty party; if I had, any such thought would have been dispelled as soon as I set eyes on her. She was a handsome, healthy, English girl, with clear, honest eyes, a firm grip of the hand, and a ready confidence which was almost childish — about as likely to steal other women’s fallals as she was to write a book on Greek verbs. As for the brother, he was the typical subaltern, reminiscent yet of Sandhurst, and trying hard to give himself the bearing and firmness of a man. They both looked very troubled and very shy, and were evidently awestruck at the notion of interviewing and being interviewed by the great Paul Campenhaye — who was not quite so clever, perhaps, as they thought him.
“Now, Miss Manning,” I said in my cheeriest manner, as soon as we had all sat down, “the first thing for you to do is for you to keep up your spirits. I have heard all about this business, and, of course, I am sure you did not take Mrs. Duquesne’s ring. Equally, of course, the Duke of Saxonstowe doesn’t think so, either, and never did.”
The girl’s face flushed, and I saw a very suspicious moisture start into her eyes. The boy flushed, too, and his lips were compressed for a moment.
