Gary Alexander - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

Within the week Ganelon had received a letter from Mr. Swaffham describing the events that took place on his return to Briggston. He had gone at once to Eskdale Castle, where Sir Blundell received him coolly. “I hope this isn’t about the reward, Swaffham,” he declared. “I’ve no intention of acting in that direction until the court has exonerated you of any part in damned Pendry’s murder. Being led to the body by a dream is a bit much, after all.”

“I do expect considerable legal expenses in the matter, my lord,” said the station master. “That set me wondering if there might not be another reward for the whereabouts of the Eskdale cameo. One payable on recovery.”

“Not another dream, Swaffham?” demanded the master of Eskdale Castle skeptically.

“It told me where to dig, my lord.”

Sir Blundell’s eyes took on a calculating cast. “Two hundred pounds,” he declared.

“Guineas,” insisted Swaffham. “And I’ll take you to the spot tomorrow at dawn.”

“Guineas, then,” said Sir Blundell stiffly. “But the police-inspector fellow from London must be along.”

“As a matter of fact, I just saw Inspector Blossom going into the Chalk and Cheese with Mr. Bland,” said the station master. “If you like, I’ll drive you there and we can make the arrangements.”

They found the Inspector and Reginald Bland drinking brandy and water in the gentlemen’s saloon before the blue flames of a coal fire burning behind the grate. They were deep in a discussion of modem thespians, for Blossom admitted himself to be an addict of the labors of former days, of Edmund Kean and Charles Kemble.

When Sir Blundell explained why they had come, Reginald Bland said with weary amusement, “Surely we’ve had enough of Mr. Swaffham’s dreams.”

With a quick wink, Sir Blundell said, “A word with you, my dear fellow. And with you, too. Inspector. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Swaffham?” He led Bland and Inspector Blossom into a corner, where they held an animated discussion in whispers, with many glances back over their shoulders at the station master.

When they returned. Inspector Blossom eyed Swaffham severely. “This dream of yours if you please, Mr. Swaffham.”

“All right,” said Swaffham. “I dreamed I was standing at night on a hill when six men in full armor stepped out of the darkness and closed in on me from all sides. Joints clashing, six arms pointed down to where I was standing and six ghostly whispers urged, ‘Dig there and you will discover the first Earl and his lady.’ ”

At dawn the next morning, the four men gathered together inside the ancient ring of stones called the Whispering Knights on the knoll above the Wye. The blade of Swaffham’s spade grated against the earth beneath his instep. The morning was clear and bright, his companions quiet and expectant. After five minutes’ digging, there came the sound of metal against metal. The station master drew a cheap tin cigarette-case from the dirt and passed it to Inspector Blossom. The policeman pried open the lid. Inside, wrapped in a square of chamois leather, lay the celebrated green-and-black cameo.

Dark with outrage. Sir Blundell said, In his greed, the murderer has convicted himself! One dream relating to Pendry’s murder might be a coincidence. But we agreed last night that two would point an indelible finger of guilt in any court of law. Inspector, do your sworn duty.”

Inspector Blossom nodded. “Mr. Reginald Bland,” he intoned, “I arrest you for the murder of Captain Amos Pendry.”

“Good God. man!” shouted Sir Blundell. “Not Bland! Swaffham here! He robbed and killed Pendry. When I offered the reward, he dug him up again. Now he’s done the same for the cameo. Can’t you get that through your head?”

“I beg to differ, my lord.” said Inspector Blossom. “Mr. Bland buried the cameo last night with Constable Twigg and myself watching from the shadows. Mr. Bland, you must come with me, sir. You have fallen into a trap prepared for you by Mr. Ambrose Ganelon himself.”

“Who the devil’s that?” demanded the mystified Sir Blundell.

“Only the idol of every detective in the civilized world,” said Inspector Blossom. “The most famous, the most—”

When Prattmann leaned forward as if to try to read this part of the letter himself, Ganelon quickly folded the page and stuffed it back into its envelope.

“No need to continue with Mr. Swaffham’s description of events. Sufficient to say that Bland hoped to fix Pendry s murder on Swaffham once and for all by burying the cameo where our little concocted dream said it would be. Yes, it had to be Bland. Captain Pendry was last seen seven miles from Briggston. But his body was found just outside of town. Neither suspect had any earthly reason to bring the body back. So Captain Pendry came back himself. In fact, he hadn’t been waiting for anyone by the side of the road. He had been waiting for Bland’s train.”

“But why did Bland kill his brother-in-law?”

Ganelon took up two foolscap sheets pinned together. “It’s all here in this report from my man.” The detective consulted the bottom of the second page, frowned, and said, “Colbert?” When Prattmann mimicked old Simon’s gestures indicating a long nose and big ears, Ganelon said, “Ah, yes.” Spreading out the long sheets of paper he began to read aloud.

On receiving Ganelon’s instructions, Colbert had made inquiries and discovered that Khyber Cottage, Blackheath, was the address of a Mrs. Marston Woodward. He then proceeded to that suburb by boat to Greenwich and then by cab to the street in question. The residence was substantial and the neighborhood a prosperous one. But the house appeared to have been closed up for some time.

As Colbert stood at the front door wondering what to do next, he was approached by a maid from the house across the street, who asked respectfully if he was with the police. “Not with the British police,” answered Colbert. The maid conveyed this canny reply to her mistress and returned with an invitation for him to step across the street.

Colbert was ushered into an elegant parlor, where a white-haired little ramrod of a woman in mauve taffeta was waiting to receive him. “Am I to understand, then, that Mrs. Woodward has carried her activities abroad?” she asked without ado and in some agitation.

This intriguing question prompted Colbert to tell the woman the entire story. As he spoke, she turned pale, and when he told of the death of Captain Pendry she was visibly staggered. When he had finished, she raised a hand to ask for a moment to compose herself. Then she said,

“Several years ago, I brought into this house a well recommended young woman as governess to my orphaned grandchildren. She was clearly intelligent and seemed of good character and dedication. Her brother, a young man of the cloth, was a frequent visitor here, for they were very close — a fact made all the more poignant because he was preparing himself for the Indian missions and soon would not see her again for years, if ever.

“Now coincidentally, or so I thought, my neighbor across the street had just returned from a twenty-year stay in Calcutta. Marston Woodward was a childless widower in comfortable circumstances. Several times I invited him to my house so that brother and sister could hear at first hand of the distant vineyard to which the young man had chosen to devote his life. This acquaintanceship between my neighbor and my governess blossomed, and within the year she had left me to become Mrs. Marston Woodward, mistress of Khyber Cottage.

“For the next year and a half, our relationship remained cordial. But then Mr. Woodward seemed to have a return of the illness which had obliged him to retire from the Indian service. In spite of his wife’s devoted ministrations, he passed from the human scene. Abruptly, Mrs. Woodward s attitude toward me changed. The cordiality was replaced by a vague politeness. It was as if — how shall I put it? — as if I was no longer a piece on her game-board.”