The Secret of Chimneys/Chapter 23
Chapter XXIII
Encounter in the
Rose Garden
AT 2.30 a little party met together in the Council Chamber: Bundle, Virginia, Superintendent Battle, M. Lemoine and Anthony Cade.
“No good waiting until we can get hold of Mr. Lomax,” said Battle. “This is the kind of business one wants to get on with quickly.”
“If you’ve got any idea that Prince Michael was murdered by some one who got in this way, you’re wrong,” said Bundle. “It can’t be done. The other end’s blocked completely.”
“There is no question of that, milady,” said Lemoine quickly. “It is quite a different search that we make.”
“Looking for something, are you?” asked Bundle quickly. “Not the historic what-not, by any chance?”
Lemoine looked puzzled.
“Explain yourself, Bundle,” said Virginia encouragingly. “You can when you try.”
“The thingummybob,” said Bundle. “The historic diamond of purple princes that was pinched in the dark ages before I grew to years of discretion.”
“Who told you this, Lady Eileen?” asked Battle.
“I’ve always known. One of the footmen told me when I was twelve years old.”
“A footman,” said Battle. “Lord! I’d like Mr. Lomax to have heard that!”
“Is it one of George’s closely guarded secrets?” asked Bundle. “How perfectly screaming! I never really thought it was true. George always was an ass—he must know that servants always know everything.”
She went across to the Holbein portrait, touched a spring concealed somewhere at the side of it, and immediately, with a creaking noise, a section of the panelling swung inward, revealing a dark opening.
“Entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames,” said Bundle dramatically. “Walk up, walk up, dearies. Best show of the season, and only a tanner.”
Both Lemoine and Battle were provided with torches. They entered the dark aperture first, the others close on their heels.
“Air’s nice and fresh,” remarked Battle. “Must be ventilated somehow.”
He walked on ahead. The floor was of rough uneven stone, but the walls were bricked. As Bundle had said, the passage extended for a bare hundred yards. Then it came to an abrupt end with a heap of fallen masonry. Battle satisfied himself that there was no way of egress beyond, and then spoke over his shoulder.
“We’ll go back, if you please. I wanted just to spy out the land, so to speak.”
In a few minutes they were back again at the panelled entrance.
“We’ll start from here,” said Battle. “Seven straight, eight left, three right. Take the first as paces.”
He paced seven steps carefully, and bending down examined the ground.
“About right, I should fancy. At one time or another, there’s been a chalk mark made here. Now then, eight left. That’s not paces, the passage is only wide enough to go Indian file anyway.”
“Say it in bricks,” suggested Anthony.
“Quite right, Mr. Cade. Eight bricks from the bottom or the top on the left-hand side. Try from the bottom first—it’s easier.”
He counted up eight bricks.
“Now three to the right of that. One, two, three—HulloHullo, what’s this?”
“I shall scream in a minute,” said Bundle, “I know I shall. What is it?”
Superintendent Battle was working at the brick with the point of his knife. His practised eye had quickly seen that this particular brick was different from the rest. A minute or two’s work, and he was able to pull it right out. Behind was a small dark cavity. Battle thrust in his hand.
Every one waited in breathless expectancy.
Battle drew out his hand again.
He uttered an exclamation of surprise and anger.
The others crowded round and stared uncomprehendingly at the three articles he held. For a moment it seemed as though their eyes must have deceived them.
A card of small pearl buttons, a square of coarse knitting and a piece of paper on which were inscribed a row of capital E’s!
“Well,” said Battle. “I’m—I’m danged! What’s the meaning of this?”
“Mon Dieu,” muttered the Frenchman. “Ça, c’est un peu trop fort!”
“But what does it mean?” cried Virginia, bewildered.
“Mean?” said Anthony. “There’s only one thing it can mean. The late Count Stylptitch must have had a sense of humour! This is an example of that humour. I may say that I don’t consider it particularly funny myself.”
“Do you mind explaining your meaning a little more clearly, sir?” said Superintendent Battle.
“Certainly. This was the Count’s little joke. He must have suspected that his memorandum had been read. When the crooks came to recover the jewel, they were to find instead this extremely clever conundrum. It’s the sort of thing you pin on to yourself at Book Teas, when people have to guess what you are.”
“It has a meaning, then?”
“I should say, undoubtedly. If the Count had meant to be merely offensive, he would have put a placard with ‘Sold’ on it, or a picture of a donkey or something crude like that.”
“A bit of knitting, some capital E’s, and a lot of buttons,” muttered Battle discontentedly.
“C’est inoui,” said Lemoine angrily.
“Cipher No. 2,” said Anthony. “I wonder whether Professor Wynward would be any good at this one?”
“When was this passage last used, milady?” asked the Frenchman of Bundle.
Bundle reflected.
“I don’t believe anyone’s been into it for over two years. The Priest’s Hole is the show exhibit for Americans and tourists generally.”
“Curious,” murmured the Frenchman.
“Why curious?”
Lemoine stooped and picked up a small object from the floor.
“Because of this,” he said. “This match has not lain here for two years—not even for two days.”
Battle looked at the match curiously. It was of pink wood, with a yellow head.
“Any of you ladies or gentlemen drop this, by any chance?” he asked.
He received a negative all round.
“Well, then,” said Superintendent Battle, “we’ve seen all there is to see. We might as well get out of here.”
The proposal was assented to by all. The panel had swung to, but Bundle showed them how it was fastened from the inside. She unlatched it, swung it noiselessly open, and sprang through the opening, alighting in the Council Chamber with a resounding thud.
“Damn!” said Lord Caterham, springing up from an armchair in which he appeared to have been taking forty winks. “Poor old father,” said Bundle. “Did I startle you?”
“I can’t think,” said Lord Caterham, “why nobody nowadays ever sits still after a meal. It’s a lost art. God knows Chimneys is big enough, but even here there doesn’t seem to be a single room where I can be sure of a little peace. Good Lord, how many of you are there? Reminds me of the Pantomimes I used to go to as a boy when hordes of demons used to pop up out of trap-doors.”
“Demon No. 7,” said Virginia, approaching him, and patting him on the head. “Don’t be cross. We're just exploring secret passages, that’s all.”
“There seems to be a positive boom in secret passages to-day,” grumbled Lord Caterham, not yet completely mollified. “I’ve had to show that fellow Fish round them all this morning.”
“When was that?” asked Battle quickly.
“Just before lunch. It seems he’d heard of the one in here. I showed him that, and then took him up to the White Gallery, and we finished up with the Priest’s Hole. But his enthusiasm was waning by that time. He looked bored to death. But I made him go through with it.” Lord Caterham chuckled at the remembrance.
Anthony put a hand on Lemoine’s arm.
“Come outside,” he said softly. “I want to speak to you.”
The two men went out together through the window. When they had gone a sufficient distance from the house, Anthony drew from his pocket the scrap of paper that Boris had given him that morning.
“Look here,” he said. “Did you drop this?”
Lemoine took it and examined it with some interest.
“No,” he said. ‘I have never seen it before. Why?”
“Quite sure?”
“Absolutely sure, Monsieur.”
“That’s very odd.”
He repeated to Lemoine what Boris had said. The other listened with close attention.
“No, I did not drop it. You say he found it in that clump of trees?”
“Well, I assumed so, but he did not actually say so.”
“It is just possible that it might have fluttered out of M. Isaacstein’s suit-case. Question Boris again.” He handed the paper back to Anthony. After a minute or two he said: “What exactly do you know of this man Boris?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“I understood he was the late Prince Michael’s trusted servant.”
“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask some one who knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but a few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows? King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant at a moment’s notice.”
“Do you really think”
Lemoine interrupted him.
“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking to me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”
“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”
“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed. Nothing else matters.”
“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.
“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”
But the superintendent did not smile.
“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.
“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables. Why?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”
“About me?”
Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap note-paper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words:
“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”
Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.
“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.”
He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at the floor.
“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be done about it. It’s all damned awkward…”
He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.
“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”
He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.
Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.
“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony gently.
“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”
They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their opponents’ strength.
“So am I”, said Anthony.
“Is that so?”
“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.
A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips, and at the same time Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.
“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stopping to point out a particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over-sensitive, perhaps, but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now”
Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of a first-floor window.
“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”
Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.
“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have you?”
Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed back the box with a word of thanks.
“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly horticultural this afternoon.”
With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.
A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.
“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked Anthony. “There, off she goes.”
They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.
Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.
He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the windows on the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he knew, had to make a big détour by the lodge gates, and through the village.
He ran desperately. It was a race against time. He reached the park wall just as he heard the car outside. He swung himself up and dropped into the road.
“Hi!” cried Anthony.
In her astonishment, Bundle swerved half across the road. She managed to pull up without accident. Anthony ran after the car, opened the door, and jumped in beside Bundle.
“I’m coming to London with you,” he said. “I meant to all along.”
“Extraordinary person,” said Bundle. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Only a match,” said Anthony.
He regarded it thoughtfully. It was pink, with a yellow head. He threw away his unlighted cigarette, and put the match carefully into his pocket.