CHAPTER XXV

In that swift unexpected recognition Colwyn observed that the man for

whom they had been searching looked pale and worn. He stood quite still

in the doorway, his breath coming and going in quick gasps.

"We have been looking for you, Captain Nepcote," Colwyn said.

"I am aware of that. I have been waiting to see you, but I could get

nobody to answer my ring."

"My man is out. You had better come upstairs to my rooms."

He led the way to the lift at the end of the corridor. When they reached

the rooms Colwyn switched on the electric light. Nepcote dropped wearily

into a chair, and for the first time Colwyn was able to see his face

clearly.

He looked very ill: there could be no doubt of that. His face was

haggard and unshaven, his clothing was soiled, his attitude one of utter

dejection. He crouched in the chair breathing hurriedly, with one hand

pressed to his right side, as though in pain. Occasionally he coughed: a

short, high-pitched cough, which made him wince.

"You had better drink this before you talk," Colwyn said.

He handed him a glass of brandy and water. Nepcote seized it eagerly and

gulped it down.

"I've caught a bad chill," he said in a hoarse unnatural voice. "I

couldn't carry on any longer. That's why I came to see you to-night. But

I'd given up hopes. I was ringing for some time."

"You came to surrender yourself?"

"Yes; I am fed up--absolutely. I was a fool to bolt. I've had a horrible

time, sleeping out of doors and in verminous lodging-houses, with the

police after me at every turn. I stuck it as long as I could, but to-day

I was ill, and when I saw a policeman watching the lodging-house where I

meant to sleep to-night I felt that I had to give in."

"Why have you come to me instead of going to the police?"

"I thought I would get more consideration from you. I know you are

searching for Mrs. Heredith's necklace. Here it is."

He drew from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in dirty tissue paper,

and put it on the table. The untidy folds fell apart, exposing the

missing necklace, but the diamond was missing from the antique clasp.

"The diamond is in that," he said, placing a small cardboard box beside

the pearls. "I wish I had never seen the cursed thing."

"How do you come to have Mrs. Heredith's necklace?"

Nepcote hesitated before replying.

"I was terribly upset by Mrs. Heredith's death," he said at length. "I

knew her before she married Phil Heredith. We were old friends."

The inconsequence of this statement convinced Colwyn that he was seeking

time to frame an evasive answer.

"If that is all you have to say it is useless to prolong this

interview," he coldly remarked.

"I--I am going to tell you where I got the necklace," Nepcote said, with

downcast eyes. "Mrs. Heredith gave it to me."

"Why did Mrs. Heredith give you her necklace?"

"She asked me to raise some money on it for her."

"For what purpose?"

"I cannot say. Pretty women always need money. It may have been for

dress, or bridge, or old debts. She brought me the necklace one day, and

asked me to get some money on it. I suggested that she should apply to

her husband, but she said she needed some extra money, and she did not

wish him to know."

"And you complied with her request?"

"I did, after she had pressed me several times. I am always a fool where

women are concerned. I promised to raise money on the necklace in London

for her. That was the beginning of my troubles. But who could have

foreseen? How was I to know what was going to happen?"

He sat brooding for a space with gloomy eyes, like a man repelled by the

menace of events, then burst out wildly:

"I'm in a horrible position. Who will believe me? My God, what a fool

I've been!"

"You are doing yourself no good by going on like this," Colwyn said.

"You are keeping something back. My advice to you is to be quite frank

with me and tell me everything."

"You must give me a few minutes first to think it over," responded

Nepcote. He cast a doubtful glance at the detective, and relapsed into

another brooding silence.

"Before you say anything more it is my duty to inform you of my own

connection with the case," said Colwyn. "There has been an arrest for

the murder, as no doubt you are aware, but the family are not satisfied

that the right person has been arrested. You are suspected."

"Do they think that I murdered Violet? Oh, I never dreamt of this," he

added, as Colwyn remained silent. "I thought that you and the police

were searching for me because of the necklace. It is even worse than I

thought. I will now tell you all. Perhaps you will then help me, for I

am innocent."

Until that moment he had flung out his protestations with an excited

impetuosity which told of a mind suffering under a grievous burden,

though it was impossible to determine whether that state of feeling

arose from anxiety or conscious guilt. His quietness now was in the

oddest contrast. It was as though he had been sobered by his realization

of the difficulty of convincing an outsider of his innocence of a foul

crime in which he was deeply entangled by an appalling web of

circumstance.

He began by explaining, vaguely enough, his past friendship with the

murdered girl. He had first met her in London two years before. Their

relations, as he depicted them, conveyed a common story of a casual

acquaintance developed in the familiar atmosphere of secluded

restaurants, with dances and theatres later on. His story of this phase

had all the familiar elements which make up the setting of a modern

sophisticated love episode, into which a man and a girl enter with their

eyes open. In the masculine way, Nepcote refrained from saying anything

which could hurt the dead girl's reputation, but it was his reticence

and reservations which completed the story for his listener. He said

that their flirtation ceased when Violet became engaged to Philip

Heredith. On his own showing he then acted sensibly enough in a delicate

situation, and was afterwards reluctant to accept the invitation to the

moat-house. With one of his reticent evasions he slurred over his reason

for changing his mind, but Colwyn guessed that it was due to the

feminine disinclination to bury an old romance. Violet had probably

written and asked him to come.

He conveyed to Colwyn a picture of the state of things existing at the

moat-house when he arrived. It was an unconscious revelation on his part

of a giddy shallow girl hastily marrying a wealthy young man for his

money, quickly bored by the dull decorum of English country life,

sighing for her former existence--for the gay distractions of her

irresponsible London days. It seemed that in this frame of mind she

welcomed Nepcote as a dear link with the past, and sought his society

with a frequency which had its embarrassments. Of course there was

nothing in it--Nepcote was fiercely insistent on that--she was bored,

poor girl, and liked to talk about old times with her old friend, but it

was awkward, devilish awkward, in a country house full of idle people

and curious servants with nothing to do but use their eyes.

She had taken him aside to tell him of her little troubles. Miss

Heredith did not think her good enough for Phil--she was sure she

thought that. They had the vicar and old frumps in to tea, and she had

to listen to their piffle. They all went to bed soon after ten--just

when people were beginning to wake up in London and go out for the

night. And she had to go to church on Sunday because it was expected of

her, did he ever hear of such rot--and so on. It seemed that everything

in her life bored her. Of course Phil worshipped her, but that didn't

help her much. How could it, Nepcote asked, fixing his burning glance on

his listener, when she had only married him for his coin?

It appeared he had given her such counsel as his worldly experience

suggested. He told her to get Phil to take her up to London now and

again for a change. He advised her to stand no nonsense from anybody,

pointing out to her that she was the future Lady Heredith, and, within

limits, could do practically what she liked.

These intimate details of the confidences between them brought Nepcote

to the vital point of his possession of the necklace. He now admitted

that his former story was untrue. The actual truth was that he had

needed some money badly for his gambling debts. He told Violet of his

position, and asked her had she any money to lend him. She had not, and

rather than ask Phil, she had, for old friendship's sake, offered him

her necklace to raise money on, or to sell outright the diamond in the

clasp. He accepted her offer, and went up to London on the following day

to try and sell the diamond. Wendover's card had been given to him by a

brother officer in France as that of a man who gave a good price for

jewels without asking too many questions. But the diamond merchant had

not lived up to his reputation. He had refused to look at the diamond.

He had been horribly rude, treating him as though he was a pickpocket,

and had practically ordered him out of his office. In fact, his whole

attitude was so suspicious that Nepcote decided it would be better to

leave his gambling debts owing than run the risk of trying to raise

money on a married woman's jewels. He returned to the moat-house,

leaving the necklace locked in his desk at his flat.

At this point Nepcote ceased speaking again, interrupted by a paroxysm

of coughing, and when it passed his eyes turned towards the window, as

though he were listening to the gentle patter of rain on the panes. For

a space the two men sat with no sound in the room except Nepcote's

laboured breathing. When he did resume he spoke with a quickened

emphasis, like a man aware that he was entering upon the part of his

narrative most incredible of belief.

"It happened three nights later," he said. "I was in my room writing

some letters before retiring, when I heard a light and hurried tap at my

door. When I opened it Violet was standing there. She stepped quickly

inside. Before I could express my opinion of her reckless foolishness

she burst into passionate sobs and reproaches. It was all my fault--that

was the burden of her reproach between her sobs. It was some time before

I could get out of her what was wrong. Then she told me that Sir Philip

had asked her to wear the necklace at some dance we were to attend on

the next night. It was then that I learnt that the necklace had been

given to Violet by Sir Philip as a wedding present. Violet attached such

little value to the gift that she had given the necklace to me, thinking

it would not be missed, but she had found out her mistake that night. It

was in the presence of Phil and Miss Heredith that Sir Philip had asked

her to wear it. Violet tried to get out of it by saying that the pearls

were dull and the necklace wanted resetting. On hearing this Miss

Heredith had gone out of the room and returned with Mr. Musard, an old

family friend who had arrived that day on a short visit. He is a

connoisseur in jewels, and Miss Heredith asked his advice about the

necklace. Musard told her that the pearls had long needed some treatment

technically known as "skinning," and he offered to take the necklace to

London two days later and get it done by an expert. Violet accepted the

offer, and then promised Sir Philip that she would wear the necklace at

the party.

"She slipped upstairs to see me as soon as she dared. She was greatly

relieved when she learnt that I had not parted with the necklace, and

she wanted me to go up to London and bring it back so that she could

wear it to the party. I was willing to do so, but I doubted whether I

would be able to get back in time. The local train service had been

restricted on account of the war, and the only train I could catch back

did not reach Heredith until half-past seven.

"It was Violet who hit on the plan. The big thing--the vital thing for

her, she pointed out, was to have the necklace in time to give to Musard

before he went to London. She said she could easily get out of going to

the dance by pretending to have one of her bad headaches, and she did

not wish to meet Mrs. Weyne again. Her idea was that I should pretend I

had been recalled to France, delay my departure until the afternoon

train to prevent suspicion, and return secretly with the necklace. She

said that the afternoon train reached London at twenty-five minutes past

five, which would give me thirty-five minutes to take a taxi to my flat,

get the necklace, and catch the return express at six o'clock. I was to

leave the train at Weydene Junction, where nobody was likely to

recognize me, and walk across country to the moat-house. She expected

that by the time I reached the house the others would have left for the

Weynes, so the coast would be clear. I was to enter the house by a

little unused door at the back of the left wing which she would leave

unlocked for me, and wait at the foot of the staircase until she came

down.

"I did not like this plan because of the risk, but Violet grew almost

hysterical when I objected to it. She said there was no danger, and it

was her only chance of safety. She believed that Phil suspected

something, because he had looked at her strangely when they were talking

about the necklace downstairs. I put that down to nervousness on her

part, but I realized she must have the necklace, so I gave in, and said

I would do as she wished. I have since bitterly regretted that I did not

go openly to London and back, even at the risk of a little idle

curiosity.

"I announced my recall and departure next morning at the breakfast

table, and returned to London by the afternoon train. I drove to

Sherryman Street, got the necklace, and returned to Victoria just in

time to catch the six o'clock express. I left the train at Weydene, and

walked across the fields to the moat-house. It was quite dark when I

reached there. I crossed the back bridge over the moat and went to the

door in the left wing, as we had arranged. To my surprise it was locked.

"I waited outside the door expecting Violet to come down. Everything was

silent, so I thought the others must have started for the dance. But the

time went on, and nobody came. Then I decided to creep round the, side

of the wing and see if there was a light in Violet's bedroom. At that

moment I heard a loud scream from somewhere upstairs, followed by a

deafening report.

"I had no idea what had happened, but I knew that I must not be found

there, so I slipped back the way I had come. I ran along the outside of

the moat wall, making for the wood in front of the house. As I passed

Violet's window I looked up, and it was in darkness. I suppose that was

why I did not connect the shot or the scream with her.

"I plunged through the woods till I came to the carriage drive. From

there the front of the moat-house was visible to me. I could see lights

flashing, and people moving hurriedly about. After I had stood there for

some time I saw a man hurrying across the moat-house bridge in my

direction, so I went back into the wood and hid behind a tree. The man

stopped as he walked along the carriage drive, and looked towards the

tree where I was crouching. He called out 'Who is there?' I recognized

his voice. It was Tufnell, the butler. I thought I was discovered, and

crept into some undergrowth, but in a moment he walked on.

"I remained hidden in the undergrowth for some time--an hour or more.

Once I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel-path, then all was silent

again. After waiting for some time longer I decided to walk back to

Weydene and return to London. But I made such a wide detour for fear of

being seen that I lost my way, and it was nearly midnight when I found

myself at Rainchester, on the main line, just in time to catch the last

train to London.

"It was a terrible shock to me when I opened my paper the next morning

and read about poor Violet's murder. I had never thought of anything

like that. At first I could think of nothing but her terrible end, but

then it occurred to me that my own position would be awkward if the loss

of the necklace was discovered. As the papers said nothing about the

necklace I concluded that it had not been missed. But I knew the police

would be searching for clues, and might discover the loss at any moment.

I knew it was dangerous for me to keep it in my possession, so I decided

to get rid of it without delay.

"I thought at first of returning it anonymously, but I immediately

abandoned that idea as too dangerous. Then I thought of dropping it into

the river. It occurred to me, however, that if by any chance the police

discovered that the necklace had been given to me, and I couldn't

produce it if I were questioned, I should be in a worse fix still. So I

tried to think of a safe hiding-place where I could lay my hands on it

in case of necessity. I could think of none. Time went on, and before I

had decided what to do with the thing my man came along and said it was

time to catch the boat train. So in the end I put the necklace into my

pocket and took it to France with me. It seemed as safe there as

anywhere else for the time being.

"I was only going to the base, so I saw the London papers every day. I

was very relieved when I read of the arrest of Hazel Rath for the

murder. I returned to London feeling reasonably safe, though it seemed

strange to me that the loss of the necklace had not been discovered.

"I thought everything was found out when you and that Scotland Yard

detective visited my flat. But Merrington seemed to have no suspicions

of me, and I was just beginning to think I was finally safe when he

remarked that the police knew of the missing necklace. I started, and

that gave me away to you, at all events. I saw you glance at Wendover's

card as it fell on the table, and I knew that you suspected me.

"After you had both left I had a bad half-hour. I could see I was in a

dangerous fix. You were aware of the address of the diamond merchant to

whom I had gone, and who, no doubt, would be able to identify me. I had

made my own position worse by lying about the War Office telegram, as

could easily be proved. There was also the possibility that the police

might find out about my return to Heredith on the night of the murder. I

did not then see what all these facts portended for me, though I do now.

But I feared arrest for the theft of the necklace, with the alternatives

of imprisonment if I kept silent, or facing a horrible scandal if I told

the truth. I was not prepared for either.

"I slept at an hotel that night because I feared arrest, but next

morning, early, I returned to the flat to exchange my khaki for a

civilian suit. After thinking over things during the night I had come to

the conclusion that I had most to fear from you, and I decided to watch

you. If you did not visit Wendover's place during the day it seemed to

me that I might be alarming myself needlessly. You know what happened. I

bolted when I saw you emerge from the buildings, and wandered about for

hours, not knowing what was best to do. When I discovered that I had no

money--nothing in my pockets except that cursed necklace, which I had

taken with me because I knew the flat would be searched--I decided to

return to the flat for the money I had left behind in my other clothes.

I was too late. When I reached Sherryman Street I saw two men watching

the flat from the garden of the square opposite, and I knew I would be

arrested if I went inside.

"What's the use of talking about what followed? I hadn't the ghost of a

show from the start. Do you think you know anything about London?

Believe me, you don't until you have been cast adrift in it with empty

pockets. It's a city of vampires and stony hearts, a seething inhuman

hell where you can wander till you drop and die without anyone giving a

pitying glance--much less a helping hand. Even a man's guardian angel

deserts him. It doesn't take a man very long to get to the gutter, to

fall lower and lower until there's nothing but the Thames Embankment or

the mortuary in front of him. I've had my eyes opened--I've talked to

some of these poor devils in this Christian city. But what's the good of

telling you this? I've been down to the gutter myself the last few days,

falling each day to lower depths, tramping hungry and footsore in the

midst of herds of respectable human brutes, slinking away from the eye

of every policeman, pawning clothes for the price of a verminous bed, to

lie awake all night knowing that I would be murdered by the

vulture-faced degenerates sleeping in the same hovel, if they had caught

a glimpse of the necklace.

"How many wild schemes have I planned in the night for raising money on

the necklace in the morning! Once I went into a pawnshop, but the

pawnbroker's eyes glittered when I spoke of pearls, and I got away as

quickly as I could. I suppose there was a reward, and he was on the look

out for me. One way and another I have been through hell. I feel like a

man in a fever. I was drenched through yesterday, and I've had no food

for twenty-four hours."

He ceased, and sat staring into vacancy as though he were again passing

through the horror of his wanderings. Then another fit of coughing

seized him, prolonged and violent. When it had subsided he looked at

Colwyn with bloodshot eyes.

"I feel pretty bad," he said weakly.

That fact had been apparent to the detective for some time past.

Nepcote's frequent fits of coughing and a peculiar nasal intensity of

utterance suggested symptoms of pneumonia. As Colwyn lifted the

telephone receiver to summon a doctor, the thought occurred to him that,

if the immediate problem of the disposal of Nepcote had been settled by

his illness, his inability to answer questions necessitated his own

return to the moat-house without delay. In any case, that course was

inevitable after what he had just heard. It was only at the place where

the murder had been committed that he could hope to judge between the

probabilities of Nepcote's strange story and Hazel Rath's confession. It

was there, unless he was very much mistaken, that the final solution of

the Heredith mystery must be sought.