The Secret of Chimneys
“He is.”
“It’s no good looking at Virginia,” said Bundle sharply.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. I don’t know how she does it. It isn’t what she says, I
don’t even believe it’s what she looks. But, oh, boy! she gets there
every time. Anyway, she’s on duty elsewhere for the time. She told
me to be nice to you, and I’m going to be nice to you—by force if
necessary.”
“No force required,” Anthony assured her. “But, if it’s all the same to
you, I’d rather you were nice to me on the water, in a boat.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Bundle meditatively.
They strolled down to the lake together.
“There’s just one question I’d like to ask you,” said Anthony as
he paddled gently out from the shore, “before we turn to really
interesting topics. Business before pleasure.”
“Whose bedroom do you want to know about now?” asked Bundle with weary
patience.
“Nobody’s bedroom for the moment. But I would like to know where you
got your French governess from.”
“The man’s bewitched,” said Bundle. “I got her from an Agency, and I
pay her a hundred pounds a year, and her Christian name is Genevieve.
Anything more you want to know?”
“We’ll assume the Agency,” said Anthony. “What about her references?”
“Oh, glowing! She’d lived for ten years with the Countess of What Not.”
“What Not being——?”
“The Comtesses de Breteuil, Chateau de Breteuil, Dinard.”
“You didn’t actually see the Comtesse yourself? It was all done by
letter?”
“Exactly.”
“H’m!” said Anthony.
“You intrigue me,” said Bundle. “You intrigue me enormously. Is it love
or crime?”
“Probably sheer idiocy on my part. Let’s forget it.”
“‘Let’s forget it,’ said he negligently, having extracted all the
information he wants. Mr. Cade, who do you suspect? I rather suspect
Virginia as being the most unlikely person. Or possibly Bill.”
“What about you?”
“Member of the aristocracy joins in secret the Comrades of the Red
Hand. It would create a sensation all right.”
Anthony laughed. He liked Bundle, though he was a little afraid of the
shrewd penetration of her sharp grey eyes.
“You must be proud of all this,” he said suddenly, waving his hand
towards the great house in the distance.
Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.
“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway,
we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and
Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys
has been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week
they take the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come
and gape, and listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of
the fourth Marchioness of Caterham, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,’
etc., and Ed or Bert, the humorist of the party, nudges his girl and
says ‘Eh! Gladys, they’ve got two pennyworth of pictures here, right
enough.’ And then they go and look at more pictures and yawn and
shuffle their feet and wish it was time to go home.”
“Yet history has been made here once or twice, by all accounts.”
“You’ve been listening to George,” said Bundle sharply. “That’s the
kind of thing he’s always saying.”
But Anthony had raised himself on his elbow, and was staring at the
shore.
“Is that a third suspicious stranger I see standing disconsolately by
the boat-house? Or is it one of the house party?”
Bundle lifted her head from the scarlet cushion.
“It’s Bill,” she said.
“He seems to be looking for something.”
“He’s probably looking for me,” said Bundle, without enthusiasm.
“Shall we row quickly in the opposite direction?”
“That’s quite the right answer, but it should be delivered with more
enthusiasm.”
“I shall row with double vigour after that rebuke.”
“Not at all,” said Bundle. “I have my pride. Row me to where that young
ass is waiting. Somebody’s got to look after him, I suppose. Virginia
must have given him the slip. One of these days, inconceivable as it
seems, I might want to marry George, so I might as well practise being
‘one of our well known political hostesses.’”
Anthony pulled obediently towards the shore.
“And what’s to become of me, I should like to know?” he complained.
“I refuse to be the unwanted third. Is that the children I see in the
distance?”
“Yes. Be careful, or they’ll rope you in.”
“I’m rather fond of children,” said Anthony. “I might teach them some
nice quiet intellectual game.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Having relinquished Bundle to the care of her gallant captain, Anthony
strolled off to where various shrill cries disturbed the peace of the
afternoon. He was received with acclamation.
“Are you any good at playing Red Indians?” asked Guggle sternly.
“Rather,” said Anthony. “You should hear the noise I make when I’m
being scalped. Like this.” He illustrated.
“Not so bad,” said Winkle grudgingly. “Now do the scalper’s yell.”
Anthony obliged with a blood-curdling noise. In another minute the game
of Red Indians was in full swing.
About an hour later, Anthony wiped his forehead, and ventured to
inquire after Mademoiselle’s _migraine_. He was pleased to hear that
that lady had entirely recovered. So popular had he become that he was
urgently invited to come and have tea in the schoolroom.
“And then you can tell us about the man you saw hung,” urged Guggle.
“Did you say you’d got a bit of the rope with you?” asked Winkle.
“It’s in my suit-case,” said Anthony solemnly. “You shall each have a
piece of it.”
Winkle immediately let out a Wild Indian yell of satisfaction.
“We’ll have to go and get washed, I suppose,” said Guggle gloomily.
“You will come to tea, won’t you? You won’t forget?”
Anthony swore solemnly that nothing should prevent his keeping the
engagement. Satisfied, the youthful pair beat a retreat towards the
house. Anthony stood for a minute looking after them, and, as he did
so, he became aware of a man leaving the other side of a little copse
of trees and hurrying away across the park. He felt almost sure that it
was the same black-bearded stranger he had encountered that morning.
Whilst he was hesitating whether to go after him or not the trees just
ahead of him were parted and Mr. Hiram Fish stepped out into the open.
He stared slightly when he saw Anthony.
“A peaceful afternoon, Mr. Fish?” inquired the latter.
“I thank you, yes.”
Mr. Fish did not look as peaceful as usual, however. His face was
flushed, and he was breathing hard as though he had been running. He
drew out his watch and consulted it.
“I guess,” he said softly, “it’s just about time for your British
institution of afternoon tea.”
Closing his watch with a snap, Mr. Fish ambled gently away in the
direction of the house.
Anthony stood in a brown study and awoke with a start to the fact that
Superintendent Battle was standing beside him. Not the faintest sound
had heralded his approach, and he seemed literally to have materialized
from space.
“Where did you spring from?” asked Anthony irritably.
With a slight jerk of his head, Battle indicated the little copse of
trees behind them.
“It seems a popular spot this afternoon,” remarked Anthony.
“You were very lost in thought, Mr. Cade?”
“I was indeed. Do you know what I was doing, Battle? I was trying to
put two and one and five and three together so as to make four. And it
can’t be done, Battle, it simply can’t be done.”
“There’s difficulties that way,” agreed the detective.
“But you’re just the man I wanted to see. Battle, I want to go away.
Can it be done?”
True to his creed, Superintendent Battle showed neither emotion nor
surprise. His reply was easy and matter of fact.
“That depends, sir, as to where you want to go.”
“I’ll tell you exactly, Battle. I’ll lay my cards upon the table.
I want to go to Dinard, to the Chateau of Madame la Comtesse de
Breteuil. Can it be done?”
“When do you want to go, Mr. Cade?”
“Say to-morrow after the inquest. I could be back here by Sunday
evening.”
“I see,” said the superintendent, with peculiar solidity.
“Well, what about it?”
“I’ve no objection, provided you go where you say you’re going, and
come straight back here.”
“You’re a man in a thousand, Battle. Either you have taken an
extraordinary fancy to me or else you’re extraordinarily deep. Which is
it?”
Superintendent Battle smiled a little, but did not answer.
“Well, well,” said Anthony, “I expect you’ll take your precautions.
Discreet minions of the law will follow my suspicious footsteps. So be
it. But I do wish I knew what it was all about.”
“I don’t get you, Mr. Cade.”
“The Memoirs—what all the fuss is about. Were they only Memoirs? Or
have you got something up your sleeve?”
Battle smiled again.
“Take it like this. I’m doing you a favour because you’ve made a
favourable impression on me, Mr. Cade. I’d like you to work in with
me over this case. The amateur and the professional, they go well
together. The one has the intimacy, so to speak, and the other the
experience.”
“Well,” said Anthony slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always
wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.”
“Any ideas about the case at all, Mr. Cade?”
“Plenty of them,” said Anthony. “But they’re mostly questions.”
“As, for instance?”
“Who steps into the murdered Michael’s shoes? It seems to me that that
is important?”
A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.
“I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicolas Obolovitch is
the next heir—first cousin of this gentleman.”
“And where is he at the present moment?” asked Anthony, turning away
to light a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I
shan’t believe you.”
“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until
quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.”
Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.
“I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas
by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to
obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their
candidate—now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the
part of Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall
Street. Am I right?”
“You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle.
“H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were
doing in that copse.”
The detective smiled, but made no reply.
“International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I
fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.”
He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified
Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door
and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.
Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to
be introduced to Mademoiselle.
For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a
small, middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper and salt hair, and
a budding moustache!
As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture
at all.
“I believe,” said Anthony to himself, “I’m making the most utter fool
of myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.”
He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part,
was evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her
schoolroom. The meal was a great success.
But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been
allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times.
“I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong.
Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.”
He stopped in his pacing of the floor.
“What the devil——” began Anthony.
The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped