Comes a Stranger (31 page)

“When it was offered me,” Mr. Broast answered slowly, “it was by letter. I bought on the strength of Monsieur Dessein's description. I was aware I could trust it. When the book reached me I saw his account of it as an unusually fine copy was fully justified. I had no reason to suppose it was identical with the one Mr. Virtue had shown us. Why should I? Mr. Virtue's copy indeed I had no opportunity to examine with any care. I do not remember that such a possibility ever occurred to me.”

“When the other day you were shown the photograph found in Miss Perkins's possession and said to resemble the body Mr. Virtue claimed to have seen through the library window, you did not recognize it?”

Mr. Broast shrugged his shoulders.

“I am afraid I didn't take Mr. Virtue's story very seriously,” he said. “A silly schoolboy hoax, I thought, for some reason of his own—his idea of a joke, perhaps. As regards the photograph, no, at the time, no. But later on it did strike me as having some sort of resemblance to someone I had once seen. I couldn't think who or when. I thought very likely it was only fancy. But I am not very good at remembering faces. They are all so much alike, they are all so entirely without interest.”

“The fact that the initials were the same in both cases, James A. Vivian and James A. Virtue, did not suggest anything?”

“No. Why should it? For that matter I don't suppose I noticed it. I had no special interest in, or knowledge of, Mr. Virtue. I suppose you mean they were the same man? Very likely. That's your affair apparently. It's certainly not mine. So far as I can see the woman who sold to Dessein had a clear claim. I warn you I shall resist to the utmost any attempt to dispute ownership. I can't think any such attempt would succeed for a moment, but if I had to I should certainly take the case to the House of Lords.”

“We've nothing to do with that,” interposes the Major. “Disputed ownership is not a police matter. Our duty is to try to establish what became of Mr. Virtue. Of course, if it can be proved he died abroad, in France, our responsibility ceases.”

The Major then proceeded to express his gratitude to Mr. Broast for having so kindly answered the questions put to him, and for having been so willing to give up so much of his time which, it was fully realized, was extremely valuable; and Mr. Broast made it perfectly plain that he considered it had all been a deplorable and most unnecessary waste of that time. He also made it quite clear once more that he would fight to the death against any attempt to claim the
Dictes
, and then he accompanied them to the little sanctum where Miss Perkins presided and asked her to type out a form of receipt, specifying the details of the letters taken. This done and the receipt duly signed, the Major and Bobby departed. Outside, the Major said:

“Sounds all right, eh? Quite a good, consistent story. Have to be checked, of course, but these letters seem genuine. I suppose there's no doubt Vivian and Virtue are the same?”

“I think so,” agreed Bobby; “I think that's clear. Probably Virtue picked up a girl somewhere and went off with her to the Riviera. Previously he sent most of his luggage to the Paris hotel where it was found. He meant it to wait there for his return. Only he didn't return. He went to the Riviera under an assumed name and he passed off his companion as his wife. That's common enough. Makes things easier even in tolerant France. Probably they don't believe it, but they don't care. Using another name is convenient. Avoids complications, both present and future. One thing to be entered in an hotel register in your own name, quite another thing if the entry is Mr. Jones or Mr. Someone Else. Unfortunately, if death happens, it makes complications, too. No reason, though, to suppose it was anything but a natural death. It took place in hospital, nothing in the least suspicious. He caught a chill perhaps or something like that. But the woman with him sees her opportunity. If she owns up she's only a chance companion, she has no standing. As his wife, she has naturally a right to his possessions, which indeed apparently she had got into her own hands before death actually took place. There was ready money, as well as clothing, and an old book she most likely guessed was worth something, though I don't suppose she had any idea how much. Anyhow, she sold it, and probably she could argue it had been a present to her by him before death, and so was her own property. His papers, letter of credit, passport perhaps, all that would be no use to her, and she probably destroyed the lot. She didn't want a lot of questions asked, and quite possibly she didn't know his real identity. She had lost her lover, but she hadn't done so badly. Of course, that's on the assumption that inquiry confirms the letters and that the death actually occurred as stated. There is just the possibility that the whole story was faked by Broast, with Dessein's assistance, in order to account for the possession of the
Dictes
, if that were challenged, and that the MS. and the Rabelais given Dessein were payment for his help. And now apparently Dessein is dead.”

“Very difficult, very difficult indeed when there's such a time interval,” the Major said. “And all this James A. Virtue business no help to finding out who murdered Kayne and poor Winders. You want to go on with our arrangements for the morning?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, “and another thing, I should like permission to send a telegram to Fromavon.”

“Fromavon?” the Major repeated, not at first understanding this reference to the great West country port that is now rivalling both Bristol and Cardiff. “Oh, because Miss Perkins comes from there?” he said then. “Because of that photograph?”

“Yes, sir. It seems certain Bertram Virtue had been in touch with her. He must have got his information about the
Dictes
from her. I thought it might be useful to trace her from Fromavon to London and see if anything else turns up. You see, sir, she had a copy of a photo of this James Virtue, and I don't much believe the story she told to account for its possession. I thought it might be as well to try to check up.”

“Yes, it might be as well,” agreed the Major, and Bobby duly sent the telegram, but on his own responsibility enlarged its scope a little.

“She bothers me,” he told himself frowningly; “she's always turning up. She may know a good deal more than she's told yet.”

There was nothing more to be done that day, but next morning, very early, almost as soon as it was light indeed, there assembled by the bed of forget-me-nots, under the trees near the seats giving so wide a view over the surrounding country, a little group of men. The Major was there, and Bobby, and with them two uniformed policemen and two others of the police in plain clothes. Superintendent Killick looked on doubtfully from a distance, and with much satisfaction and complacence they perceived that for once no single journalist had got wind of their intention.

The two constables in plain clothes began their work. They had brought spades, picks, so on, with them. First they removed as carefully as they could the top layer of soil with the growing forget-me-nots. It was hoped these might be replaced undamaged. Then they started to dig, using the utmost care, thrusting in their spades with slow deliberation, examining each morsel of earth as they turned it up. For some minutes the work proceeded in silence. A light rain began to fall and stopped again. Each spadeful of earth was carefully laid aside. The ground seemed hard and well packed. Plainly it had not recently been disturbed. Two rabbits came out from among the trees and stopped to watch. Killick threw a clod of earth at them to make them go away. They scampered off, their little white tails upheld. The hole was about three feet deep now. One of the diggers looked up and said:

“There's something here. My spade touched something.”

Bobby handed him a trowel.

“Go carefully,” he said.

The second man ceased work. Cautiously his companion loosened the soil where he had thrust in his spade. He scraped away the earth. Gradually he freed from the soil a round white object. Lifting it in both his hands, he laid it on the ground where Major Harley stood, and Bobby, and Superintendent Killick, all watching.

“Human skull, sir,” said the man who had found it.

They all looked at it in silence, that poor relic of humanity round which now the fresh sweet air of the morning blew, on which the first rays of the sun fell for a moment and then vanished again as though they dared not stay.

The rain began again, but very slightly. Major Harley said:—

“What about that long story Broast told us?”

No one answered him. The digging continued. Gradually a complete human skeleton was exposed. One of the diggers said:—

“There's been lime used—a lot of lime.”

Killick said:—

“Broast will have to find another yarn now.”

Then he said:—

“It's a long time ago. How are we going to prove identity? how are we going to prove anything?”

“Yes, there's that,” agreed the Major. He was looking with close attention at the bones, now nearly free from earth. He said to Bobby:—“Do you notice anything?”

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “It's a woman.”

“Yes,” said the Major. “Yes.”

“It's been a woman all right, sir,” agreed one of the diggers.

“Well, now,” said Killick, “what the hell's that mean?”

“Hell, I think,” said Bobby softly, “is the right word.”

They were all silent and still, bewildered, so engrossed in their own thoughts they did not hear a quiet, approaching step. Now there passed through them Miss Perkins, walking slowly, walking almost as one might walk in sleep. None of them might have been there for all the awareness of them she seemed to show. Killick put out a hand to stop her, but drew it back again. A uniformed constable stepped aside as if compelled to let her pass. There was about her something aloof and even daunting, so that they watched and were silent. It was almost as though she moved in another world to which they had no access. She stopped by the spot where the small skull lay. She knelt down. She put out a hand towards it and touched it with the tips of her fingers.

“It's been a long time, very long,” she said in a voice that did not seem her own. “How long to wait, but now at last it's done.”

Once more she put out her hand and touched the skull, very softly, very gently. It was a grave, a solemn gesture that she made, one, as it seemed, of promise and of greeting. She got to her feet, and as she did so she seemed to assume once more the personality they all knew best, as though it were a garment she put on and off at her ease.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, “but I mustn't be late because of my work that's waiting still.”

In an odd silence they stood and watched her go, and even after they had turned again to the task awaiting them, one or other would pause and give a glance over the shoulder at that small figure as it moved steadily on its way, back to its daily task of typing and copying and filing.

“Bit of a shock for a girl like her,” one of the diggers said presently, the first to break the silence.

His companion answered:

“Notice how she touched it like? She'll have dreams to-night?”

“Look at that! Someone else coming,” Killick said crossly. “Beats me, the way things get about.”

It was footsteps he had heard, and he had caught a glimpse of a form coming near through the trees. A moment later there emerged from them the figure of Mr. Broast, peering shortsightedly through his gold-rimmed spectacles, his hands behind him.

“Well, well, well,” he said, “now then, what's all this?”

No one answered. He came a little nearer. He took off his glasses and looked thoughtfully at the skull still lying by the side of the freshly dug earth.

“Remarkable,” he said. “A grave apparently? A woman buried in secret? But after so many years, what can be done? Identification, I imagine, will be difficult.”

“How did you know it was a woman, Mr. Broast?” Major Harley asked.

“How did I know?” repeated Mr. Broast mildly. He put his glasses on again and came a little nearer still, so that the skull lay almost between his feet. “Well, well,” he said, “it's what we all come to in the end.”

“How did you know it was a woman, Mr. Broast?” Major Harley asked again.

“How did I know?” Mr. Broast said as he had said before. “Why, really, did I say I was? You know, if there were still eyes in those round, vacant holes, they might be watching us. But then there aren't, are there?”

“No,” agreed the Major, and for the third time asked: “How did you know it was a woman?”

“I hardly think I did know,” Mr. Broast answered now. “Was it not perhaps a natural assumption? This skull, for instance—obviously small, the jaw, the bones, fine and slender. I suppose it might be a boy. I had not thought of that. You think it is a boy?”

“No, a woman,” Major Harley answered. “Can you give us any help? suggest any way to identify her? or explain why a body should be buried here?”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Broast gently, “I have not the least idea. None. You should know more than I, since I presume you had some reason for digging here? Hardly chance, I imagine.” He paused as if expecting a reply. None came. He went on: “Identity? That will be difficult, I imagine. The teeth perhaps, I have heard that dentists—” Without finishing his sentence, he stooped and looked more closely at the sad relic lying there, almost between his feet. “No,” he said, “no trace of dental work, small teeth, fine, regular, well-shaped. They must,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, “they must have been charming when she smiled. I remember—”

“Yes,” said Major Harley. “You remember—?”

“I was going to say,” Mr. Broast answered slowly, “that I remembered a girl I knew—oh, many years ago. She had the loveliest teeth. When she smiled, it went to your head like wine. Of course,” he added apologetically, “I was younger then.”