CHAPTER XI. The Canon’s Cigars
One can only suppose that the morbid curiosity which always attracts a crowd of people to the burial of a suicide or victim of a murder repays the onlookers in some sense or other. It is difficult to say how it does so. The utmost they see or hear is a glimpse of an ordinary coffin and the words of the Burial Service.
It was a large crowd that gathered on the Tuesday afternoon to witness the funeral of Reginald Templeton, which took place in the cemetery a mile out of Frattenbury. There were few mourners. The Canon’s brother, a retired colonel, had run down for the occasion and occupied the leading mourning coach with the Canon himself and Winnie Cotterill. Crosby and the doctor who had attended the case came in the other.
On the return journey to the city, Winnie Cotterill, who was seated next to the Canon, remarked:
“It’s a curious thing, Canon Fittleworth, but several times I’ve had the impression that Frattenbury is familiar to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “It’s just come over me now. That view of the Cathedral spire—and the little stream of water we’ve just crossed—it’s just as if I’ve seen them before.”
“Perhaps you have,” said the Canon.
The girl shook her head.
“I don’t see how I can,” she replied; “I’ve never been here before, so far as I know.”
“Well, you see,” said the Canon, with a little pride, “our Cathedral is pretty well known, and I dare say you’ve seen pictures or photographs of it. That might account for it.”
“Perhaps,” replied Winnie slowly, “but it doesn’t seem to—it’s that funny sort of feeling that I’ve been here, don’t you know?”
“Yes, I know,” said Canon Fittleworth, “it’s a psychological curiosity. I’ve had it myself often. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ eh, Charles?”
“True. Possibly,” he went on to the girl, “you’ve heard people describing Frattenbury.”
She laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ll think me very ignorant,” she said, “but I don’t think I ever heard of Frattenbury till I read about the murder in the paper yesterday morning. I’ve never even been in the South of England.”
“We’re not so famous as we thought we were, Miss Cotterill,” said the Canon with a smile. “What do you think of our War Memorial?”
They were passing through a little square just at the entry of the city, in the centre of which stood one of those, now familiar, erections which are to remind people that the Great European War was characterised by many atrocities.
She looked at it, shrugged her shoulders—it may have been the expression of an opinion—and then, closing her eyes, said slowly:
“It looks as if there ought to be a big lamp-post there, instead.”
“There was,” replied the Canon dryly. “I don’t know that I didn’t prefer it. Really, Miss Cotterill, you must have considerable psychic powers.”
“I never knew it till now.”
A minute or two later they entered the Cathedral precincts, and drew up at the Canon’s residence. As they got out Mr. Norwood happened to be passing. He raised his hat and bowed in his stiff, formal manner. Winnie Cotterill looked at him intently.
“Who was that?” she asked the Canon as they went into the house.
“One of our Frattenbury solicitors—a Mr. Norwood,” replied the Canon.
“It’s that queer sensation again,” remarked the girl. “When he took his hat off it seemed to me exactly as if I’d seen him before—only that he’s older or something.”
“Well, it’s quite possible. Although he’s lived all his life in Frattenbury he’s often in London. One really meets—quite casually—many people who leave an impression on one.”
“I suppose it’s that,” said Winnie. “It must be—of course.”
“Is his name familiar to you?”
“Not a bit. I never heard it before.”
There were several letters for the Canon lying on the hall table. He took them up, saying as he did so:
“Tea ought to be ready. I expect you’ll find Mrs. Fittleworth in the drawing-room. Do you mind telling her I’ll be there in a minute?”
She hesitated.
“Canon Fittleworth?”
“Yes.”
“If you can find out whether the police have done anything—about Mr. Grayson—before I go, I should be so grateful.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll go round to the police station immediately after tea.”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
Then, as she went into the drawing-room, he opened his letters. His face looked grave as he read one of them, a note from the police superintendent.
Dear Sir,
We have detained, on suspicion, the young artist, named Grayson, who was staying at the “Mariner’s Arms” at Marsh Quay. I shall be grateful if you can kindly make it convenient to call here any time between five and six this afternoon. We want you to corroborate a small matter. I called this morning, but you were out, and I was told you would not be disengaged till after the funeral. Will you kindly bring with you one of your cigars similar to that which you say contained the band found by you at Marsh Quay?
Yours faithfully,
Thomas Norton.
He thought for a moment, and then went into his study and rang the bell.
“Tell your mistress I want to see her for a minute,” he told the maid.
“My dear,” he said to his wife when she came in, “the police have written to tell me they have that young man, Grayson, detained at the police station. I had only just promised Miss Cotterill to go round after tea and make inquiries, before she leaves. I shall have to go in any case. They’ve asked me.”
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Fittleworth, “she seems very much concerned about Mr. Grayson. I think she’s fond of him, Charles. I hope he isn’t the murderer.”
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s not for us to judge,” he said, “nor must we jump at hasty conclusions. If there’s nothing against him, however, I should like to be able to tell Miss Cotterill before she goes.” He looked at his watch. “Her train leaves in less than an hour—and they may keep me at the police station longer than I thought.”
Mrs. Fittleworth, out of the kindness of her heart, rose to the occasion.
“She shall stay another night. I’ll persuade her. I like the girl very much, Charles. You see, if there’s nothing really against the young man we ought to know in the morning. And if there is, well, perhaps I can comfort her a little.”
The Canon beamed his satisfaction.
“I quite agree,” he said. “Don’t tell her just now that the police have detained him.”
“Don’t you let it out, dear!” she replied. “Give me five minutes to persuade her to stay, and then come in to tea.”
Left to himself, Canon Fittleworth opened his cigar cupboard and took out a box. He was about to place one of the three or four remaining cigars in his case, when he stopped.
“Yes,” he murmured, “I’ll take the box itself round. I ought to have thought of that before. It may be useful!”
After tea he went round to the police station and was shown into the superintendent’s private office, where he found, with that functionary, Major Renshaw and Colson.
“Sorry to give you the trouble, Canon,” said Major Renshaw, “but we’ve detained this young man on suspicion, and you may help us. So far, I’m bound to admit, he’s given a straightforward account of himself. His story sounded a little thin at first, but we’ve corroborated it as far as we were able. Only, there’s one point that is dead against him. And that’s where you come in.”
“What is that?” asked the Canon.
The Chief Constable nodded to Colson to go on.
“Well, sir,” said the detective, “you produced, at the inquest, yesterday, a cigar band which you stated you found in Mr. Templeton’s cabin.”
“I did.”
“You would recognise it again?”
“Most certainly. I said, you remember, that it was the same brand as my own cigars.”
The detective smiled pityingly.
“That may be,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice; “at all events we want you to tell us now—is this the band?”
And he took from his pocket-case the band which had figured at the inquest. The Canon took a quick glance at it.
“No. Certainly not!” he exclaimed.
The three men looked at him in surprise. Colson ejaculated:
“Great Scott!”
Then he said:
“Come, sir—it must be.”
“I tell you it isn’t. It’s entirely different. The band I found in the cabin, and handed in yesterday afternoon, was similar to these.”
And he opened his own cigar box.
“But this is the band you handed in yesterday, sir,” exclaimed Colson, pointing to the one he had just produced.
“It is nothing of the kind,” said the Canon a little hotly. “I am ready to swear to that.”
There was a moment or two of intense silence, and then the superintendent said to Colson:
“Are you sure this is the band you received from the inquest?”
Colson, who, like the Canon, did not relish his integrity being shaken, replied stiffly:
“Quite sure, sir. I saw the Canon lay it on the table, an——”
“But you didn’t examine it closely then,” broke in the Canon.
“No—but I watched it being passed from man to man of the jury, and when it was finally put down on the table I didn’t remove my eyes from it till it was in my hands.”
The superintendent slowly nodded his head.
“You are quite certain, Canon?” he asked again.
“Absolutely. This is not the band I laid on the table.”
Colson gave a low whistle and then pursed up his lips.
“There may be an explanation,” he said, “and a very significant one, too. But it is most important that these facts do not get about. May we rely on your discretion, Canon Fittleworth?”
“Decidedly. Of course I shall say nothing.”
“Well—the point is this, Canon Fittleworth. Now that you know so much I may as well tell you. This young Grayson was smoking a brand of cigars similar to that off which this particular band, which you repudiate, came. You will admit it was damning evidence against him.”
“It certainly was,” said the Canon. “I am only too glad to have helped to clear an innocent man.”
“Yes,” said the Chief Constable thoughtfully, “I suppose—I suppose this clears him—but——”
Colson, who had sprung to his feet suddenly, interrupted him.
“Wait a bit,” he exclaimed, “I’ll make still more certain. Can I borrow your motor-bike sir?” he asked the superintendent. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes—or less.”
The superintendent nodded.
“All right, Colson.”
“I’ll wait till he comes back,” said the Canon. “I am anxious, for certain reasons, to see this young man set at liberty before I go home.”
“I’m glad you’re staying,” said the superintendent, who was examining one of the Canon’s cigars. “I want to have a talk with you about this. I see what you mean. This is a brand I don’t know at all.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Canon. “They are not on the market. A Spanish friend of mine sent them me direct from Cuba. They’re something very special.”
“Why didn’t you say this at the inquest, sir?”
The Canon hesitated.
“Well—er—I really was so very much taken aback at Norwood’s manner—I am not accustomed to be spoken to like that—in public. And it made me forget what I should otherwise have said.”
Again the superintendent addressed him in sorrowful rebuke:
“Oh, Canon Fittleworth! You really ought to have told the jury—or even if you forgot it at that moment, you might have told us. See the trouble to which you have put us.”
The worthy Canon bristled a little.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked.
“Well—sir—when we saw what sort of a brand it was, fairly ordinary, we didn’t think it worth while.”
“Ah,” said the Canon, a twinkle in his eye now, “see the trouble you have given yourselves! If you’d only remembered that I said it was a particular brand!”
“Come, Canon,” interposed the Chief Constable with a laugh, “we mustn’t get acrimonious about it. It’s a little mistake on both sides. But now what you’ve got to do is to try to remember if anyone else but yourself smoked cigars taken from that box.”
“Certainly,” replied the Canon, “I can remember at the moment someone who took a cigar out of my box.”
“Who was it?” asked the Chief Constable eagerly.
“You yourself, Renshaw—last time you dined with me. And you remarked what an excellent smoke it was.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the Chief Constable. “You want to fix the murder on me, eh?”
The Canon joined in the laugh.
“Circumstantial evidence, eh?” he said.
“But, seriously, Canon,” went on Major Renshaw, “I don’t expect you to do it now, but I do ask you to shut yourself up in your study and make a big effort of memory. It’s wonderful how one can recall little details if one really tries. Write out the names of everyone—everyone mind—even the most unlikely persons—to whom you remember you offered a cigar out of that box. And if you can call to mind anybody who took away a cigar out of your house without smoking it, that will be most important.”
“Very well,” replied the Canon, “I’ll do what you suggest. My circle of friends is a fairly respectable one, however, and I hope I don’t number a murderer among them.”
Meanwhile Colson had rushed over to Marsh Quay. It was not yet six o’clock, so the inn was not open. He knocked at the door and Mrs. Yates let him in. Satisfying himself that there was no one else about, he said to her:
“As I told you before, Mrs. Yates, I look upon you as an exceedingly discreet woman. Now, I want you to keep your mouth shut about what I’m going to ask you.”
“I will, Mr. Colson.”
“You’ve got a good memory, eh?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Well, try and remember now. This young man who was lodging with you, what did his luggage consist of?”
“It was placed in a holdall he carried on the back of his bicycle. There was a satchel in front, and one of them folding things what they put their pictures on when they paints them.”
“An easel?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“Anything else—an umbrella?”
“No, sir.”
“Or a walking-stick?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you quite sure? I want you to be very careful.”
“I’m quite sure, Mr. Colson, and I’ll tell you for why. First of all, I helped him undo his luggage when he arrived, and secondly, he borrowed this here stick—what used to belong to my late husband—several times when he went out walkin’. I can swear to that.”
The detective glanced at a brown polished walking-stick with a knob at the end.
“All right,” he said. “That’s all I want to know. And I’ll give you a bit of information in return. It’s pretty certain he isn’t the man we want.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Colson. I liked the young feller.”
The detective had turned to go, but paused a minute.
“It would be better for him still, Mrs. Yates, if you could prove that he was really in your house all night.”
“Well, sir—I’m sure he was here till past one in the morning.”
“Why?”
“He went to bed just before ten, sir. I had a toothache that night which kept me awake till just after one. And the way that young man snored was enough to keep anyone awake—let alone the toothache.”
The detective laughed.
“That’s all right, then.”
“We’ve eliminated one of the three,” he said to himself as he rode back. “And that’s not a bad bit o’ work, anyhow.”
When he arrived at the police station the Canon was still there. The detective whispered a few words to the superintendent and Major Renshaw, and the latter said:
“You’ll be glad to know, Canon, that we needn’t detain this young man any longer. Would you like to see him before you go?”
“I should, very much.”
When Grayson came in, Major Renshaw shook hands with him.
“We’re quite satisfied about you, Mr. Grayson, and I must apologise for detaining you. But a stranger who goes off suddenly and mysteriously from the scene of a murder must expect to rouse suspicions—and you certainly did. Let me introduce you to my friend, Canon Fittleworth. You really owe your freedom this evening to him—though he won’t tell you why, because he mustn’t.”
“I’m sure I’m most grateful to you, sir,” said the young artist to the Canon.
“Delighted,” replied the latter. “I’m so glad to have been of any use in getting you out of an awkward predicament.”
“Now, Mr. Grayson,” went on the Chief Constable, “we brought you in from Linderton this morning against your will. Will you allow me to send you back in my motor?”
“Well,” replied Grayson, “I think I’ll get a bed in Frattenbury. My holiday was nearly up, and I shall return to town to-morrow. I can walk out in the morning and get my machine and the rest of my belongings.”
“No, you won’t,” said Major Renshaw, anxious to make amends. “I’ll have them sent in—yes, you’ll be comfortable at the ‘Dolphin’—they shall be there early to-morrow morning. Good night—stop—let me have your address in case we want you.”
The Canon, leaving his cigar box with the police, walked out of the station with Grayson and directed him to the hotel. Then he said:
“As the nearest relative of poor Templeton—I’m his cousin, you know—I should like to offer you a slight return for all the trouble you’ve gone through to-day. Will you give us the pleasure of dining with us to-night—at half-past seven?”
“It’s awfully kind of you, sir—but I haven’t any dress clothes with me.”
“That doesn’t matter in the least. You will? That’s right, then. Good-bye for the present.”
And the Canon chuckled as he went his way home. And his wife agreed he had done the right thing. When the Canon took the young artist into the drawing-room, just before dinner that night, Winnie Cotterill looked up with a start—and Grayson’s eyes sparkled.
“Winnie!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t expect to meet you here. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Miss Cotterill has been anxious to know about you,” said Mrs. Fittleworth. “She heard you were in danger of arrest.”
“So I brought you round to show her that you’re really free,” said the Canon, rubbing his hands.
“I’m most awfully glad to see—you’ve escaped from the police,” said Winnie. “I knew you couldn’t have done the murder.”
“Come along,” said the Canon. “Mr. Grayson, will you take my wife in to dinner, please?” and he offered his own arm to Winnie Cotterill.
“You’re a perfect dear, Canon Fittleworth,” said the girl as they crossed the hall. “How clever you must have been to get him off.”
“Oh, I didn’t get him off, as you call it, Miss Cotterill. I helped to explain something, that’s all. Now you won’t worry any more.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t think you need!” said the Canon dryly, a twinkle in his eye as he spoke.