The Annam Jewel (20 page)

Coverdale took the book with a “Thank you, Waring,” pushed his chair a little nearer to a lamp, leaned back, and began to read. The lamplight showed his fine, dark face, the hair grey at the temples. When he turned a leaf it shone on the sensitive, well-kept hand.

Peter looked and wondered. If this man were Dale, then there were many gaps to be filled.

Coverdale finished reading, and closed the book.

“Entirely one-sided, of course, but very interesting,” he said. “By the way, there's one point I'd like to rectify. Your father says that I fired at him point-blank when he sprang out of bed. As he himself admits that he was light-headed at the time, perhaps you'll take my word for it that I did no such thing. I had no intention whatever of firing at an unarmed and wounded man. Your father jumped at me, knocking my arm up, and my revolver went off into the blue. I may say that if I had fired at him, I should have hit him. It was, of course, a most unfortunate occurrence, as it led Henders to fire and hit. He had sworn not to use his revolver—that's the truth, though you may not believe it. And as to the rest of it—well, I can tell you a good deal if you'd care to hear.”

Peter had picked up a paper-knife from the table near. It was a mere sliver of ivory, carved at one end into a tracery like fine lace. He sat forward hi his chair, balancing the paper-knife, twisting it.

“Of course I'd like to hear,” he said almost roughly.

Coverdale nodded, got up, and began to pace the room. He walked to the window and back, then halted, stood awhile with his back to the fireless hearth, and spoke.

“Yes, I expect you'd like to hear. I know I'd like to speak. Queer, how you carry a thing for years, hardly thinking about it, and then feel the need to talk it out!” He paused. Peter looked at the ivory knife, but it did not occur to him to speak. After a moment Coverdale went on:

“I'm afraid I must be personal. If you're bored, say so—but the whole thing really hangs together. It really begins with my father. He went to China in the Diplomatic Service. When I was six there was a blazing row. He married a Chinese lady, and took up a semi-Oriental way of life. He was a man of brilliant talents and odd theories. I had a Chinese tutor until I was twelve. My father himself taught me the English school subjects. When I was twelve he sent me home. I was at Eton for six years. Then he sent for me to come out East again. Four years later he died, and I discovered that he had been living on capital—there wasn't much left, and what there was had to go to my sisters, both older than myself. They had been living in England since my mother's death. I'm really making this as short as possible, but I want you to understand the position. There I was at twenty-two, with a passion for Chinese manuscripts and Chinese antiquities of all sorts, no money and a widening breach between myself and my father's people.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I set out to turn my knowledge into money. Some years were good and some were bad. I made enough to keep me, and I made a certain name for myself. I had a flair. I called myself Dale chiefly because it was shorter than Coverdale—I had no motive for concealment then. When I was nearly thirty I married Sylvia's mother—a missionary's daughter—Sylvia is very like her. That's really where the thing begins. She hated the East; she simply hated it; she wanted to get out of it and go home; it got worse after Sylvia was born.”

He stopped speaking, and walked again twice up and down the long room, then took up his tale, speaking in a dry, cool voice which showed no trace of emotion.

“I had come across a reference to the Annam Jewel years before—just the merest hint. Afterwards in two other very ancient manuscripts I found passages which gave a further clue. Finally, just when the pressure of my personal affairs was becoming unendurable, I met Henders. He described the Jewel to me, and asked me whether I believed that it existed. I was very cautious, but I saw that he knew something. He told me he got his information from James Waring. Well, he brought Waring to see me; and the upshot was that we agreed to go into the job together. Now, what I want to lay stress on is this—Waring and Henders knew next to nothing; Henders only knew what Waring told him; and Waring knew no more than that the Jewel existed somewhere—he knew that it was unique—he described it. He'd been in Annam for some time—had, in point of fact, practically gone native—and he'd picked up the sort of vague stories which are associated with any famous object, especially if it is very much venerated, as the Jewel was. The point is that he didn't know where it was, and of course Henders didn't either. Neither of them had anything more than vague stories, whereas I had the exact knowledge. The second manuscript gave an account of how the Jewel came to be taken to Annam. And the third, a much later one, gave a description of the Jewel in its shrine—it was written by a Chinese monk for the edification of his abbot.

“You see, I knew where the Jewel was. They didn't. You know, of course, that Annam means ‘The Hidden Way'. Well, the way to the Jewel was hidden—I knew that from the manuscript. The whole thing fired me. There was the value of the Jewel, and the pressure of my affairs; and there was the fascination, the appeal to the other side of me—the side that cared for the Jewel because it was beautiful, and unique, and very, very old—that was the strongest really. Henders was mad keen too. He was an expert in precious stones—you know that—and he was also one of the most ambitious men I've ever met. He always had his mind set to get where he is now—at the top, where he could move men and pull strings. He saw his chance in the Jewel. Waring just wanted the money. Well, I went in with them—I didn't like either of them but I went in with them. I knew that the Jewel had been taken to Annam and had become the centre of a cult there. Well, we went there. Henders made a fake Jewel from the description. It was very rough, but he thought it might be useful.”

“Is this it?” said Peter.

He dropped the paper-knife, dived into a pocket, and held out the sham stone which had come to him from his father. Coverdale picked it up, held it to the light, and tossed it back.

“Yes, that's it. Your father mentions it too. I suppose he kept it. Well, as it turned out it wasn't used. Waring gave us the slip. He found out where the Jewel was—there was a girl mixed up in it—and as soon as he found out where it was he gave us the slip—went right back on us. And I'll say this, Waring, that if ever a man deserved what he got, it was that uncle of yours. He played a pretty mean trick on the girl he got his information from, and she came to her death through it; and he went right back on his partners.”

Peter slid the false Jewel back into his pocket, and retrieved the ivory knife. He had no observations to make upon the character of his Uncle James.

“Well, he got the Jewel,” said Coverdale. “I don't know how, but he got it; and Henders killed him for it. I wasn't there—you needn't believe that if you don't want to, but I just give it to you as part of my statement—I wasn't there because I'd had bad news. I got a message to say my wife had gone—an American tourist with lots of money. She'd left Sylvia with her native nurse and gone. Well, the rest is more or less as your father has it. I got back to find Henders raging; and I was pretty mad too. I didn't see what right Henry Waring had in the matter at all, and I agreed to go with Henders and get the Jewel back from him, only stipulating that there should be no more violence. Well, you know what happened.”

Peter nodded half absently. The scene described by his father rose before him. Henders with his light, cold eyes and his oath to use no violence, and the revolver in his hand—the hand with the scar upon it. The ivory paper-knife snapped in two; the sharp end fell to the ground.

“We got off that night,” said Coverdale. “We got clear away to the States. I took Sylvia with me. We went to the States because Henders said he knew he could get a job there through a cousin of his, and, once he was in with the trade, we should be able to sell the Jewel. Now, I want you to take this in—I had the Jewel in my care, and Henders made two attempts to steal it before we landed. He didn't succeed, because I had taken his measure. I always knew I couldn't trust him an inch—that's where I was an out-and-out fool, to go into a deal like that with two men that I couldn't trust.”

He threw out his hand with a sharp gesture, then crossed to his old place, and sat down.

“I'm nearly done,” he said. “Henders got his job. I kept the Jewel. He used to come and ask me to let him look at it; he said it fascinated him. I know now that he was trying to make a copy. He used to sit and stare at it whilst I kept him covered—we'd got through with pretences by then, and he knew I didn't trust him. Well, in the end he tried to cheat me. He changed the false Jewel for the real one under my very nose, and almost took me in. He had chosen his time well, a dark day and the evening drawing in. But”—Coverdale laughed—“I told you I had a flair; my eye was deceived, but not my hand. I knew the thing for a fake as soon as I touched it. We had a scrap. I was off my guard, and he got my revolver. It was the narrowest escape I've ever had, for he certainly meant murder. That's his mark.”

He touched the faint line of a scar that ran back from the left cheek-bone.

“Well, after that I didn't think I was under any obligation to him. I didn't think he'd give up the game, but the next thing I heard was that he'd been arrested—Michel's old game of picking out a valuable stone here and there and substituting a copy. His past record came out, and he got a heavy sentence. Before the trial was over I got news that a cousin of my father's had left me Sunnings and a goodish bit of money, so I cleared out. I'd my own reasons for never wanting to see the States again. Well, that's the story—all but one thing. Henders has a hold over me—I needn't go into it; it's to do with my private affairs—but, in the last resort, he could get me extradited to the States if he thought it worth while, and that's why I'm off.”

Peter looked up quickly.

“Off?” he said.

“Yes. It's partly because I'm bored, but partly because of Henders. I shouldn't really enjoy standing my trial in New York, where Henders could get out a warrant against me if he chose. And I've a hankering to go back to China. I've sold Sunnings, and I'm off.”

“Soon?” said Peter.

“Today, or tomorrow, or the next day,” said Coverdale with a wave of the hand.

Peter was silent for a moment, then he leaned forward and said:

“What about Sylvia, sir?”

Coverdale's look became intent.

“You have a faculty for getting right there,” he said. “It's quite a good faculty in its way. My own habit of mind is rather discursive, I'm afraid; but I was about to put that very question to you. Shall we consider it put?”

Peter got up. He looked very large.

“I don't quite know what you mean by that,” he said.

Coverdale smiled his charming smile.

“It was a little crude, eh? Let me put it into a rather more civilized shape. You're pretty good friends with Sylvia, aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Peter. Then, after a pause, “But why did you think so?”

Coverdale laughed.

“Oh, my dear Waring, you don't do me justice, you really don't. Sylvia gives you the Jewel, and you ask me my reason for supposing that you are friends.”

“She was frightened,” said Peter.

Coverdale broke in upon his rather measured speech.

“Yes, she was frightened, and therefore acted on instinct. Without thinking she turned to you, gave you the Jewel. The question is, what do you mean by being friends? Are you fond of her?”

“Yes, I'm very fond of Sylvia,” said Peter. “And I'm very sorry for her, too. She's most frightfully unhappy; and that brute Henders—”

Coverdale regarded him with a slightly whimsical expression.

“Yes, yes, just so,” he said. “Well, that being the case, I have something more to say. It's about the Jewel. If I keep it, Henders will rake the East for me until he finds me; and, as I desire a little peaceful seclusion for study, I do not propose to take the Jewel to China. On the other hand, I certainly do not propose to let Henders have it. There remains—yourself. Quite seriously, I have been thinking of making you a present of the Jewel with my blessing, and—you say you're fond of Sylvia and frightfully sorry for her …” He broke off, with that easy gesture of the hand. “In point of fact, my dear Waring, I am suggesting that the Jewel might be Sylvia's dowry. I might almost be a mid-Victorian father asking your intentions, and before you answer you may just as well have a look at what you're being offered.”

He unbuckled his wrist watch as he spoke, opened the back, and shook the Annam Jewel out upon the table. It lay just under the lamp and burned there like a flame. Coverdale touched it with his finger, and said, speaking only just above his breath:

“Ten years ago I couldn't have left it to you or to anyone else. I never wanted to sell it, you know. I believe I'd rather have starved. I wanted to keep it, to know that I had it—the rarest thing in the world, the only one. I don't really know that I can leave it now.” His voice went away to a whisper.

Peter found himself speaking in gruff, decided tones.

“It's most frightfully good of you, sir, but I'm afraid you misunderstood about Sylvia and myself. We're just friends, and I'd be frightfully glad to be of any use to her, or to look after her, or anything of that sort, but—”

“No wedding bells?” said Coverdale. He touched the Jewel again. “Not even for this?”

Peter frowned and squared his shoulders.

“Of course you don't mean that seriously,” he said. “I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear just now. Sylvia and I are great friends, and I hope we always shall be. I'm quite sure she has never thought of me as anything but a friend. She knows very well that I think no end of her, and all that; but I've always been more or less engaged to somebody else.”