Lord Peter, thoughtfully refilled his own beer-mug and said, “Not on any account.”
“Well, then,” pursued the Superintendent, “here’s where Cranton and Deacon tell different tales again. According to Deacon, he got a letter from Cranton as soon as the wedding-day was announced, asking him to come and meet him at Leamholt and discuss some plan for getting hold of the emeralds. According to Cranton, it was Deacon wrote to him. Neither of ’em could produce a scrap of evidence about it, one way or the other, so, there again, you paid your money and you took your choice. But it was proved that they did meet in Leamholt and that Cranton came along the same day to have a look at the house.
“Very good. Now Mrs. Wilbraham had a lady’s maid, and if it hadn’t been for her and Mary Thoday, the whole thing might have come to nothing. You’ll remember that Mary Thoday was Mary Deacon then. She was housemaid at the Red House, and she’d got married to Deacon at the end of 1913. Sir Charles was very kind to the young couple. He gave them a nice bedroom to themselves away from the other servants, just off a little back stair that runs up by the butler’s pantry, so that it was quite like a little private home for them. The plate was all kept in the pantry, of course, and it was supposed to be Deacon’s job to look after it.
“Now, this maid of Mrs. Wilbraham’s—Elsie Bryant was her name—was a quick, smart sort of girl, full of fun and high spirits, and it so happened that she’d found out what Mrs. Wilbraham did with her jewels when she was staying away from home. It seems the old girl wanted to be too clever by half. I think she must have been reading too many detective stories, if you ask me, but anyway, she got it into her head that the best place to keep valuables wasn’t a jewel case or a strong-box or anything of that kind, that would be the first thing a burglar would go for, but some fancy place where nobody would think of looking, and to cut a long story short, the spot she pitched upon was—if you’ll excuse me mentioning it—was underneath one of the bedroom utensils. You may well laugh—so did everybody in court, except the judge, and he happened to get a fit of coughing at the time and his handkerchief was over his face, so nobody could see how he took it. Well, this Elsie, she was a bit inquisitive, as girls are, and one day—not very long before the wedding—she managed to take a peep through a keyhole or something of that kind, and caught the old lady just in the act of putting the stuff away. Naturally, she couldn’t keep a thing like that to herself, and when she and her mistress got to Fenchurch—which they did a couple of days before the wedding—the first thing she had to do was to strike up a bosom friendship with Mary Deacon (as she was then) for the express purpose, as it seems to me, of telling her all about it in confidence. And of course, Mary, being a devoted wife and all that, had to share the joke with her husband. I dare say it’s natural. Anyhow, counsel for the defence made a big point of it, and there’s no doubt it was that utensil kept Elsie and Mary out of quod. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said to the jury, in his speech, ‘I see you all smiling over Mrs. Wilbraham’s novel idea of a safe-deposit, and I we no doubt you’re looking forward to passing the whole story on to your wives when you get home. And that being so, you can very well enter into the feelings of my client Mary Deacon and her friend, and see how—in the most innocent manner in the world—the secret was disclosed to the one man who might have been expected to keep it quiet.’ He was a clever lawyer, he was, and had the jury eating out of his hand by the time he’d done with them.
“Now we’ve got to guess again. There was a telegram sent off to Cranton from Leamholt—no doubt about that for we traced it. He said it came from Deacon, but Deacon said that if anybody sent it, it must have been Elsie Bryant. She and Deacon were both in Leamholt that afternoon, but we couldn’t get the girl at the post-office to recognise either of them, and the telegram was written in block letters. To my mind, that points to Deacon, because I doubt if the girl would have thought of such a thing, but needless to say, when the two of them were told to show a specimen of their printing, it wasn’t a mite like the writing on the form. Whichever of them it was, either they were pretty clever, or they got somebody else to do it for them.
“You say you’ve heard already about what happened that night. What you want to know is the stories Cranton and Deacon told about it. Here’s where Cranton, to my mind, shows up better than Deacon, unless he was very deep indeed. He told a perfectly consistent tale from start to finish. It was Deacon’s plan first and last. Cranton was to come down in a car and be under Mrs. Wilbraham’s window at the time mentioned in the telegram. Deacon would then throw out the emerald necklace, and Cranton would go straight off with it to London and get it broken up and sold, dividing the loot fifty-fifty with Deacon, less £350 he’d given him on account. Only he said that what came out of the window was only the jewel-case and not the emeralds, and he accused Deacon of taking the stuff himself and rousing the house on purpose to put the blame on him—on Cranton, that is. And of course, if that was Deacon’s plan, it was a very good one. He would get the stuff and the kudos as well.
“The trouble was, of course, that none of this came out till some time after Cranton had been arrested, so that when Deacon was taken and made his first statement to the police, he didn’t know what story he’d got to meet. The first account he gave was very straightforward and simple, and the only trouble about it was that it obviously wasn’t true. He said he woke up in the night and heard somebody moving about in the garden, and at once said to his wife: ‘I believe there’s somebody after the plate.’ Then, he said, he went downstairs, opened the back door and looked out, in time to see somebody on the terrace under Mrs. Wilbraham’s window. Then (according to him) he rushed back indoors and upstairs, just quick enough to catch a fellow making off through Mrs. Wilbraham’s window.”
“Hadn’t Mrs. Wilbraham locked her door?”
“No. She never did, on principle—afraid of fire, or something. He said he shouted loudly to alarm the house, and then the old lady woke up and saw him at the window. In the meantime the thief had climbed down by the ivy and got away. So he rushed off downstairs and found the footman just coming out of the back door. There was a bit of confusion about the back door part of the story, because Deacon didn’t explain, first go-off, how he happened to be in Mrs. Wilbraham’s bedroom at all. His very first tale, to Sir Charles, had been that he went straight out when he heard the noise in the garden, but by the time the police got him, he’d managed to fit the two accounts together, and said that he’d either been too upset at the time to explain himself clearly or else that everybody else had been too upset to understand what he said. Well, that was all right, until they started to unearth all the history of his having met Cranton before, and the telegram and so on. Then Cranton, seeing that the game was up, told his tale in full, and of course, that made it pretty awkward for Deacon. He couldn’t deny it altogether, so he now admitted knowing Cranton, but said it was Cranton who had tried to tempt him into stealing the emeralds, while he had been perfectly sea-green incorruptible. As for the telegram, he denied that altogether, and put it on Elsie. And he denied the £50 altogether, and it’s a fact that they never traced it to him.
“Of course, they cross-examined him pretty fiercely. They wanted to know, first, why he hadn’t warned Sir Charles about Cranton and secondly, why he’d told a different tale at first. He declared that he thought Cranton had given up all idea of the theft, and he didn’t want to frighten anybody; but that when he heard noises in the garden, he guessed what was happening. He also said that afterwards he was afraid to own up to knowing Cranton for fear he should be accused of complicity. But it sounded a pretty thin story, and neither the judge nor the jury believed a word of it. Lord Bramhill spoke very severely to him after the verdict, and said that if it hadn’t been his first offence, he’d have given him the heaviest sentence it was in his power to bestow. He called it aggravated larceny of the very worst type, being committed by a servant in a position of trust, in a dwelling-house and his master’s dwelling-house at that, and accompanied by
the opening of a window, which made it into burglary, and then he had violently resisted arrest, and so forth and so on; and in the end he gave Deacon eight years’ penal servitude and told him he was lucky to get off with that. Cranton was an old offender and might have got a lot more, but the judge said he was unwilling to punish him much more heavily than Deacon, and gave him ten years. So that was that. Cranton went to Dartmoor, and served his full time as a perfectly good old lag, without giving much trouble to anybody. Deacon, being a first offender, went to Maidstone, where he set up to be one of those model prisoners—which is a kind you always want to look out for, because they are always up to some mischief or other. After nearly four years—early in 1918, it was—this nice, refined, well-conducted convict made a brutal attack on a warder and broke prison. The warder died, and of course the whole place was scoured for Deacon, without any success. I daresay, what with the War and one thing and another, they hadn’t as many men to carry on the job as they ought to have had. Anyhow, they didn’t find him, and for two years he enjoyed the reputation of being about the only man who had ever broken prison successfully. Then his bones turned up in one of those holes—dene-holes, I think they call them, in a wood in North Kent so they found it was one up to the prison system after all He was still in his convict clothes and his skull was all smashed in, so he must have tumbled over during the night—probably within a day or two of his escape. And that was the end of him.”
“I suppose there’s no doubt he was guilty.”
“Not the slightest. He was a liar from beginning to end, and a clumsy liar at that. For one thing, the ivy on the Red House showed clearly enough that nobody had climbed down by it that night—and in any case, his final story was as full of holes as a sieve. He was a bad lot, and a murderer as well, and the country was well rid of him. As for Cranton, he behaved pretty well for a bit after he came out. Then he got into trouble again for receiving stolen goods, or goods got by false pretences or something, and back he went into quod. He came out again last June, and they kept tabs on him till the beginning of September. Then he disappeared, and they’re still looking for him. Last seen in London—but I shouldn’t be surprised if we’d seen the last of him today. It’s my belief, and always was, that Deacon had the necklace, but what he did with it, I’m damned if I know. Have another spot of beer, my lord. It won’t do you any harm.”
“Where do you think Cranton was, then, between September and January?”
“Goodness knows. But if he’s the corpse, I should say France, at a guess. He knew all the crooks in London, and if anybody could wangle a forged passport, he could.”
“Have you got a photograph of Cranton?”
“Yes, my lord, I have. It’s just come. Like to have a look at it?”
“Rather!”
The Superintendent brought out an official photograph from a bureau which stood, stacked neatly with documents, in a corner of the room.
Wimsey studied it carefully.
“When was this taken?”
“About four years ago, my lord, when he went up for his last sentence. That’s the latest we have.”
“He had no beard then. Had he one in September?”
“No, my lord. But he’d have plenty of time to grow one in four months.”
“Perhaps that’s what he went to France for.”
“Very likely indeed, my lord.”
“Yes—well—I can’t be dead positive, but I think this is the man I saw on New Year’s Day.”
“That’s very interesting,” said the Superintendent. “Have you shown the photograph to any of the people in the village?”
Mr. Blundell grinned ruefully.
“I tried it on the Wilderspins this afternoon, but there! Missus said it was him, Ezra said ’twas nothing like him—and a bunch of neighbours agreed heartily with both of them. The only thing is to get a beard faked on to it and try ’em again. There’s not one person in a hundred can swear to a likeness between a bearded face and one that’s clean-shaven.”
“H’m, too true. Defeat thy favour with an usurped beard. ... And of course you couldn’t take the body’s fingerprints, since he had no hands.”
“No, my lord, and that’s a sort of an argument, in a way, for it’s being Cranton.”
“If it is Cranton, I suppose he came here to look for the necklace, and grew a beard so that he shouldn’t be recognised by the people that had seen him in court.”
“That’s about it, my lord.”
“And he didn’t come earlier simply because he had to let his beard grow. So much for my bright notion that he might have received some message within the last few months. What I can’t understand is that stuff about Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul. I’ve been trying to make out something from the inscriptions on the bells, but I might as well have left it alone. Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells,—though I’d like to know when church bells were ever made of iron—what a world of solemn thought their monody compels! Was Mr. Edward Thorpe at his brother’s wedding, do you know?”
“Oh yes, my lord. He was there, and a terrible row he made with Mrs. Wilbraham after the theft. It upset poor Sir Charles very much. Mr. Edward as good as told the old lady that it was all her own fault, and he wouldn’t hear a word against Deacon. He was certain Elsie Bryant and Cranton had fixed it all up between them. I don’t believe myself that Mrs. Wilbraham would ever have cut up so rough if it weren’t for the things Mr. Edward said to her, but she was—is—a damned obstinate old girl, and the more he swore it was Elsie, the more she swore it was Deacon. You see, Mr. Edward had recommended Deacon to his father—”
“Oh, had he?”
“Why, yes. Mr. Edward was working in London at the time—quite a lad, he was, only twenty-three—and hearing that Sir Charles was wanting a butler, he sent Deacon down to see him.”
“What did he know about Deacon?”
“Well, only that he did his work well and looked smart. Deacon was a waiter in some club that Mr. Edward belonged to, and it seems he mentioned that he wanted to try private service, and that’s how Mr. Edward came to think of him. And, naturally, having recommended the fellow, he had to stick up for him. I don’t know if you’ve met Mr. Edward Thorpe, but if you have, my lord, you’ll know that anything that belongs to him is always perfect. He’s never been known to make a mistake, Mr. Edward hasn’t—and so, you see, he couldn’t possibly have made a mistake about Deacon.”
“Oh, yes?” said Wimsey. “Yes, I’ve met him. Frightful blithering ass. Handy thing to be, sometimes. Easily cultivated. Five minutes’ practice before the glass every day, and you will soon acquire that vacant look so desirable for all rogues, detectives and Government officials. However, we will not dwell on Uncle Edward. Let us return to our corpse. Because, Blundell, after all, even if it is Cranton come to look for emeralds—who killed him, and why?”
“Why,” returned the policeman, “supposing he found the emeralds all right and somebody lammed him on the head and took them off him. What’s wrong with that?”
“Only that he doesn’t seem to have been lammed on the head.”
“That’s what Dr. Baines says; but we don’t know that he’s right.”
“No—but anyway, the man was killed somehow. Why kill him, when you’d already got him tied up and could take the emeralds without any killing at all?”
“To prevent him squealing. Stop! I know what you’re going to say—Cranton wasn’t in a position to squeal. But he was, don’t you see. He’d already been punished for the theft—they couldn’t do anything more to him for that, and he’d only to come and tell us where the stuff was to do himself quite a lot of good. You see his game. He could have done the sweet injured innocence stunt. He’d say: ‘I always told you Deacon had the stuff, so the minute I could manage it, I went down to Fenchurch to find it, and I did find it—and of course I was going to take it straight along to the police-station like a good boy, when Tom, Dick or Harry came along and took it off me. So I’ve come and told you all ab
out it, and when you lay your hands on Tom, Dick or Harry and get the goods you’ll remember it was me gave you the office.’ Oh, yes—that’s what he could have done, and the only thing we’d have been able to put on him would be failing to report himself, and if he’d put us on to getting the emeralds, he’d be let off light enough, you bet. No! anybody as wanted those emeralds would have to put Cranton where he couldn’t tell any tales. That’s clear enough. But as to who it was, that’s a different thing.”
“But how was this person to know that Cranton knew where the necklace was? And how did he know, if it comes to that? Unless it really was he who had them after all, and he hid them somewhere in Fenchurch instead of taking them to London. It looks to me as though this line of argument was going to make Cranton the black sheep after all.”
“That’s true. How’d he come to know? He can’t have got the tip from anybody down here, or they’d have got the stuff tor themselves, and not waited for him. They’ve had long enough to do it, goodness knows. But why should Cranton have left the stuff behind him?”
“Hue and cry. Didn’t want to be caught with it on him. He may have parked it somewhere when he drove off, meaning to come back and fetch it later. You never know. But the longer I look at these photographs, the more positive I feel that the man I met was Cranton. The official description agrees, too—colour of eyes and all that. And if the corpse isn’t Cranton, what’s become of him?”
“There you are,” said Mr. Blundell. “I don’t see as we can do much more till we get the reports from London. Except, of course, as regards the burying. We ought to be able to get a line on that. And what you say about Miss Thorpe’s notion—I mean, as to the wreaths and that—may have something in it. Will you have a chat with this Mrs. Gates, or shall I? I think you’d better tackle Mr. Ashton. You’ve got a good excuse for seeing him, and if I went there officially, it might put somebody on his guard. It’s a nuisance, the churchyard being so far from the village. Even the Rectory doesn’t overlook it properly, on account of the shrubbery.”