CHAPTER XXV
In that swift unexpected recognition Colwyn observed that the man forwhom they had been searching looked pale and worn. He stood quite stillin the doorway, his breath coming and going in quick gasps.
"We have been looking for you, Captain Nepcote," Colwyn said.
"I am aware of that. I have been waiting to see you, but I could getnobody to answer my ring."
"My man is out. You had better come upstairs to my rooms."
He led the way to the lift at the end of the corridor. When they reachedthe rooms Colwyn switched on the electric light. Nepcote dropped wearilyinto a chair, and for the first time Colwyn was able to see his faceclearly.
He looked very ill: there could be no doubt of that. His face washaggard and unshaven, his clothing was soiled, his attitude one of utterdejection. He crouched in the chair breathing hurriedly, with one handpressed to his right side, as though in pain. Occasionally he coughed: ashort, high-pitched cough, which made him wince.
"You had better drink this before you talk," Colwyn said.
He handed him a glass of brandy and water. Nepcote seized it eagerly andgulped it down.
"I've caught a bad chill," he said in a hoarse unnatural voice. "Icouldn't carry on any longer. That's why I came to see you to-night. ButI'd given up hopes. I was ringing for some time."
"You came to surrender yourself?"
"Yes; I am fed up--absolutely. I was a fool to bolt. I've had a horribletime, sleeping out of doors and in verminous lodging-houses, with thepolice after me at every turn. I stuck it as long as I could, but to-dayI was ill, and when I saw a policeman watching the lodging-house where Imeant to sleep to-night I felt that I had to give in."
"Why have you come to me instead of going to the police?"
"I thought I would get more consideration from you. I know you aresearching for Mrs. Heredith's necklace. Here it is."
He drew from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in dirty tissue paper,and put it on the table. The untidy folds fell apart, exposing themissing necklace, but the diamond was missing from the antique clasp.
"The diamond is in that," he said, placing a small cardboard box besidethe pearls. "I wish I had never seen the cursed thing."
"How do you come to have Mrs. Heredith's necklace?"
Nepcote hesitated before replying.
"I was terribly upset by Mrs. Heredith's death," he said at length. "Iknew her before she married Phil Heredith. We were old friends."
The inconsequence of this statement convinced Colwyn that he was seekingtime to frame an evasive answer.
"If that is all you have to say it is useless to prolong thisinterview," he coldly remarked.
"I--I am going to tell you where I got the necklace," Nepcote said, withdowncast eyes. "Mrs. Heredith gave it to me."
"Why did Mrs. Heredith give you her necklace?"
"She asked me to raise some money on it for her."
"For what purpose?"
"I cannot say. Pretty women always need money. It may have been fordress, or bridge, or old debts. She brought me the necklace one day, andasked me to get some money on it. I suggested that she should apply toher husband, but she said she needed some extra money, and she did notwish him to know."
"And you complied with her request?"
"I did, after she had pressed me several times. I am always a fool wherewomen are concerned. I promised to raise money on the necklace in Londonfor her. That was the beginning of my troubles. But who could haveforeseen? How was I to know what was going to happen?"
He sat brooding for a space with gloomy eyes, like a man repelled by themenace of events, then burst out wildly:
"I'm in a horrible position. Who will believe me? My God, what a foolI've been!"
"You are doing yourself no good by going on like this," Colwyn said."You are keeping something back. My advice to you is to be quite frankwith me and tell me everything."
"You must give me a few minutes first to think it over," respondedNepcote. He cast a doubtful glance at the detective, and relapsed intoanother brooding silence.
"Before you say anything more it is my duty to inform you of my ownconnection with the case," said Colwyn. "There has been an arrest forthe murder, as no doubt you are aware, but the family are not satisfiedthat the right person has been arrested. You are suspected."
"Do they think that I murdered Violet? Oh, I never dreamt of this," headded, as Colwyn remained silent. "I thought that you and the policewere searching for me because of the necklace. It is even worse than Ithought. I will now tell you all. Perhaps you will then help me, for Iam innocent."
Until that moment he had flung out his protestations with an excitedimpetuosity which told of a mind suffering under a grievous burden,though it was impossible to determine whether that state of feelingarose from anxiety or conscious guilt. His quietness now was in theoddest contrast. It was as though he had been sobered by his realizationof the difficulty of convincing an outsider of his innocence of a foulcrime in which he was deeply entangled by an appalling web ofcircumstance.
He began by explaining, vaguely enough, his past friendship with themurdered girl. He had first met her in London two years before. Theirrelations, as he depicted them, conveyed a common story of a casualacquaintance developed in the familiar atmosphere of secludedrestaurants, with dances and theatres later on. His story of this phasehad all the familiar elements which make up the setting of a modernsophisticated love episode, into which a man and a girl enter with theireyes open. In the masculine way, Nepcote refrained from saying anythingwhich could hurt the dead girl's reputation, but it was his reticenceand reservations which completed the story for his listener. He saidthat their flirtation ceased when Violet became engaged to PhilipHeredith. On his own showing he then acted sensibly enough in a delicatesituation, and was afterwards reluctant to accept the invitation to themoat-house. With one of his reticent evasions he slurred over his reasonfor changing his mind, but Colwyn guessed that it was due to thefeminine disinclination to bury an old romance. Violet had probablywritten and asked him to come.
He conveyed to Colwyn a picture of the state of things existing at themoat-house when he arrived. It was an unconscious revelation on his partof a giddy shallow girl hastily marrying a wealthy young man for hismoney, quickly bored by the dull decorum of English country life,sighing for her former existence--for the gay distractions of herirresponsible London days. It seemed that in this frame of mind shewelcomed Nepcote as a dear link with the past, and sought his societywith a frequency which had its embarrassments. Of course there wasnothing in it--Nepcote was fiercely insistent on that--she was bored,poor girl, and liked to talk about old times with her old friend, but itwas awkward, devilish awkward, in a country house full of idle peopleand curious servants with nothing to do but use their eyes.
She had taken him aside to tell him of her little troubles. MissHeredith did not think her good enough for Phil--she was sure shethought that. They had the vicar and old frumps in to tea, and she hadto listen to their piffle. They all went to bed soon after ten--justwhen people were beginning to wake up in London and go out for thenight. And she had to go to church on Sunday because it was expected ofher, did he ever hear of such rot--and so on. It seemed that everythingin her life bored her. Of course Phil worshipped her, but that didn'thelp her much. How could it, Nepcote asked, fixing his burning glance onhis listener, when she had only married him for his coin?
It appeared he had given her such counsel as his worldly experiencesuggested. He told her to get Phil to take her up to London now andagain for a change. He advised her to stand no nonsense from anybody,pointing out to her that she was the future Lady Heredith, and, withinlimits, could do practically what she liked.
These intimate details of the confidences between them brought Nepcoteto the vital point of his possession of the necklace. He now admittedthat his former story was untrue. The actual truth was that he hadneeded some money badly for his gambling debts. He told Violet of hisposition, and
asked her had she any money to lend him. She had not, andrather than ask Phil, she had, for old friendship's sake, offered himher necklace to raise money on, or to sell outright the diamond in theclasp. He accepted her offer, and went up to London on the following dayto try and sell the diamond. Wendover's card had been given to him by abrother officer in France as that of a man who gave a good price forjewels without asking too many questions. But the diamond merchant hadnot lived up to his reputation. He had refused to look at the diamond.He had been horribly rude, treating him as though he was a pickpocket,and had practically ordered him out of his office. In fact, his wholeattitude was so suspicious that Nepcote decided it would be better toleave his gambling debts owing than run the risk of trying to raisemoney on a married woman's jewels. He returned to the moat-house,leaving the necklace locked in his desk at his flat.
At this point Nepcote ceased speaking again, interrupted by a paroxysmof coughing, and when it passed his eyes turned towards the window, asthough he were listening to the gentle patter of rain on the panes. Fora space the two men sat with no sound in the room except Nepcote'slaboured breathing. When he did resume he spoke with a quickenedemphasis, like a man aware that he was entering upon the part of hisnarrative most incredible of belief.
"It happened three nights later," he said. "I was in my room writingsome letters before retiring, when I heard a light and hurried tap at mydoor. When I opened it Violet was standing there. She stepped quicklyinside. Before I could express my opinion of her reckless foolishnessshe burst into passionate sobs and reproaches. It was all my fault--thatwas the burden of her reproach between her sobs. It was some time beforeI could get out of her what was wrong. Then she told me that Sir Philiphad asked her to wear the necklace at some dance we were to attend onthe next night. It was then that I learnt that the necklace had beengiven to Violet by Sir Philip as a wedding present. Violet attached suchlittle value to the gift that she had given the necklace to me, thinkingit would not be missed, but she had found out her mistake that night. Itwas in the presence of Phil and Miss Heredith that Sir Philip had askedher to wear it. Violet tried to get out of it by saying that the pearlswere dull and the necklace wanted resetting. On hearing this MissHeredith had gone out of the room and returned with Mr. Musard, an oldfamily friend who had arrived that day on a short visit. He is aconnoisseur in jewels, and Miss Heredith asked his advice about thenecklace. Musard told her that the pearls had long needed some treatmenttechnically known as "skinning," and he offered to take the necklace toLondon two days later and get it done by an expert. Violet accepted theoffer, and then promised Sir Philip that she would wear the necklace atthe party.
"She slipped upstairs to see me as soon as she dared. She was greatlyrelieved when she learnt that I had not parted with the necklace, andshe wanted me to go up to London and bring it back so that she couldwear it to the party. I was willing to do so, but I doubted whether Iwould be able to get back in time. The local train service had beenrestricted on account of the war, and the only train I could catch backdid not reach Heredith until half-past seven.
"It was Violet who hit on the plan. The big thing--the vital thing forher, she pointed out, was to have the necklace in time to give to Musardbefore he went to London. She said she could easily get out of going tothe dance by pretending to have one of her bad headaches, and she didnot wish to meet Mrs. Weyne again. Her idea was that I should pretend Ihad been recalled to France, delay my departure until the afternoontrain to prevent suspicion, and return secretly with the necklace. Shesaid that the afternoon train reached London at twenty-five minutes pastfive, which would give me thirty-five minutes to take a taxi to my flat,get the necklace, and catch the return express at six o'clock. I was toleave the train at Weydene Junction, where nobody was likely torecognize me, and walk across country to the moat-house. She expectedthat by the time I reached the house the others would have left for theWeynes, so the coast would be clear. I was to enter the house by alittle unused door at the back of the left wing which she would leaveunlocked for me, and wait at the foot of the staircase until she camedown.
"I did not like this plan because of the risk, but Violet grew almosthysterical when I objected to it. She said there was no danger, and itwas her only chance of safety. She believed that Phil suspectedsomething, because he had looked at her strangely when they were talkingabout the necklace downstairs. I put that down to nervousness on herpart, but I realized she must have the necklace, so I gave in, and saidI would do as she wished. I have since bitterly regretted that I did notgo openly to London and back, even at the risk of a little idlecuriosity.
"I announced my recall and departure next morning at the breakfasttable, and returned to London by the afternoon train. I drove toSherryman Street, got the necklace, and returned to Victoria just intime to catch the six o'clock express. I left the train at Weydene, andwalked across the fields to the moat-house. It was quite dark when Ireached there. I crossed the back bridge over the moat and went to thedoor in the left wing, as we had arranged. To my surprise it was locked.
"I waited outside the door expecting Violet to come down. Everything wassilent, so I thought the others must have started for the dance. But thetime went on, and nobody came. Then I decided to creep round the, sideof the wing and see if there was a light in Violet's bedroom. At thatmoment I heard a loud scream from somewhere upstairs, followed by adeafening report.
"I had no idea what had happened, but I knew that I must not be foundthere, so I slipped back the way I had come. I ran along the outside ofthe moat wall, making for the wood in front of the house. As I passedViolet's window I looked up, and it was in darkness. I suppose that waswhy I did not connect the shot or the scream with her.
"I plunged through the woods till I came to the carriage drive. Fromthere the front of the moat-house was visible to me. I could see lightsflashing, and people moving hurriedly about. After I had stood there forsome time I saw a man hurrying across the moat-house bridge in mydirection, so I went back into the wood and hid behind a tree. The manstopped as he walked along the carriage drive, and looked towards thetree where I was crouching. He called out 'Who is there?' I recognizedhis voice. It was Tufnell, the butler. I thought I was discovered, andcrept into some undergrowth, but in a moment he walked on.
"I remained hidden in the undergrowth for some time--an hour or more.Once I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel-path, then all was silentagain. After waiting for some time longer I decided to walk back toWeydene and return to London. But I made such a wide detour for fear ofbeing seen that I lost my way, and it was nearly midnight when I foundmyself at Rainchester, on the main line, just in time to catch the lasttrain to London.
"It was a terrible shock to me when I opened my paper the next morningand read about poor Violet's murder. I had never thought of anythinglike that. At first I could think of nothing but her terrible end, butthen it occurred to me that my own position would be awkward if the lossof the necklace was discovered. As the papers said nothing about thenecklace I concluded that it had not been missed. But I knew the policewould be searching for clues, and might discover the loss at any moment.I knew it was dangerous for me to keep it in my possession, so I decidedto get rid of it without delay.
"I thought at first of returning it anonymously, but I immediatelyabandoned that idea as too dangerous. Then I thought of dropping it intothe river. It occurred to me, however, that if by any chance the policediscovered that the necklace had been given to me, and I couldn'tproduce it if I were questioned, I should be in a worse fix still. So Itried to think of a safe hiding-place where I could lay my hands on itin case of necessity. I could think of none. Time went on, and before Ihad decided what to do with the thing my man came along and said it wastime to catch the boat train. So in the end I put the necklace into mypocket and took it to France with me. It seemed as safe there asanywhere else for the time being.
"I was only going to the base, so I saw the London papers every day. Iwas very relieved when I read of the arrest of Hazel Rath
for themurder. I returned to London feeling reasonably safe, though it seemedstrange to me that the loss of the necklace had not been discovered.
"I thought everything was found out when you and that Scotland Yarddetective visited my flat. But Merrington seemed to have no suspicionsof me, and I was just beginning to think I was finally safe when heremarked that the police knew of the missing necklace. I started, andthat gave me away to you, at all events. I saw you glance at Wendover'scard as it fell on the table, and I knew that you suspected me.
"After you had both left I had a bad half-hour. I could see I was in adangerous fix. You were aware of the address of the diamond merchant towhom I had gone, and who, no doubt, would be able to identify me. I hadmade my own position worse by lying about the War Office telegram, ascould easily be proved. There was also the possibility that the policemight find out about my return to Heredith on the night of the murder. Idid not then see what all these facts portended for me, though I do now.But I feared arrest for the theft of the necklace, with the alternativesof imprisonment if I kept silent, or facing a horrible scandal if I toldthe truth. I was not prepared for either.
"I slept at an hotel that night because I feared arrest, but nextmorning, early, I returned to the flat to exchange my khaki for acivilian suit. After thinking over things during the night I had come tothe conclusion that I had most to fear from you, and I decided to watchyou. If you did not visit Wendover's place during the day it seemed tome that I might be alarming myself needlessly. You know what happened. Ibolted when I saw you emerge from the buildings, and wandered about forhours, not knowing what was best to do. When I discovered that I had nomoney--nothing in my pockets except that cursed necklace, which I hadtaken with me because I knew the flat would be searched--I decided toreturn to the flat for the money I had left behind in my other clothes.I was too late. When I reached Sherryman Street I saw two men watchingthe flat from the garden of the square opposite, and I knew I would bearrested if I went inside.
"What's the use of talking about what followed? I hadn't the ghost of ashow from the start. Do you think you know anything about London?Believe me, you don't until you have been cast adrift in it with emptypockets. It's a city of vampires and stony hearts, a seething inhumanhell where you can wander till you drop and die without anyone giving apitying glance--much less a helping hand. Even a man's guardian angeldeserts him. It doesn't take a man very long to get to the gutter, tofall lower and lower until there's nothing but the Thames Embankment orthe mortuary in front of him. I've had my eyes opened--I've talked tosome of these poor devils in this Christian city. But what's the good oftelling you this? I've been down to the gutter myself the last few days,falling each day to lower depths, tramping hungry and footsore in themidst of herds of respectable human brutes, slinking away from the eyeof every policeman, pawning clothes for the price of a verminous bed, tolie awake all night knowing that I would be murdered by thevulture-faced degenerates sleeping in the same hovel, if they had caughta glimpse of the necklace.
"How many wild schemes have I planned in the night for raising money onthe necklace in the morning! Once I went into a pawnshop, but thepawnbroker's eyes glittered when I spoke of pearls, and I got away asquickly as I could. I suppose there was a reward, and he was on the lookout for me. One way and another I have been through hell. I feel like aman in a fever. I was drenched through yesterday, and I've had no foodfor twenty-four hours."
He ceased, and sat staring into vacancy as though he were again passingthrough the horror of his wanderings. Then another fit of coughingseized him, prolonged and violent. When it had subsided he looked atColwyn with bloodshot eyes.
"I feel pretty bad," he said weakly.
That fact had been apparent to the detective for some time past.Nepcote's frequent fits of coughing and a peculiar nasal intensity ofutterance suggested symptoms of pneumonia. As Colwyn lifted thetelephone receiver to summon a doctor, the thought occurred to him that,if the immediate problem of the disposal of Nepcote had been settled byhis illness, his inability to answer questions necessitated his ownreturn to the moat-house without delay. In any case, that course wasinevitable after what he had just heard. It was only at the place wherethe murder had been committed that he could hope to judge between theprobabilities of Nepcote's strange story and Hazel Rath's confession. Itwas there, unless he was very much mistaken, that the final solution ofthe Heredith mystery must be sought.