Chapter XIV

Chapter XIVLuncheon, not a particularly cheerful meal, was over. Mrs. Phillimore's jewelled cigarette case lay on the table beside her, but her cigarette had gone out in its amber holder, and her eyes were furtively watching her fiancé as she chatted with Mr. Collyer, who sat opposite.Aubrey Todmarsh had taken his uncle's advice and pulled himself together. He was talking much as usual now, but John Steadman watching him from his seat opposite thought that his face looked queer and strained. His eyes no longer seemed to see visions, but were bloodshot and weary. His high cheekbones had the skin drawn tightly across them to-day and gave him almost a Mongolian look; his usually sleek, dark hair was ruffled across his forehead.John Steadman had not hitherto felt particularly attracted by the young head of the Community of St. Philip. Apart from the natural contempt of the ordinary man for a conscientious objector, there always to Steadman appeared something wild and ridiculous about Todmarsh's visionary speeches and ideas. To-day, however, his sympathies were aroused by the young man's obviously very great disappointment over Hopkins's defection. He felt sorry for Mrs. Phillimore too. The poor little widow was evidently sharing her lover's depression, and, though she did her best to appear bright and cheerful, was watching him anxiously while she talked to her hostess or to Steadman himself.It seemed to Steadman that he had never realized how protracted a meal luncheon could be until to-day, and he was on the point of making some excuse to Mrs. Bechcombe for effecting an early retreat when the parlourmaid entered the room with two cards—on one of which a few words were written—upon her silver salver.Mrs. Bechcombe took them up with a murmured excuse. She glanced at them carelessly, then her expression changed. She looked round in indecision then turned to Steadman.“I—I don't know what to do. That woman——”The momentary lull in the conversation had passed; every one was talking busily. Under cover of the hum, Steadman edged himself a little nearer his hostess.“What woman?”For answer she handed him the larger of the two cards.“Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke,” he read. He glanced at Mrs. Bechcombe. “What does this mean?”“That woman—I have always felt certain she was responsible for Luke's death,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned incoherently. “Oh, yes”—as Steadman made a movement of dissent—“if she did not actually kill him herself she took her horrid diamonds to him and let the murderer know and follow her. Oh, yes, I shall always hold her responsible. But to-day you see she—I mean he—the man says their business is important. Perhaps he has found out—something. What am I to do?”“Why not ask them to come in here?” John Steadman suggested. “We are all members of the family,” glancing round the room.Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated. Aubrey Todmarsh sprang to his feet.“I must go, Aunt Madeline. I have to see about bail for Hopkins, and that he is legally represented. And, besides, I don't really feel that I can stand any more to-day.”His face was working as he spoke, and they all looked at him sympathetically as he hurriedly shook hands with Mrs. Bechcombe. His absorption in Hopkins's backsliding was so evidently of first consideration, rendering him oblivious even of his fiancée. As for the poor little Butterfly, her spirits, which had been gradually rising, seemed to be finally damped by this last contretemps. She raised no objection to her lover's abrupt departure, but sat silent and depressed until the Carnthwackes were ushered into the room.One glance was enough to show John Steadman that both the American and his wife were looking strangely disturbed. They went straight up to Mrs. Bechcombe.“I am obliged to you, ma'am, for receiving us,” Carnthwacke began, while his wife laid her hand on Aubrey Todmarsh's vacant chair as though to steady herself.“You said it was important,” Mrs. Bechcombe's manner was distant. She did not glance at Mrs. Carnthwacke.“So it is, ma'am, very important!” the American assented. “Sure thing that, else I wouldn't have ventured to butt in this morning. Though if I had gathered your guests were so numerous”—looking round comprehensively and making a slight courteous bow to Steadman and Collyer—“but I don't know. It is best that a thing of this importance should be settled at once.”As he spoke he was slowly removing the brown paper covering from a small parcel he had taken from his breast pocket. Watching him curiously Steadman saw to his amazement that when the contents were finally extracted they appeared to be nothing more important than the day's issue of an illustrated paper.Carnthwacke spread it out. Then he looked back at Mrs. Bechcombe.“I don't want to hurt your feelings, ma'am. And it may be that some one else belonging to the house, perhaps that gentleman I saw down at the Yard”—with a gesture in Steadman's direction—“would just look at this picture.”Steadman stepped forward. But Mrs. Bechcombe's curiosity had been aroused. She leaned across.“I will see it myself, please.”Carnthwacke laid it on the table before the astonished eyes of the company.A glance showed John Steadman that the centre print was a quite recognizable portrait of Luke Bechcombe. There were also pictures of the offices in Crow's Inn, both inside and out, an obviously fancy likeness of Thompson “the absconding manager,” and of Miss Cecily Hoyle, the dead man's secretary.Steadman half expected to find Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke figuring largely, but so far as he could see there was nothing to account for that lady's excessive agitation.She passed her handkerchief over her lips now as she sat down sideways on the chair that Tony Collyer placed for her, and he noticed that she was trembling all over and that every drop of colour seemed to have receded from her cheeks and lips. Her admirers on the variety stage would not have recognized their idol now.Carnthwacke cleared a space on the table and spread out his paper carefully, smoothing out the creases with meticulous attention. Then he pointed his carefully manicured forefinger at the portrait of Luke Bechcombe in the middle.“Would you call that a reasonably good picture of your late husband, ma'am?”Mrs. Bechcombe drew her eyebrows together as she bent over it.“Yes, it is—very,” she said decidedly. “I should say unusually good for this class of paper. It is copied from one of the last photographs he had taken, one he sat for when we were staying with his sister in the country. You remember, James?” appealing to the rector.Mr. Collyer smiled sadly.“Indeed I do. We were all sitting on the lawn and that friend of Tony's, Leonard Barnes, insisted on taking us all. Poor Luke's was particularly good. Why are you asking, Mr. Carnthwacke?”Carnthwacke wagged his yellow forefinger reprovingly in the direction of the rector.“One moment, reverend sir. It may be, ma'am, that you have another portrait of your lamented husband that you could let us glimpse?”Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated a moment and glanced nervously at John Steadman. In spite of all her preconceived notions, the American was beginning to impress her. There was something in his manner, restrained yet with a sinister undercurrent, that filled her with a sense of some hitherto unguessed-at, unnamable dread. At last, moving like a woman in a dream, she went across to the writing-table that stood between the two tall windows overlooking the square, and unlocking a drawer took out a cabinet photograph.“There, that is the most recent, and I think the best we have. It was taken at Frank and Burrows, the big photographers in Baker Street.”“Allow me, ma'am.” Cyril B. Carnthwacke held out his hand. He studied the photograph silently for a minute or two, laying it beside the paper and apparently comparing the two. Everybody in the room watched him with curious, interested eyes. His wife sat crouching against the table, leaning over it, her handkerchief, crushed into a hard little ball, pressed against her lips.At last Carnthwacke laid both the portraits down together and stood up with an air of finality.“Mrs. Carnthwacke, I rather fancy the moment to speak has come. Now, don't fuss yourself, but just tell these ladies and gentlemen what you have to say simply, same way as you did to me.”It seemed at first, as Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared to struggle for breath and caught convulsively at her husband's hand, that she would not be able to speak at all. But his firm clasp drew her up. The magnetism of his gaze compelled her words.“If that is Mr. Bechcombe,” she said very slowly, “that portrait, I mean, and if it is a really good likeness of him, I can only say”—she paused again and gulped something down in her throat—“that that is not the man I saw at the office, not the man to whom I gave my diamonds.”A tense silence followed this avowal—a silence that was broken at last by a moan from Mrs. Bechcombe.“What do you mean? What does she mean?”There was another momentary silence, broken this time by John Steadman. He had remained standing since the Carnthwackes came in, on the other side of the table. He came round towards them now.“I think you must give us a little further explanation, Mrs. Carnthwacke,” he said courteously.Mrs. Carnthwacke was pressing the little ball that had been her handkerchief to her lips again. She turned from him with a quick gesture as though to shut him, the other guests, the whole room, out of her sight.Her husband laid his hand on her shoulder, heavily yet with a certain comfort in its very contact.“That is all right, old girl. You just keep quiet and leave it to me. She can't give you any explanation. That is just all she can say,” he went on in a determined, almost a hostile voice. “As soon as she saw that portrait, she knew, if that was Luke Bechcombe, that she never saw him at all on the day of his death—that she gave the diamonds to some one else, some one impersonating him.”“And who,” inquired John Steadman in that quiet, lazy voice of his, “do you imagine could have impersonated Luke Bechcombe?”The American looked him squarely in the eyes.“That's for you legal gentlemen to decide. It is not for me to come butting in. But I can put you wise on one thing that stares one right in the face, so to speak, that I can say before I quit. I don't guess who it was who impersonated Luke Bechcombe, or where he came from or how he got right there. But there is only one man it could have been, and that is the murderer!”

Luncheon, not a particularly cheerful meal, was over. Mrs. Phillimore's jewelled cigarette case lay on the table beside her, but her cigarette had gone out in its amber holder, and her eyes were furtively watching her fiancé as she chatted with Mr. Collyer, who sat opposite.

Aubrey Todmarsh had taken his uncle's advice and pulled himself together. He was talking much as usual now, but John Steadman watching him from his seat opposite thought that his face looked queer and strained. His eyes no longer seemed to see visions, but were bloodshot and weary. His high cheekbones had the skin drawn tightly across them to-day and gave him almost a Mongolian look; his usually sleek, dark hair was ruffled across his forehead.

John Steadman had not hitherto felt particularly attracted by the young head of the Community of St. Philip. Apart from the natural contempt of the ordinary man for a conscientious objector, there always to Steadman appeared something wild and ridiculous about Todmarsh's visionary speeches and ideas. To-day, however, his sympathies were aroused by the young man's obviously very great disappointment over Hopkins's defection. He felt sorry for Mrs. Phillimore too. The poor little widow was evidently sharing her lover's depression, and, though she did her best to appear bright and cheerful, was watching him anxiously while she talked to her hostess or to Steadman himself.

It seemed to Steadman that he had never realized how protracted a meal luncheon could be until to-day, and he was on the point of making some excuse to Mrs. Bechcombe for effecting an early retreat when the parlourmaid entered the room with two cards—on one of which a few words were written—upon her silver salver.

Mrs. Bechcombe took them up with a murmured excuse. She glanced at them carelessly, then her expression changed. She looked round in indecision then turned to Steadman.

“I—I don't know what to do. That woman——”

The momentary lull in the conversation had passed; every one was talking busily. Under cover of the hum, Steadman edged himself a little nearer his hostess.

“What woman?”

For answer she handed him the larger of the two cards.

“Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke,” he read. He glanced at Mrs. Bechcombe. “What does this mean?”

“That woman—I have always felt certain she was responsible for Luke's death,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned incoherently. “Oh, yes”—as Steadman made a movement of dissent—“if she did not actually kill him herself she took her horrid diamonds to him and let the murderer know and follow her. Oh, yes, I shall always hold her responsible. But to-day you see she—I mean he—the man says their business is important. Perhaps he has found out—something. What am I to do?”

“Why not ask them to come in here?” John Steadman suggested. “We are all members of the family,” glancing round the room.

Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated. Aubrey Todmarsh sprang to his feet.

“I must go, Aunt Madeline. I have to see about bail for Hopkins, and that he is legally represented. And, besides, I don't really feel that I can stand any more to-day.”

His face was working as he spoke, and they all looked at him sympathetically as he hurriedly shook hands with Mrs. Bechcombe. His absorption in Hopkins's backsliding was so evidently of first consideration, rendering him oblivious even of his fiancée. As for the poor little Butterfly, her spirits, which had been gradually rising, seemed to be finally damped by this last contretemps. She raised no objection to her lover's abrupt departure, but sat silent and depressed until the Carnthwackes were ushered into the room.

One glance was enough to show John Steadman that both the American and his wife were looking strangely disturbed. They went straight up to Mrs. Bechcombe.

“I am obliged to you, ma'am, for receiving us,” Carnthwacke began, while his wife laid her hand on Aubrey Todmarsh's vacant chair as though to steady herself.

“You said it was important,” Mrs. Bechcombe's manner was distant. She did not glance at Mrs. Carnthwacke.

“So it is, ma'am, very important!” the American assented. “Sure thing that, else I wouldn't have ventured to butt in this morning. Though if I had gathered your guests were so numerous”—looking round comprehensively and making a slight courteous bow to Steadman and Collyer—“but I don't know. It is best that a thing of this importance should be settled at once.”

As he spoke he was slowly removing the brown paper covering from a small parcel he had taken from his breast pocket. Watching him curiously Steadman saw to his amazement that when the contents were finally extracted they appeared to be nothing more important than the day's issue of an illustrated paper.

Carnthwacke spread it out. Then he looked back at Mrs. Bechcombe.

“I don't want to hurt your feelings, ma'am. And it may be that some one else belonging to the house, perhaps that gentleman I saw down at the Yard”—with a gesture in Steadman's direction—“would just look at this picture.”

Steadman stepped forward. But Mrs. Bechcombe's curiosity had been aroused. She leaned across.

“I will see it myself, please.”

Carnthwacke laid it on the table before the astonished eyes of the company.

A glance showed John Steadman that the centre print was a quite recognizable portrait of Luke Bechcombe. There were also pictures of the offices in Crow's Inn, both inside and out, an obviously fancy likeness of Thompson “the absconding manager,” and of Miss Cecily Hoyle, the dead man's secretary.

Steadman half expected to find Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke figuring largely, but so far as he could see there was nothing to account for that lady's excessive agitation.

She passed her handkerchief over her lips now as she sat down sideways on the chair that Tony Collyer placed for her, and he noticed that she was trembling all over and that every drop of colour seemed to have receded from her cheeks and lips. Her admirers on the variety stage would not have recognized their idol now.

Carnthwacke cleared a space on the table and spread out his paper carefully, smoothing out the creases with meticulous attention. Then he pointed his carefully manicured forefinger at the portrait of Luke Bechcombe in the middle.

“Would you call that a reasonably good picture of your late husband, ma'am?”

Mrs. Bechcombe drew her eyebrows together as she bent over it.

“Yes, it is—very,” she said decidedly. “I should say unusually good for this class of paper. It is copied from one of the last photographs he had taken, one he sat for when we were staying with his sister in the country. You remember, James?” appealing to the rector.

Mr. Collyer smiled sadly.

“Indeed I do. We were all sitting on the lawn and that friend of Tony's, Leonard Barnes, insisted on taking us all. Poor Luke's was particularly good. Why are you asking, Mr. Carnthwacke?”

Carnthwacke wagged his yellow forefinger reprovingly in the direction of the rector.

“One moment, reverend sir. It may be, ma'am, that you have another portrait of your lamented husband that you could let us glimpse?”

Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated a moment and glanced nervously at John Steadman. In spite of all her preconceived notions, the American was beginning to impress her. There was something in his manner, restrained yet with a sinister undercurrent, that filled her with a sense of some hitherto unguessed-at, unnamable dread. At last, moving like a woman in a dream, she went across to the writing-table that stood between the two tall windows overlooking the square, and unlocking a drawer took out a cabinet photograph.

“There, that is the most recent, and I think the best we have. It was taken at Frank and Burrows, the big photographers in Baker Street.”

“Allow me, ma'am.” Cyril B. Carnthwacke held out his hand. He studied the photograph silently for a minute or two, laying it beside the paper and apparently comparing the two. Everybody in the room watched him with curious, interested eyes. His wife sat crouching against the table, leaning over it, her handkerchief, crushed into a hard little ball, pressed against her lips.

At last Carnthwacke laid both the portraits down together and stood up with an air of finality.

“Mrs. Carnthwacke, I rather fancy the moment to speak has come. Now, don't fuss yourself, but just tell these ladies and gentlemen what you have to say simply, same way as you did to me.”

It seemed at first, as Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared to struggle for breath and caught convulsively at her husband's hand, that she would not be able to speak at all. But his firm clasp drew her up. The magnetism of his gaze compelled her words.

“If that is Mr. Bechcombe,” she said very slowly, “that portrait, I mean, and if it is a really good likeness of him, I can only say”—she paused again and gulped something down in her throat—“that that is not the man I saw at the office, not the man to whom I gave my diamonds.”

A tense silence followed this avowal—a silence that was broken at last by a moan from Mrs. Bechcombe.

“What do you mean? What does she mean?”

There was another momentary silence, broken this time by John Steadman. He had remained standing since the Carnthwackes came in, on the other side of the table. He came round towards them now.

“I think you must give us a little further explanation, Mrs. Carnthwacke,” he said courteously.

Mrs. Carnthwacke was pressing the little ball that had been her handkerchief to her lips again. She turned from him with a quick gesture as though to shut him, the other guests, the whole room, out of her sight.

Her husband laid his hand on her shoulder, heavily yet with a certain comfort in its very contact.

“That is all right, old girl. You just keep quiet and leave it to me. She can't give you any explanation. That is just all she can say,” he went on in a determined, almost a hostile voice. “As soon as she saw that portrait, she knew, if that was Luke Bechcombe, that she never saw him at all on the day of his death—that she gave the diamonds to some one else, some one impersonating him.”

“And who,” inquired John Steadman in that quiet, lazy voice of his, “do you imagine could have impersonated Luke Bechcombe?”

The American looked him squarely in the eyes.

“That's for you legal gentlemen to decide. It is not for me to come butting in. But I can put you wise on one thing that stares one right in the face, so to speak, that I can say before I quit. I don't guess who it was who impersonated Luke Bechcombe, or where he came from or how he got right there. But there is only one man it could have been, and that is the murderer!”

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