E. Phillips Oppenheim - Crime & Mystery Collection - 110+ Thrillers & Detective Tales in One Volume (Illustrated Edition)

Goade held the bowl to his lips. Then he listened.

“They’re coming to fetch you,” he announced. “You’ll be all right, Crang. You’ll stick to it?”

“I surely will,” was the emphatic reply. “It were ordained they should marry, and you can tell Mabel it’s all right.”

The man’s strength was amazing. He was almost able to sit up. Goade made his way out to the fresh air, and beckoned to the labourers who were already climbing out of the wagon in the lane.

Table of Contents

“QUEER thing, coming across you outside the Cathedral like that,” Captain Faulkener remarked, as he established his two guests—Flip was of the party—at a comfortable table in the coffee room of the Cathedral Arms. “Only last night I was thinking about you.”

“We really wandered down this way quite by chance,” Goade observed. “I hadn’t meant to come so far south.”

Faulkener ordered his luncheon and sipped his aperitif.

“Jolly good idea of yours,” he remarked, “to spend this six months’ leave wandering about quietly. The most tranquil county I know, Devonshire.”

“Is it?” Goade murmured. “I was thinking of trying Mexico.”

“Eh?”

“I mean to say that somehow or other Flip and I always seem to be nosing our way into other people’s troubles. We’ve had one or two quite strenuous weeks in the most unlikely places.”

“You certainly did see through that Unwin affair,” Faulkener admitted. “Shocking thing, too! Where are you going from here?”

“We haven’t any plans,” Goade admitted.

“Now I’m so far south I daresay I shall make for the coast.”

A man, passing down the room, paused to exchange a word with Faulkener, who introduced him presently to Goade.

“This is Mr. Goade from Scotland Yard, Manton—Major Manton, the governor of our prison here.”

“I know Mr. Goade quite well by name and reputation,” Major Manton declared.

They talked for a moment indifferently. Then the latter passed on, and Captain Faulkener leaned towards his companion confidentially.

“I didn’t ask him to lunch, Goade,” he said, “because I wanted just a word with you privately.”

“Not another case, I hope,” Goade asked.

“No, not exactly that,” Faulkener replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “There’s a little matter here, though, that’s bothering me. I’m hard up against it, and the person chiefly concerned doesn’t want me to appeal to Scotland Yard. I thought perhaps, as you were in the neighbourhood—if I could interest you—you might see if you could straighten it out for us.”

“Tell me about it,” Goade invited resignedly.

“I’d rather you heard the story from the person chiefly concerned. You can spare half an hour this afternoon?”

“I suppose so,” Goade assented without enthusiasm. “I meant to spend the rest of the day here, anyhow.”

“I’ll put your name down at the club,” Faulkener suggested. “There’s a decent rubber of bridge there in the afternoon. Can you be ready for me at four o’clock?”

“Certainly. You won’t tell me anything about the case, then?”

“Not a word.”

At four o’clock Faulkener led the way to the Close, and rang the bell of a very picturesque old red brick residence, ivy-covered and with a strong ecclesiastical flavour. A dignified butler answered their summons and ushered them into a spacious library, where a tall and rather pompous-looking man, with the nether garments of a dignitary of the Church, was seated at a handsome writing table dictating letters to a secretary. He waved her away and rose to welcome his visitors.

“Dean,” Captain Faulkener said, “this is Mr. Goade, of whom I have spoken to you. Mr. Goade—Dean Followay.”

The Dean shook hands, and indicated two comfortable easy-chairs.

“I haven’t said a word to Goade yet about this little trouble,” Faulkener went on. “I thought I’d like him to have the details from you in your own words. If I might venture to advise you, Dean, I’d keep nothing back from Mr. Goade. You’ll find,” he continued, turning to his companion, “that the case is just as simple as it is embarrassing.”

The Dean inclined his head. He had a long, rugged face with an unusually large mouth, shaggy eyebrows and iron-grey hair. Without being exactly of ascetic appearance, he certainly gave one the impression of a man whose lines had not always been cast in the easy places.

“I think,” he began, his finger tips pressed together, his eyes fixed upon Goade, “that my friend Faulkener has used the right term to describe our position. It is embarrassing. I shall tell you the story of our predicament in as few words as possible, but it is necessary to enlarge for a moment on matters of my personal history.”

“I should like you to tell it to me in your own way,” Goade said.

“I started life as a curate with no private means,” the Dean continued; “I have never been possessed of private means. I have a large family, and my stipend has at no time left room for luxuries. The care of my children, therefore, becomes an important matter to me. I have four daughters, the eldest of whom is twenty years old. I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Goade. It is our ambition—the ambition of their mother and myself—to have them comfortably settled in life. There is not a great deal of young society in this neighbourhood. For this reason, my wife and I were exceedingly gratified when a fortnight ago we received an invitation from the Duchess of Exeter for our daughter to join her house party at Exeter Park for three or four days. Our daughter made her preparations and duly departed. She received the most delightful hospitality, but she returned here on the termination of her visit in a state of great distress.”

The Dean paused for a moment, and played thoughtfully with his watch chain.

“I should explain,” he went on, “that my daughter Florence had a godmother, a great friend of my wife’s—the Princess Shibolzky, an English lady married to a Russian. We always hoped, as the Shibolzkys were very wealthy and had no children, that my daughter might benefit by the association. The revolution, unfortunately, changed all that. The Princess died in something approaching poverty. She, however, left to my daughter Florence the one remaining piece of her famous collection of jewels—an emerald pendant of great beauty and, I believe, great value. We only received the jewel a month ago. A local jeweller valued it at some two thousand pounds, and when the invitation from Exeter Park arrived I was making enquiries with a view to having it insured. Against my wishes my daughter decided to take the jewel with her. She had, it appears, a green evening dress, and the effect of the jewel, I must admit, was exceedingly pleasing. I confess that I should have had it insured before allowing her to depart with it, but I did not. She came back without the jewel, and with a very distressing story. It is a story of a few words only, and it is one which she shall tell you herself.”

The Dean rang the bell.

“Will you ask Miss Florence to step this way,” he instructed the butler.

The young lady duly appeared—a dark, handsome girl, almost as tall as her father, but without in any other way resembling him. The Dean introduced her, and Captain Faulkener placed a chair.

“I want you to tell this gentleman, Mr. Goade,” her father said, “how you lost your jewel. You must tell him exactly what you have told us.”

She made a little grimace.

“It is a horrible business,” she said, “but this is just what happened. The platinum clasp was very strong indeed, and could be opened only by pushing the two ends together. Several people admired it, and Lord Geoffrey, who danced with me quite a lot, seemed particularly struck with it. Towards the end of the evening he asked me to sit out on the terrace with him. There was a slight breeze, and he insisted upon fetching me a wrap. We talked for some time, and more than once I saw the jewel flashing, and even remember now thinking what a wonderful colour it seemed against my dress. When we went in, Lord Geoffrey unfastened my scarf himself. He was quite a long time doing it, talking to me all the time, saying, in fact, rather nice things. He left me inside the room and took the scarf away. Before he came back some one had claimed me for a dance, and I had scarcely started it before I noticed that my emerald had gone—chain and all.”