The Secret of Chimneys
“I hope you don’t suggest that Michael went to his rooms simply to
avoid seeing me?”
“Something of the kind,” admitted Anthony. “You see, if I’m right in
my idea that some one wanted to prevent your coming to Chimneys, the
reason seems to lie in your knowing Herzoslovakia. Do you realize that
you’re the only person here who knew Prince Michael by sight?”
“Do you mean that this man who was murdered was an impostor?” asked
Virginia abruptly.
“That is the possibility that crossed my mind. If you can get Lord
Caterham to show you the body, we can clear up that point at once.”
“He was shot at 11.45,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “The time mentioned
on that scrap of paper. The whole thing’s horribly mysterious.”
“That reminds me. Is that your window up there? The second from the end
over the Council Chamber?”
“No, my room is in the Elizabethan wing, the other side. Why?”
“Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a
shot, the light went up in that room.”
“How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by
asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”
“If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle
that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of
any kind that I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I
mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.”
“It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.
They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning
against it as they talked.
“And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about
on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American
visitors, and curious house-maids.”
“I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not
nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or
Jimmy McGrath?”
For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the
last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given
to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished
recognition of “Mr. Holmes.”
“By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for
imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of
yours.”
“Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose
I’d cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere
acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!”
She paused.
“Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on.
“That there’s some extra mystery about those Memoirs that we haven’t
fathomed yet.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one thing I’d like you
to tell me,” he continued.
“What’s that?”
“Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy
McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?”
“I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you
know—came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully
silly things. His idea was that I should come down here and make
myself agreeable to this man McGrath and Delilah the Memoirs out of
him somehow. He didn’t put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of
nonsense about English gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real
meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten
thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too
much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived
a child of two.”
“Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony.
“Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being
agreeable to me.”
“But, alas, for poor old George, no Memoirs! Now I’ve got a question
for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew
I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?”
“Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working
knowledge of psychology.”
“You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was
such that——”
But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.
“Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You
might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie
down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared
stiff. You’d have fought.”
“I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It
makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked
at last.
“What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”
“It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”
“I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at
Chimneys. Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the
coincidence of the name if she had.”
“Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to
disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.”
“She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia.
“Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who
wrote those letters deliberately used your name.”
“But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?”
“Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out
about everything.”
“Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The
Comrades of the Red Hand?”
“I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied
voice. “Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.”
“Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle
strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely
whether the dead man is Michael or not.”
Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord
Caterham and his daughter.
“Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice. “Battle has
insulted the cook, I expect.”
“This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.”
Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed
a remark to Virginia as though he had not been there.
“Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do
it?’ says she enviously.”
“You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.”
She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm
and they moved off together.
“Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?”
“Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I gurgle—like the running
brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.”
“As for instance?”
“Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?”
He pointed to it as he spoke.
“What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me
greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French
governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and
Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next
one, Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and
died. Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.”
“Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been
with you?”
“Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.”
“Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.”
“I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland
Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world,
you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder
in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character
was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a
murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the
Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?”
“What” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. Its two occupants
were a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller
and younger man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the
former, and guessed that it was he—rather than the vehicle which
contained him—that had wrung the exclamation of astonishment from his
companion’s lips.
“Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron
Lollipop.”
“Baron what?”
“I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name
tends to harden the arteries.”
“It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So
that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this
afternoon—and I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his
own dirty work, say I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving
you, Mr. Cade, but I must stand by poor old Father.”
Bundle retreated rapidly to the house.
Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully
lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy
sound quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound
seemed to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed
to him was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze.
“Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said
Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.”
Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just
blown out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the
boat-house.
He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and
was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light
coloured overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed
black beard and a slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and
forty years of age, and altogether of a most respectable appearance.
“What are you doing here?” asked Anthony.
He was pretty certain that the man was not one of Lord Caterham’s
guests.
“I ask your pardon,” said the stranger, with a marked foreign accent
and what was meant to be an engaging smile. “It is that I wish to
return to the _Jolly Crickets_, and I have lost my way. Would Monsieur
be so good as to direct me?”
“Certainly,” said Anthony. “But you don’t go there by water, you know.”
“Eh?” said the stranger, with the air of one at a loss.
“I said,” repeated Anthony, with a meaning glance at the boat-house,
“that you won’t get there by water. There’s a right of way across the
park—some distance away, but all this is the private part. You’re
trespassing.”
“I am most sorry,” said the stranger. “I lost my direction entirely. I
thought I would come up here and inquire.”
Anthony refrained from pointing out that kneeling behind a boat-house
was a somewhat peculiar manner of prosecuting inquiries. He took the
stranger kindly by the arm.
“You go this way,” he said. “Right round the lake and straight on—you
can’t miss the path. When you get on it, turn to the left, and it will
lead you to the village. You’re staying at the _Cricketers_, I suppose?”
“I am, monsieur. Since this morning. Many thanks for your kindness in
directing me.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Anthony. “I hope you haven’t caught cold.”
“Eh?” said the stranger.
“From kneeling on the damp ground, I mean,” explained Anthony. “I
fancied I heard you sneezing.”
“I may have sneezed,” admitted the other.
“Quite so,” said Anthony. “But you shouldn’t suppress a sneeze, you
know. One of the most eminent doctors said so only the other day.
It’s frightfully dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what it does to
you—whether it’s an inhibition or whether it hardens your arteries,
but you must never do it. Good morning.”
“Good morning, and thank you, monsieur, for setting me on the right
road.”
“Second suspicious stranger from village inn,” murmured Anthony to
himself, as he watched the other’s retreating form. “And one that I
can’t quite place, either. Appearance that of a French commercial
traveller. I don’t quite see him as a Comrade of the Red Hand. Does he