‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.
‘Wool gathering, weren’t you?’
‘Three bags full,’ said Mr Parker Pyne enigmatically.
They talked of other matters.
That evening, by the light of a small oil lamp, Mr Parker Pyne wrote a letter. He hesitated a good deal over its composition. Yet in the end it was very simple:
Mr Parker Pyne presents his compliments to Lady Esther Carr and begs to state that he is staying at the Hotel Fars for the next three days should she wish to consult him.
He enclosed a cutting–the famous advertisement:
‘That ought to do the trick,’ said Mr Parker Pyne as he got gingerly into his rather uncomfortable bed. ‘Let me see, nearly three years; yes, it ought to do it.’
On the following day about four o’clock the answer came. It was brought by a Persian servant who knew no English.
Lady Esther Carr will be glad if Mr Parker Pyne will call upon her at nine o’clock this evening.
Mr Parker Pyne smiled.
It was the same servant who received him that evening. He was taken through the dark garden and up an outside staircase that led round to the back of the house. From there a door was opened and he passed through into the central court or balcony, which was open to the night. A big divan was placed against the wall and on it reclined a striking figure.
Lady Esther was attired in Eastern robes, and it might have been suspected that one reason for her preference lay in the fact that they suited her rich, Oriental style of beauty. Imperious, the consul called her, and indeed imperious she looked. Her chin was held high and her brows were arrogant.
‘You are Mr Parker Pyne? Sit down there.’
Her hand pointed to a heap of cushions. On the third finger there flashed a big emerald carved with the arms of her family. It was an heirloom and must be worth a small fortune, Mr Parker Pyne reflected.
He lowered himself obediently, though with a little difficulty. For a man of his figure it is not easy to sit on the ground gracefully.
A servant appeared with coffee. Mr Parker Pyne took his cup and sipped appreciatively.
His hostess had acquired the Oriental habit of infinite leisure. She did not rush into conversation. She, too, sipped her coffee with half-closed eyes. At last she spoke.
‘So you help unhappy people,’ she said. ‘At least, that is what your advertisement claims.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you send it to me? Is it your way of–doing business on your travels?’
There was something decidedly offensive in her voice, but Mr Parker Pyne ignored it. He answered simply, ‘No. My idea in travelling is to have a complete holiday from business.’
‘Then why send it to me?’
‘Because I had reason to believe that you–are unhappy.’
There was a moment’s silence. He was very curious. How would she take that? She gave herself a minute to decide that point. Then she laughed.
‘I suppose you thought that anyone who leaves the world, who lives as I do, cut off from my race, from my country, must do so because she is unhappy! Sorrow, disappointment–you think something like that drove me into exile? Oh, well, how should you understand? There–in England–I was a fish out of water. Here I am myself. I am an Oriental at heart. I love this seclusion. I dare say you can’t understand that. To you, I must seem’–she hesitated a moment–‘mad.’
‘You’re not mad,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
There was a good deal of quiet assurance in his voice. She looked at him curiously.
‘But they’ve been saying I am, I suppose. Fools! It takes all kinds to make a world. I’m perfectly happy.’
‘And yet you told me to come here,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘I will admit I was curious to see you.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, I never want to go back there–to England–but all the same, sometimes I like to hear what is going on in–’
‘In the world you have left?’
She acknowledged the sentence with a nod.
Mr Parker Pyne began to talk. His voice, mellow and reassuring, began quietly, then rose ever so little as he emphasized this point and that.
He talked of London, of society gossip, of famous men and women, of new restaurants and new night clubs, of race meetings and shooting parties and country-house scandals. He talked of clothes, of fashions from Paris, of little shops in unfashionable streets where marvellous bargains could be had.
He described theatres and cinemas, he gave film news, he described the building of new garden suburbs, he talked of bulbs and gardening, and he came last to a homely description of London in the evening, with the trams and buses and the hurrying crowds going homeward after the day’s work and of the little homes awaiting them, and of the whole strange intimate pattern of English family life.
It was a very remarkable performance, displaying as it did wide and unusual knowledge and a clever marshalling of the facts. Lady Esther’s head had drooped; the arrogance of her poise had been abandoned. For some time her tears had been quietly falling, and now that he had finished, she abandoned all pretence and wept openly.
Mr Parker Pyne said nothing. He sat there watching her. His face had the quiet, satisfied expression of one who has conducted an experiment and obtained the desired result.
She raised her head at last. ‘Well,’ she said bitterly, ‘are you satisfied?’
‘I think so–now.’
‘How shall I bear it; how shall I bear it? Never to leave here; never to see–anyone again!’ The cry came as though wrung out of her. She caught herself up, flushing. ‘Well?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘Aren’t you going to make the obvious remark? Aren’t you going to say, “If you want to go home so much, why not do so?”’
‘No.’ Mr Parker Pyne shook his head. ‘It’s not nearly as easy as that for you.’
For the first time a little look of fear crept into her eyes.
‘Do you know why I can’t go?’
‘I think so.’
‘Wrong.’ She shook her head. ‘The reason I can’t go is a reason you’d never guess.’
‘I don’t guess,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘I observe–and I classify.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t know anything at all.’
‘I shall have to convince you, I see,’ said Mr Parker Pyne pleasantly. ‘When you came out here, Lady Esther, you flew, I believe, by the new German Air Service from Baghdad?’
‘Yes?’
‘You were flown by a young pilot, Herr Schlagal, who afterwards came here to see you.’
‘Yes.’
A different ‘yes’ in some indescribable way–a softer ‘yes’.
‘And you had a friend, or companion who–died.’ A voice like steel now–cold, offensive.
‘My companion.’
‘Her name was–?’
‘Muriel King.’
‘Were you fond of her?’
‘What do you mean, fond?’ She paused, checked herself. ‘She was useful to me.’
She said it haughtily and Mr Parker Pyne was reminded of the consul’s saying: ‘You can see she is somebody, if you know what I mean.’
‘Were you sorry when she died?’
‘I–naturally! Really, Mr Pyne, is it necessary to go into all this?’ She spoke angrily, and went on without waiting for an answer: ‘It has been very good of you to come. But I am a little tired. If you will tell me what I owe you–?’
But Mr Parker Pyne did not move. He showed no signs of taking offence. He went quietly on with his questions. ‘Since she died, Herr Schlagal has not been to see you. Suppose he were to come, would you receive him?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You refuse absolutely?’
‘Absolutely. Herr Schlagal will not be admitted.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne thoughtfully. ‘You could not say anything else.’
The defensive armour of her arrogance broke down a little. She said uncertainly: ‘I–I don’t know wh
at you mean.’
‘Did you know, Lady Esther, that young Schlagal fell in love with Muriel King? He is a sentimental young man. He still treasures her memory.’
‘Does he?’ Her voice was almost a whisper.
‘What was she like?’
‘What do you mean, what was she like? How do I know?’
‘You must have looked at her sometimes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne mildly.
‘Oh, that! She was quite a nice-looking young woman.’
‘About your own age?’
‘Just about.’ There was a pause, and then she said:
‘Why do you think that–that Schlagal cared for her?’
‘Because he told me so. Yes, yes, in the most unmistakable terms. As I say, he is a sentimental young man. He was glad to confide in me. He was very upset at her dying the way she did.’
Lady Esther sprang to her feet. ‘Do you believe I murdered her?’
Mr Parker Pyne did not spring to his feet. He was not a springing kind of man.
‘No, my dear child,’ he said. ‘I do not believe that you murdered her, and that being so, I think the sooner you stop this play-acting and go home, the better.’
‘What do you mean, play-acting?’
‘The truth is, you lost your nerve. Yes, you did. You lost your nerve badly. You thought you’d be accused of murdering your employer.’
The girl made a sudden movement.
Mr Parker Pyne went on. ‘You are not Lady Esther Carr. I knew that before I came here, but I’ve tested you to make sure.’ His smile broke out, bland and benevolent.
‘When I said my little piece just now, I was watching you, and every time you reacted as Muriel King, not as Esther Carr. The cheap shops, the cinemas, the new garden suburbs, going home by bus and tram–you reacted to all those. Country-house gossip, new night clubs, the chatter of Mayfair, race meetings–none of these meant anything to you.’
His voice became even more persuasive and fatherly. ‘Sit down and tell me about it. You didn’t murder Lady Esther, but you thought you might be accused of doing so. Just tell me how it all came about.’
She took a long breath; then she sank down once more on the divan and began to speak. Her words came hurriedly, in little bursts.
‘I must begin–at the beginning. I–I was afraid of her. She was mad–not quite mad–just a little. She brought me out here with her. Like a fool I was delighted; I thought it was so romantic. Little fool. That’s what I was, a little fool. There was some business about a chauffeur. She was man-mad–absolutely man-mad. He wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and it got out; her friends got to know about it and laughed. And she broke loose from her family and came out here.
‘It was all a pose to save her face–solitude in the desert–all that sort of thing. She would have kept it up for a bit, and then gone back. But she got queerer and queerer. And then there was the pilot. She–took a fancy to him. He came here to see me, and she thought–oh well, you can understand. But he must have made it clear to her…’
‘And then she suddenly turned on me. She was awful, frightening. She said I should never go home again. She said I was in her power. She said I was a slave. Just that–a slave. She had the power of life and death over me.’
Mr Parker Pyne nodded. He saw the situation unfolding. Lady Esther slowly going over the edge of sanity, as others of her family had gone before her, and the frightened girl, ignorant and untravelled, believing everything that was said to her.
‘But one day something in me seemed to snap. I stood up to her. I told her that if it came to it I was stronger than she was. I told her I’d throw her down on to the stones below. She was frightened, really frightened. I suppose she’d just thought me a worm. I took a step toward her–I don’t know what she thought I meant to do. She moved backwards; she–she stepped back off the edge!’ Muriel King buried her face in her hands.
‘And then?’ Mr Parker Pyne prompted gently.
‘I lost my head. I thought they’d say I’d pushed her over. I thought nobody would listen to me. I thought I should be thrown into some awful prison out here.’ Her lips worked. Mr Parker Pyne saw clearly enough the unreasoning fear that had possessed her. ‘And then it came to me–if it were I! I knew that there would be a new British consul who’d never seen either of us. The other one had died.
‘I thought I could manage the servants. To them we were two mad Englishwomen. When one was dead, the other carried on. I gave them good presents of money and told them to send for the British consul. He came and I received him as Lady Esther. I had her ring on my finger. He was very nice and arranged everything. Nobody seemed to have the least suspicion.’
Mr Parker Pyne nodded thoughtfully. Lady Esther Carr might be mad as a hatter, but she was still Lady Esther Carr.
‘And then afterwards,’ continued Muriel, ‘I wished I hadn’t. I saw that I’d been quite mad myself. I was condemned to stay on here playing a part. I didn’t see how I could ever get away. If I confessed the truth now, it would look more than ever as though I’d murdered her. Oh, Mr Pyne, what shall I do? What shall I do?’
‘Do?’ Mr Parker Pyne rose to his feet as briskly as his figure allowed. ‘My dear child, you will come with me now to the British consul, who is a very amiable and kindly man. There will be certain unpleasant formalities to go through. I don’t promise you that it will be all plain sailing, but you won’t be hanged for murder. By the way, why was the breakfast tray found with the body?’
‘I threw it over. I–I thought it would look more like me to have a tray there. Was it silly of me?’
‘It was rather a clever touch,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘In fact, it was the one point which made me wonder if you might, perhaps, have done away with Lady Esther–that is, until I saw you. When I saw you, I knew that whatever else you might do in your life, you would never kill anyone.’
‘Because I haven’t the nerve, you mean?’
‘Your reflexes wouldn’t work that way,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, smiling. ‘Now, shall we go? There’s an unpleasant job to be faced, but I’ll see you through it, and then–home to Streatham Hill–it is Streatham Hill, isn’t it? Yes, I thought so. I saw your face contract when I mentioned one particular bus number. Are you coming, my dear?’
Muriel King hung back. ‘They’ll never believe me,’ she said nervously. ‘Her family and all. They wouldn’t believe she could act the way she did.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘I know something of the family history, you see. Come, child, don’t go on playing the coward. Remember, there’s a young man sighing his heart out. We had better arrange that it is in his plane you fly to Baghdad.’
The girl smiled and blushed. ‘I’m ready,’ she said simply. Then, as she moved towards the door, she turned back. ‘You said you knew I was not Lady Esther Carr before you saw me. How could you possibly tell that?’
‘Statistics,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘Statistics?’
‘Yes. Both Lord and Lady Micheldever had blue eyes. When the consul mentioned that their daughter had flashing dark eyes I knew there was something wrong. Brown-eyed people may produce a blue-eyed child, but not the other way about. A scientific fact, I assure you.’
‘I think you’re wonderful!’ said Muriel King.
The Pearl of Price
I
The party had had a long and tiring day. They had started from Amman early in the morning with a temperature of ninety-eight in the shade, and had come at last just as it was growing dark into the camp situated in the heart of that city of fantastic and preposterous red rock which is Petra.
There were seven of them, Mr Caleb P. Blundell, that stout and prosperous American magnate. His dark and good-looking, if somewhat taciturn, secretary, Jim Hurst. Sir Donald Marvel, M.P., a tired-looking English politician. Doctor Carver, a world-renowned elderly archaeologist. A gallant Frenchman, Colonel Dubosc, on leave from Syria. A Mr Parker Pyne, not perhaps so plainly labelled with his profession, but b
reathing an atmosphere of British solidity. And lastly, there was Miss Carol Blundell–pretty, spoiled, and extremely sure of herself as the only woman among half a dozen men.
They dined in the big tent, having selected their tents or caves for sleeping in. They talked of politics in the Near East–the Englishman cautiously, the Frenchman discreetly, the American somewhat fatuously, and the archaeologist and Mr Parker Pyne not at all. Both of them, it seemed, preferred the rôle of listeners. So also did Jim Hurst.
Then they talked of the city they had come to visit.
‘It’s just too romantic for words,’ said Carol. ‘To think of those–what do you call ’em–Nabataeans living here all that while ago, almost before time began!’
‘Hardly that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne mildly. ‘Eh, Doctor Carver?’
‘Oh, that’s an affair of a mere two thousand years back, and if racketeers are romantic, then I suppose the Nabataeans are too. They were a pack of wealthy blackguards, I should say, who compelled travellers to use their own caravan routes, and saw to it that all other routes were unsafe. Petra was the storehouse of their racketeering profits.’
‘You think they were just robbers?’ asked Carol. ‘Just common thieves?’
‘Thieves is a less romantic word, Miss Blundell. A thief suggests a pretty pilferer. A robber suggests a larger canvas.’
‘What about a modern financier?’ suggested Mr Parker Pyne with a twinkle.
‘That’s one for you, Pop!’ said Carol.
‘A man who makes money benefits mankind,’ said Mr Blundell sententiously.
‘Mankind,’ murmured Mr Parker Pyne, ‘is so ungrateful.’
‘What is honesty?’ demanded the Frenchman. ‘It is a nuance, a convention. In different countries it means different things. An Arab is not ashamed of stealing. He is not ashamed of lying. With him it is from whom he steals or to whom he lies that matters.’
‘That is the point of view–yes,’ agreed Carver.