VIII
THE BELLASEN CROSS
I enquired one day of Alfred Gimbrell if he could tell me anything of Davis. Davis was a rough fellow, whose reform I had once in vain attempted. For several months I had heard nothing of him.
"Davis is put away," said Gimbrell. "Got it in the neck over the Bellasen business. A bit too much" Gimbrell raised his elbow significantly.
"I see," I said. "And what was the Bellasen affair?"
"Well, it was in all the papers. The Bellasen cross, you know."
"I knew," I said, "that there was a cross composed of thirty magnificent emeralds in the possession of the Bellasen family. There is a description of it in most of the works on precious stones."
"Well," said Alfred, "it ain't in their possession now. Also there ain't no family—leastwise unless you call one woman a family. No more it is in Davis's possession neither, 'Tain't in anybody's possession. Ah, rum thing that was. And all through just a bit too much" And once more Gimbrell gave his pantomimic representation of a man raising a glass to his lips.
His rather enigmatical remarks on the subject of the cross interested me. I thought it quite possible that it might become worth my own attention. I had always supposed that a jewel of immense value, an heirloom in the family as this was, would be kept in the bank, and I never trouble the strong rooms of London banks. But now I got Gimbrell to tell me the whole story as he knew it. It affords a good lesson to the intemperate.
The Bellasen cross was about two hundred years old, of French workmanship, and too large and heavy to be worn as a personal ornament. The Bellasens were always mightily proud of it, and when, chiefly through their own indiscretions, they were in comparatively low water, no attempt was ever made to get the necessary permission to sell the cross. This pride seems to have infected those who married into the family. At the time of this story there was not one Bellasen left. Lady Bellasen had been a Miss Crowe, the daughter of a small tradesman in Plymouth. It might have been supposed that she would have taken the first opportunity to convert the cross into its immense value in cash. But she was infected with the pride. Suggestions were made by the solicitors of her late husband, but were repudiated with contempt. She said flatly that she would not sell it to save herself from starvation.
She was in no danger whatever of starvation. But the land that the Bellasens still owned (and it had dwindled almost to nothing) had to be sold to pay her husband's debts. Lady Bellasen was left with an income of five hundred a year, and a cross of thirty emeralds, every one of which was worth more than her annual income.
Lady Bellasen buried herself in a box of a house at the bottom of a Yorkshire fell-side. The rent was low, and the scenery was magnificent. Old friends in London came down to see her from time to time. She had thoughts of adopting a boy, but gave up the idea, and began her history of the Bellasen family. She is still engaged on this laborious and monumental work, which promises to give almost as much trouble in the reading as it has done in the writing. But the convert ever shows the most enthusiasm; nobody was ever quite so keen about the Bellasens as this Miss Crowe was after she had taken their name.
She had a good safe in the dining-room of this house, and in that safe, without the slightest fear or anxiety, she deposited the Bellasen cross. It was true that everybody knew of it, but nobody knew where it was, and in all probability everybody guessed that it lay at her bankers.
I do not know, for Gimbrell could not tell me, how Davis came to hear of this cross. He heard of it in London, told Gimbrell of it, and offered to take Gimbrell with him, an offer which Gimbrell, much to his credit, refused. It is quite possible that friends of Lady Bellasen's, returning from a visit to her, might have spoken of the cross at a London dinner-table. Servants might have overheard, and might have repeated. Anyhow, Davis knew all about it. He knew in what part of the dining-room the safe stood. He had his plans for getting there, and for crossing over the fell on foot, and returning by a different line.
One night in November Lady Bellasen dined alone, and afterwards busied herself with her history of the Bellasen family. At ten o'clock she called in her two servants, read family prayers to them, and went up to bed. They locked up, and followed her. At a quarter past twelve, Davis, who was an expert burglar, entered through the French windows, which looked out on the garden, and got to work on the safe; he had excellent appliances with him, but the safe gave a good deal of trouble. It was two o'clock before he held the emerald cross in his hands. He had done much hard work, and he was thirsty. The newspapers at the time gave an accurate description of what he drank, and Gimbrell could repeat the whole of it. I am not so sure of myself. I know that it began with a decanter of port. I know that it ended with what was left of the curaçao. I can recall too, that bottled beer figured prominently in the middle of the list, but there were other items which I have forgotten. It took, Gimbrell assures me, a good deal to affect Davis. But in this instance Davis was much affected, and decided to get out of the place at once. During the time that he had been in the house there had been a light fall of snow. He walked out into this, crossed the garden, and made his way up the fell-side. Half-way up, was a tiny plantation, surrounded by a rough stone wall. Here the trees had kept the snow from the ground, and there was plenty of dry bracken. Davis was feeling very tired, and the stiff climb up the fell-side had winded him. He decided to rest for a few minutes, climbed over the wall, and flung himself down on the bracken. In a few moments he was dead asleep, and there he lay for hours, with the clear print of his feet all the way from the plantation to the house, which he had just left. He must, unquestionably, have been much affected.
He woke at daylight, cursed himself for his folly, and determined to get on at once. Looking over the wall of the plantation, he saw the local police, with much volunteer assistance, within a few yards of him. He dropped at once, and they had not seen him. But he knew that they must find him ultimately. At the most it would be a matter of four or five minutes.
He gave himself up quite quietly. "I admit it," he said. "I took the booze. What else could I do? There was the window standing open, lights burning, and liquor on the table. That was at four in the morning, and I'd been out all night. What else could I be expected to do?"
No emerald cross was found on him, and he disclaimed all knowledge of it. He put forward the theory that he had merely followed in the track of a professional burglar, who had taken the cross, and departed, leaving his tools behind him. As far as he was concerned, it was just a case of sudden temptation with him. There was he out all night, cold, hungry, nigh fainting, and he never thought, so help him, that the little drop of sherry wine or what not that he took, would be any great loss to the lady of the house. He took it to save his life. And as for the cross, he was as innocent as an unborn child, my lord.
His theory was not accepted. The different view, which was taken, was based on the fact that Davis had been known to the police as an expert burglar for years, and that he had many previous convictions against him. At this point in Gimbrell's story I thought I might cut the thing short, and asked him where the cross was hidden in the plantation.
"I don't remember saying it was in the plantation," said Gimbrell. "I said it was on 'im when 'e left the 'ouse, and was not on 'im when 'e was took. I don't know where that cross is, and perhaps it's as well I don't. But if a man were to follow Davis as soon as 'e came out, which'll be in a month's time, and to keep on following of 'im, so as not to lose sight of 'im for about a year and a 'alf, I think that chap would be extremely likely to pick up them blooming emeralds."
"Have nothing to do with them, Gimbrell," I said sternly. "Put the thing out of your mind. Those emeralds are stolen property, and you are now an honest man."
I thought the matter over when I got home. Davis must have been drunk when he left the house. His sleep in the plantation would have done him a certain amount of good, and the shock of finding the police within a few yards of him would further have sobered him. He was known to be a man of ready resource. Capture was inevitable, but he could ensure that the cross should not be found on him, and he might even be able to hide it in such a way that he could get it again when he came out of prison. He must, I concluded, have hidden it somewhere or other in the plantation. For that reason, I decided that I would go North for a week's fishing, and told Mrs Pethwick, my housekeeper, to see that my things were packed.
After an uneventful journey, during the greater part of which I slept, I arrived at Arthwaite at nine in the morning. I found a comfortable inn there, and after my bath and my breakfast I went forth. By ten o'clock I had been reminded of the simple fact that anything which occurs to you will probably have occurred to some one else. Not a vestige of that little plantation was left standing. The trees had been cut down and the ground dug. The wall round it had been pulled down and the stones were still there in a big pile. And yet the cross had not been found. I went on to look at the water and to get the requisite permission. I paid for my ticket and went back to the inn. I did not do any fishing that day. I was trying to think out where I was wrong. I must have argued incorrectly with myself, or else the facts from which I had made my deductions were incorrect. Gimbrell's story had been derived partly from Davis, partly from the newspapers, partly from a discharged prisoner, with whom Davis had found means to communicate. The story had not been as full as I might have wished, but I had good reasons for not questioning Gimbrell further. If he had the least suspicion of me, my influence with him for good would be gone for ever. Gimbrell might have made some important omission; his memory might have played a trick with him. I thought it at any rate worth while to get the newspaper reports of the case. While I waited for these I had a fair day's sport on the river and some talk with my landlord, a round-faced, simple-looking man, who was something of a sportsman, and a good deal more of a poacher. He told me about the plantation. A local landowner, named Harrison, had had it cleared for Lady Bellasen, and the whole work had been done under her inspection. It was reported locally that Harrison, a new arrival, would much like to marry Lady Bellasen, and my landlord hinted that her ladyship was far too proud of the name ever to change it.
The newspapers gave me some additional information. It was a maid-servant who discovered the burglary at half-past six. She immediately rushed upstairs and gave the alarm, and then went back to the kitchen and cried bitterly. No suspicion of any kind attached to her, and I found that she was still in Lady Bellasen's service. On one point the newspapers corrected Gimbrell. She did not dine alone on the night of the burglary. Her brother, Mr Arthur Crowe, was staying in the house. He it was who went for the police as soon as the burglary was discovered, and he and a couple of labourers were present when Davis was captured.
At first sight it did not seem to be a very important correction, but I determined to take the facts as I had now got them and see what I could make of them. The cross was not found on the thief, neither, obviously, had it been hidden in the plantation. Therefore it must have been disposed of at some point between the house and the plantation. I remembered that Davis had suggested that Gimbrell should join him in the job. Failing Gimbrell, could he have had some other confederate, and handed the cross to him. This I could reject at once. There would have been two tracks in the snow instead of one, and the confederate would have realised that Davis was drunk, and would have looked after him better. He certainly would not have allowed him to drop asleep in the plantation. It was far more likely, seeing Davis's condition, that he had dropped it on the way. I had to ask myself when it would have been dropped. It might have been done just as he left the house when he was slipping it into his pocket. It would be a probable piece of drunken clumsiness to miss the pocket, and the cross would make no sound falling on the soft snow. Or it might have been dropped when he was getting over the stile on the way to the plantation. I rejected the latter supposition on the ground that in that case it would certainly have been found. If it was dropped in the garden at a few paces from the house, who would have been the first to see it? Not the servant, for it was admitted that she gave the alarm at once and had never left the house at all. But Mr Arthur Crowe might very likely have found it on his way to the police-station. He might have slipped it in his pocket or, more probably, hidden it somewhere in the garden, where he could easily find it again. So far it seemed probable that if I wanted the Bellasen cross I should have to go to Mr Arthur Crowe for it. Against this probability I had to set the fact that he was a prosperous Plymouth tradesman, and the light of a Dissenting Chapel. He would be quite unable to deal with the emeralds in any way. If he attempted it, he would be detected at once. Briefly, it looked as if the only man who could have taken the cross had no motive whatever for taking it.
While I was in this state of perplexity a little bit of luck came my way. My landlord said to me, "I suppose, sir, you don't know any one who wants to sell a King Charles spaniel? It would have to be a good pedigree dog. Lady Bellasen is enquiring for one."
"That's a funny thing," I said, "I've got two of them—beauties—and one is all I want. I'll have the other sent down here, and you shall take it to her ladyship."
It cannot be necessary to say that I had no King Charles spaniel at all. But it was perfectly easy to buy one in London, and have it sent down, and I did not wish to neglect anything which could bring me into touch at all with Lady Bellasen.
In due course the dog arrived, and, I regret to say, showed remarkably little affection for its master. The landlord took the hateful little beast over to her ladyship, together with a note from myself, stating the price of the dog, and giving a copy of the pedigree. In the evening I received a courteous reply from her ladyship, and a cheque for the very small sum I had asked for the dog. I put the note and the cheque in my letter case. It might become inconvenient for me if the cashing of that cheque could be traced. Also, I could easily imagine events which would make the production of Lady Bellasen's signature extremely useful to me.
I called my landlord in that night after dinner, and laughed with him over the sale of the dog, asking him what commission he expected. He expected nothing. I said that at least he must help me to drink a bottle of the excellent '87 port which lay in his cellars. It was a necessary exception to my rule. He made no objection, and under the gentle action of the port his tongue became very considerably loosed. Before the end of the evening I had the key to my difficulty—the motive which would lead Mr Arthur Crowe to take that cross and stick to it. I had asked if Lady Bellasen's brother often stopped with her. The landlord shook his head. Crowe had been there only twice, in each case for only one night, and in each case, it was the landlord's belief, that Mr Crowe had invited himself. The landlord described him as a tall man, with a beaky nose, with a scar on his left cheek. I was asked to observe that Lady Bellasen had married right above her family. She had not actively quarrelled with any of them, but she did not care to be on intimate terms. It was hinted to me that Mr Arthur Crowe would have been extremely glad to have trotted her ladyship, his sister, all over Plymouth, and to have impressed his Dissenting friends. They had words about it on the night the cross was stolen. My landlords ostler's daughter was parlourmaid at Lady Bellasen's, and was waiting at the table that night. That was how my landlord knew. Mr Arthur Crowe had lost his temper and left the house, not returning until prayers were over. That had been his last visit, and no letters had been received from him since. Phrases that he had used were quoted to me. "Your own flesh and blood's not good enough for you now." "A11 right, I know when I'm not wanted." "Your pride will have a fall one of these days."
There, then, was the motive. The Bellasen cross was the very symbol of the Bellasen pride. Nothing could affect her more than the loss of it I could imagine him picking it up from the snow, turning back to the house to shout that the cross had not been stolen after all, and then checking himself. His conscience would tell him that he did not intend to reap any profit out of it himself if he kept it. It would be a valuable spiritual lesson to his sister. One day perhaps he would return it. The police theory was still that Davis had hidden the cross. They pointed out that this might have been done at some point beyond the plantation. No suspicion seems to have fallen on Mr Arthur Crowe at all. The only thing that remained for me to do now was to go to Plymouth and steal the cross. As it happened, fate chose to put it in my hands in a simpler and more dramatic way.
I arrived at Plymouth in the afternoon, left my luggage at the station, and went for a stroll to see the town. Presently my eye was caught by a placard on which the name of Mr Arthur Crowe figured largely. The placard stood in the ground of a dissenting chapel, then in process of building, and announced that the foundation-stone would be laid by Mr Arthur Crowe on Thursday, the 17th, at three o'clock. As I stood reading the notice, two men who had been talking to the workmen left the chapel. One of them was a short man with an earnest eye and a grey chin-beard. The other was obviously Mr Arthur Crowe. The beaky nose and the scar on the cheek gave him away to me. Neither of the men noticed me, and they walked away together. I walked after them. Mr Crowe had looked to me very ill and very worried. Some point of difference had arisen between Mr Crowe and his friend, and both of them had raised their voices. I followed closely behind them.
"I tell you again," said Mr Crowe, "that I must go up. It is not business which I could leave to anybody else. I shall leave Plymouth by the 8.30 to-morrow morning, and I shall be in London by two; returning the same night, I shall be back in Plymouth, with plenty of time for a good rest, before the ceremony at three o'clock."
"I don't like it," said the little man. "Your health's not good and you're not fit for it. If you go travelling practically all day and all night you'll have a breakdown. And then what are we to do at the laying of the foundation-stone? You're a public man, Mr Crowe, and it's your duty on a great occasion like this, to nurse yourself in the public interest."
"You are very kind and you mean well," said Mr Crowe, "but I cannot help it. Unless I get through this business in London my mind will not be easy. I doubt if I should be able to go through the ceremony at all. Once the business is over I shall be a new man."
I had heard all I wanted to hear. Mr Crowe was about to deliver himself into my hands. I need hardly say that I travelled up to London next morning in the train with him. I travel first-class always. He, with a laudable love of economy, went third. His figure was rather remarkable, and I had no trouble in finding him again at Paddington Station, from whence he travelled by the underground to Baker Street So did I. On the platform at Baker Street he was fumbling with a cloak-room ticket which he drew with extreme care from his pocket-book. I went up to the street outside the station and waited. Presently Mr Crowe appeared, carrying a black morocco hand-bag, stamped in gold with his initials. He hailed a four-wheeler.
As the cab drove up I touched him on the arm. "You'll excuse me," I said, "but you are Mr Arthur Crowe, I think."
He turned green and jumped. His nerves were not in a good state. "I am not," he said. "You are mistaken. I don't know you."
I handed him a card, which described me, incorrectly, as Mr Edward Gilroy, private enquiry agent.
"You are Mr Arthur Crowe," I said. "I am here from your sister, Lady Bellasen. Her ladyship is anxious to avoid any scandal, and my instructions are that you are not to be arrested unless you make it inevitable. If you deny that you are Mr Arthur Crowe, you will make it inevitable."
He tried to bluster a little. "Suppose I am? At any rate, you are not a police officer."
"I am not pretending to be. I shall have no trouble in finding a police officer if one is required." I took care to raise my voice on the compromising sentences. "I know perfectly well what you have in that bag. I have been waiting here for you for days. Unless"
"Stop!" said Mr Arthur Crowe. "Let us talk this over quietly. Do you mind getting into my cab with me? I assure you that I can explain everything."
"Yes," I said, "I'll get into the cab with you." I then turned to the cabman, and said, "Drive to Euston."
"I wasn't going to Euston," Mr Crowe began.
"I know you were not. But you are now. Now, then," I continued, after the cab had started, "Lady Bellasen is prepared on conditions to consider that you took this cross"
"What cross? What do you mean?"
"If you talk like a child, Mr Crowe, you'll make me angry, and that will not be to your interest. Open the bag which you are nursing so carefully. If the Bellasen cross is not in it, I will apologise and subscribe five hundred pounds to any charity you may name."
He dropped back in his seat, beaten. "All right," he said, "go on."
"Lady Bellasen is prepared, conditionally, to treat this not as a theft, but as a bit of joke on your part. She is prepared to believe that you would have made restitution in any case. When she put the matter in my hands and I discovered that it was you who had taken the cross, this was the course which I advised."
"How did you discover it?"
"That is my special business. You see that I have discovered it."
"I should have restored the cross in any case. Whether you believe it or not, that cross would have been sent off to my sister in a registered parcel this very day."
I fully believed him. "You will excuse me," I said, "if I do not attach much importance to that. In any case her ladyship would not dream of allowing anything so valuable to be risked in the post. My instructions are that you are to hand the cross to me personally, and that I am then to take the next train north from Euston, and deliver it myself to her ladyship."
He made a last effort. "Look here," he said, "supposing I do some of the talking. Why should I hand this to you? How do I know you are acting bonâ fide?"
"I am beginning to lose patience with you," I said. "Unless you can fulfil her ladyship's condition she will be compelled to take another view of the matter, and we are not proposing to compound a felony." I drew my note-book from my pocket. "You know her ladyship's writing?" I said. "Look at the signature to that letter and to this cheque. Why, if you like, you are perfectly welcome to come back with me and see me yourself, deliver the cross to her ladyship." This was a perfectly safe proposal. On the following afternoon at three I knew that he had an appointment in Plymouth, which he could not miss. But as he did not know that I knew this, he was somewhat impressed.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, as our cab drew up. "I'll see you take your ticket for Arthwaite and telegraph to her ladyship. When you have got into the train I will hand you the cross."
I had no objection. I let him write the telegram himself, and sign it Gilroy. Lady Bellasen only knew me under my own name. The price of a first-class ticket to Arthwaite was no great consideration to a man who had just acquired the Bellasen cross. The train stopped at Willesden, and I got out there, suppressed my Arthwaite ticket, and paid. From Willesden I took a cab back to my house in Bloomsbury, and spent a pleasant evening removing the emeralds from their setting. The metal-work was so beautiful that it really seemed quite a pity to break it up. The emeralds have been disposed of very gradually by me as occasions presented themselves. In fact, some few still remain in my possession.
I felt distinctly pleased with myself over this piece of work, and after the stones had been removed from their setting and safely put away, I rang my bell, and had the brandy brought me. It was an occasion for it.