Chapter 1

To find Barkers Inn was much the same to an ordinary person as looking
for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Dick Latimer, however, knew
its exact whereabouts, because he lived there, and on this foggy
November night he was making for it unerringly with the homing instinct
of a bee. Leaving Fleet Street behind him, somewhere about
eleven-thirty, he turned into Chancery Lane, and then struck off to the
right down a by-road which narrowed to an alley, and finally ended in a
cul-de-sac. Here the young man hurried through the rusty iron gates of
a granite archway, and found himself in an oblong courtyard paved with
cobble-stones and surrounded by tumble-down houses with steep roofs of
discolored tiles. A few steps took him across this to a crooked little
door, which he entered to mount a crooked little staircase, and in one
minute he was on the first-floor landing, where a tiny gas-jet pricked
the gloom with a bluish spot of light. Hastily using his latchkey, he
admitted himself through a door on the left into a stuffy dark passage,
technically called the entrance hall. Eventually entering the
sitting-room, he hurled himself into a creaking basket-chair, and gave
thanks to the gods of home that he had arrived.

The friend with whom Latimer shared these Barkers Inn chambers was
seated by the fire clothed comfortably in a suit of shabby old
flannels, reading a letter and smoking a briar-root, complacently at
ease. He nodded when Dick stormed into the room, and spoke with his
pipe between his teeth.

“Beastly night, isn’t it?” remarked Mr. Fuller, who had been spending
the evening at home very pleasantly.

“You’d say much more than that, Alan, my boy, if you’d been out in the
fog,” retorted Latimer. “Bur-r-r I’m glad to be indoors and to find you
still out of bed at the eleventh hour. I’ve had adventures: official
adventures.”

“Connected with your employment as a journalist, I suppose,” said
Fuller in a lazy manner, and tucking the letter into his breast pocket,
“but seriously speaking, Dicky, are adventures to be found in this
over-civilized city?”

“Romance stalks the London streets, more or less disguised as the
commonplace, my son. I can a tale unfold, but sha’n’t do so until I
change my kit and have a Scotch hot on the way to my mouth. Is the
water boiling?” he demanded, directing his gaze towards the
old-fashioned grate where a small black kettle fumed and hissed on the
hob.

“It’s been boiling for me,” said Fuller, indicating an empty tumbler at
his elbow, “but I’ve enough water for your needs.”

“I only hope you’ve left enough whisky, which is far more precious.
Poke up the fire and warm my slippers and make a fuss over me. I want
to be fussed,” said Dick plaintively, as he retreated to his bedroom,
“for I’m a poor orphan boy alone in this foggy world.”

“Ass!” observed Alan politely, and exposed the soles of his friend’s
slippers to the fire, “what about supper?”

“I’ve had that,” sang out Latimer, “at someone else’s cost.”

“You must have ruined him then with your appetite,” answered Fuller,
laughing; while he tilted back his chair to place his feet against the
mantelpiece and his hands behind his head. In this position he smoked
quietly and admired the photograph of an extremely pretty girl, which
stood beside the clock, while the small black kettle sang the song of
home.

The room was both long and broad with a low whitewash ceiling, crossed
with black oak beams, a somewhat slanting floor—owing to the great age
of the building—and three squat windows which overlooked the dingy
courtyard. These were draped with faded curtains of green rep, drawn at
this late hour to exclude the cold, and before one stood the
writing-table of Latimer, while the escritoire of Fuller bulked largely
against the other. Between the two, and blocking the approach to the
middle window, stretched a slippery horse-hair sofa, covered with a
rugged Eastern shawl to hide its many deficiencies. A shabby
Kidderminster carpet concealed the worn floor, but its sad hues were
brightened by three or four gayly colored mats, purchased at a cheap
price. The round table, the unmatched chairs, the heavy sideboard, the
sofa aforesaid, and the chipped bookcase, were all the flotsam and
jetsam of auction rooms, belonging, more or less, to the comfortably
ugly style of the Albert period. On the plain green-papered walls were
various photographs of men and women, with sundry college groups;
pictures of football teams, cricketers and boating-crews; odd bits of
china and miniature statues on brackets; likewise foils, fencing masks,
boxing gloves and such-like paraphernalia of sport. It was a real man’s
room, suggestive of exuberant virility, and remarkably untidy. All the
same there was order in its disorder, as both Latimer and Fuller knew
exactly where to lay their hands on any article they wanted. The room
was chaotic enough to drive a woman to distraction, but comfortable and
home-like for all that.

The journalist returned in a well-worn smoking suit, and proceeded to
light his pipe. Fuller brewed him a glass of grog, and handed it across
as he sat down in the saddleback chair on the verge of the hearthrug.
The two men were fine specimens of humanity in their different ways.
Latimer was large and fair and heavily built, with big limbs, and a
suggestion of great strength. He had untidy yellow hair and a yellow
mustache which he tugged at hard when perplexed. His blue eyes were
keen, but on the whole he did not reveal much brain power in his face,
which undoubtedly told the truth, since he was more of an athlete than
a scholar. Fuller, on the contrary, was brilliantly clever, and as a
solicitor was doing very well for himself in a dingy Chancery Lane
office. He was tall and slim, with a wiry frame, and a lean,
clean-shaven face, clearly cut and bronzed. Indeed with his steady dark
eyes and closely clipped black hair, and remarkably upright figure, he
suggested the soldier. This was probably due to heredity, since he came
of a fighting line for generations, although his father was a country
vicar. Also, in spite of his sedentary occupation, the young man lived
as much as possible in the open, and when not running down to his
native village for weekends, haunted the parks on every possible
occasion, or walked four miles on Hampstead Heath and into the country
beyond. It was no wonder that he looked tanned, alert, bright-eyed, and
active, more like a squire of the Midlands than a votary of Themis.
Since Fuller senior was poor, the boy had to earn his bread and butter
somehow, and after he left Cambridge had elected to become a lawyer.
Shortly after he blossomed out into a full-blown solicitor, he chanced
upon his old school friend, Dick Latimer, who had taken to journalism,
and the two had set up house together in the ancient Inn. On the whole
they were fairly comfortable, if not blessed with an excess of the
world’s goods. Finally, being young, both were healthy and happy and
hopeful and extremely enterprising.

“Well now, Dicky, what have you been doing?” asked Alan, when his
friend, clothed and in his right mind, sipped his grog and puffed
smoke-clouds.

“Attending an inquest at Rotherhithe.”

“Oh, that murder case!”

Latimer nodded and stared into the fire. “It’s a queer affair.”

“So far as I have read the newspaper reports, it seems to be a very
commonplace one.”

“I told you that Romance was often disguised as the Commonplace, Alan.”

“As how, in this instance?”

His friend did not reply directly. “What do you know of the matter?” he
asked so abruptly that Fuller looked up in surprise.

“Why, what can I know save what I have read in the papers?”

“Nothing, of course. I never suggested that you do know anything. But
it’s no use my going over old ground, so I wish to hear what you have
learned from the reports.”

“Very little, if you will be so precise,” said Alan after a pause. “In
a fourth-class Rotherhithe boarding-house frequented chiefly by seamen,
a man called Baldwin Grison was found dead in his bedroom and on his
bed, a few days ago. The Dagoes and Lascars and such British seamen as
live under the same roof are not accused of committing the crime, and
as Grison was desperately poor and degraded, there was no reason why he
should be murdered, since he wasn’t worth powder and shot. Old Mother
Slaig, who keeps the house, declared that Grison retired to his room at
ten o’clock, and it was only next morning, when he did not come down,
that she learned of his death.”

Latimer nodded again. “All true and plainly stated. You certainly think
in a methodical manner, Alan. The man was found lying on his bed in the
usual shabby suit of clothes he wore. But his breast was bare, and he
had been pierced to the heart by some fine instrument which cannot be
found. Death must have been instantaneous according to the report of
the doctor who was called in. But you are wrong in thinking that the
crime was motiveless. I believe that robbery was the motive.”

“The papers didn’t report any belief of the police that such was the
case.”

“The police don’t know everything—at least the inspector didn’t,
although he knows a great deal more now,” said Latimer, removing his
pipe, “but the single room occupied by the deceased was tumbled upside
down, so it is evident that the assassin was looking for the fruits of
his crime. Whether he found what he wanted is questionable.”

“What was it?” asked Fuller, interested in the mystery.

“I’ll tell you that later, although I really can’t say for certain if I
am right. Let us proceed gradually and thresh out the matter
thoroughly.”

“Fire ahead. I am all attention.”

“The police,” continued Dick meditatively, “hunted out evidence as to
the identity and the status of the dead man, between the time of death
and the holding of the inquest. Inspector Moon—he’s the Rotherhithe
chap in charge of the case—advertised, or made inquiries, or got hold
of the sister somehow. At all events she turned up yesterday and
appeared at the inquest this very day.”

“Who is the sister?”

“An elderly shrimp of a woman with light hair and a shrill voice, and a
pair of very hard blue eyes. She heard that her brother was murdered,
or Moon hunted her up in some way, and willingly came forward with her
story.”

“What is her story?”

“I’m just coming to it. What an impatient chap you are, Alan. Miss
Grison—Louisa is her Christian name—keeps a shabby boarding-house in
Bloomsbury, and is one of those people who have seen better days. It
seems that her brother Baldwin was secretary to a person, whose name I
shall tell you later, and was kicked out of his billet twenty years
ago, because he couldn’t run straight.”

“What had he done?”

“I can’t say. Miss Grison wouldn’t confess, and as the story wasn’t
pertinent to the murder she wasn’t pressed to confess. All she said was
that her brother was an opium-smoker and after losing his billet
drifted to Rotherhithe, where he could indulge in his vice. She tried
to keep him respectable, and allowed him ten shillings a week to live
on. But he sank lower and lower, so she saw very little of him. All she
knew was that she sent the ten shilling postal order regularly every
Friday so that Baldwin might get it on Saturday. He never visited her
and he never wrote to her, but lived more or less like a hermit in
Mother Slaig’s boarding-house, and went out every night to smoke opium
in some den kept by a Chinaman called Chin-Chow. Miss Grison sobbed
bitterly when she gave her evidence and insisted that her brother owed
his degradation to the enmity of people.”

“What sort of people?”

“She didn’t particularize. He was weak rather than bad, she insisted,
and when he lost his situation, he lost heart also. At all events he
devoted himself to the black smoke, and lived in the Rotherhithe slum,
until he was found dead by the old hag who keeps the house.”

“Did Miss Grison’s evidence throw any light on the crime?”

“No. She declared that she did not know of anyone who would have killed
the poor devil.”

“Was there any evidence on the part of the doctor, or Mother Slaig, or
those seamen in the house to show who murdered the man?” asked Fuller.

“Not the slightest. The house was open morn, noon and night, and those
who lived there came and went at their will without being watched. It’s
a rowdy locality and a rowdy house, but Mother Slaig keeps fairly good
order as she’s a formidable old hag resembling Vautrin’s aunt in
Balzac’s story.”

“Madame Nourrisau; I remember,” said Fuller, nodding. “Then I take it
that no one in the house heard any struggle, or cry for help?”

“No. Besides, as I have told you, death must have been instantaneous.
No one, so far as Mother Slaig or others in the house knew, visited
Grison on that night, or indeed on any other occasion—so they say—since
the man was more or less of a hermit. He went to bed at ten and at the
same hour next morning he was found dead with his room all upside
down.”

“Was anything missed?”

“There was nothing to miss,” said Latimer quickly. “I saw the room,
which only contained a small bed, a small table and two chairs. The man
had but one, suit of ragged clothes, which he concealed under a fairly
good overcoat his sister declared she sent to him last Christmas. He
was desperately poor and never seemed to do anything but smoke opium.”

“What kind of a man was he to look at?”

“Something like the sister. Small and fair-haired, with blue eyes. Of
course, owing to the black smoke, he was a wreck morally and physically
and mentally, according to Mother Slaig, and the boys used to throw
stones at him in the streets. However, to make a long story short,
nothing could be found to show how the poor wretch had come by his
death, so an open verdict was brought in—the sole thing which could be
done. To-morrow his sister, who seems to have loved him in spite of his
degradation, is taking away the corpse for burial.”

“Where is it to be buried?”

Latimer looked up slowly. “In the churchyard of Belstone, Sussex,” he
said.

Alan sat up very straight and his manner expressed his unbounded
astonishment. “That’s my father’s parish,” he gasped.

“Yes. And the churchyard is attached to the building your father
preaches in, my son,” said Latimer dryly, “odd coincidence, isn’t it?”

“But—but—what has this murdered man to do with Belstone?” asked Fuller
in a bewildered manner.

“That’s what I want to find out, Alan. Can’t you remember the name?”

“Never heard of it. And yet the name Baldwin Grison is not a common
one. I should certainly have remembered it had it been mentioned to me.
It is odd certainly, as Belstone isn’t exactly the hub of the universe.
Grison! Baldwin Grison.” Fuller shook his head. “No, I can’t recall it.
To be sure he may have been in the village twenty years ago, since you
say that he has lived since that time in Rotherhithe. I was only seven
years of age then, so I can remember nothing. But my father may know.
I’ll ask him when I go down this week-end.”

“There’s another thing I wish you to ask him.”

“What is that?”

“The romantic thing which lifts this case out of the commonplace. Only
Inspector Moon knows what I am about to tell you and he informed me
with a recommendation not to make it public.”

“Then why do you tell me?” said Fuller quickly. “Is it wise?”

“Quite wise,” responded his friend imperturbably, “because I asked
Moon’s permission to take you into our confidence.”

Fuller looked puzzled. “Why?”

Again Dicky replied indirectly. “It seems that Grison, unlucky beggar,
had one friend, a street-arab brat called Jotty.”

“Jotty what—or is Jotty a surname?”

“It’s the only name the boy has. He’s a clever little Cockney of
fourteen, and wise beyond his years, picking up a living as best he
can. Grison used to give him food occasionally, and sometimes money.
Jotty ran errands for the man, and was the sole person admitted to his
room.”

“Well! well! well!” said Alan impatiently. “I’m coming to it, if you
don’t hurry me,” said Latimer coolly. “Jotty on one occasion entered
the room, and found Grison nursing between his hands—what do you
think?”

“How the deuce should I know?”

“A peacock of jewels!”

Alan stared, and cast a swift glance at the photograph of the pretty
girl on the mantelpiece. “A peacock of jewels!” he repeated under his
breath.

“Or a jewelled peacock, if you like. Grison put it away when he saw the
boy: but that he had such an article is quite certain, as Jotty hasn’t
the imagination to describe the thing. Now in spite of all search,
Inspector Moon can’t find that peacock, and you may be sure that after
Jotty told his tale the inspector searched very thoroughly.

“Well?” Alan cast a second look at the photograph.

“Well,” echoed Dick, rather annoyed, “can’t you draw an inference. I
think, and Moon thinks, that the assassin murdered Grison in order to
gain possession of the peacock, which was of great value. If he wants
to make money out of it he will have to sell it, and in this way the
inspector hopes to trap the beast. For that reason, and so that the
assassin may not be placed on his guard, Moon doesn’t want anyone but
you and me and himself to know the truth. You can’t guess why I have
told you this.”

“Yes.” Alan nodded and rubbed his knees, while a puzzled look came over
his dark clean-cut face. “I remember telling you about the fetish of
the Inderwicks ages ago.”

“Tell me again as soon as you can withdraw your gaze from that photo.”

Fuller colored, and laughed consciously. “When a man is in love, much
may be forgiven him. And you must admit, Dicky, that she’s the beauty
of the world. Now isn’t she?”

Latimer eyed the photograph in his turn. “She’s pretty,” he said
judicially.

“Pretty,” echoed Fuller with great indignation, “she’s an angel, and
the loveliest girl ever created, besides being the most fascinating of
women.”

“Oh, spare me your raptures,” broke in Dick impatiently. “Your taste in
looks isn’t mine, and I’ve met Miss Marie Inderwick, which you seem to
forget. She is very nice and very pretty and——”

“Oh, hang your lukewarm phraseology,” interrupted the other. “She’s the
most adorable girl in the universe.”

“I admit that, for the sake of getting on with the business in hand.
Now what about the peacock of jewels?”

“I told you all I know, which isn’t much,” said Alan, reluctantly
changing the subject. “Marie lives at the big house in Belstone which
is called ‘The Monastery’ because it was given by Henry VIII., to the
Inderwick of——”

“Oh, confound Henry VIII. What about the peacock?”

“It’s the family fetish, and for one hundred years has been in the
possession of the Inderwicks. It was stolen some twenty years ago, and
no one ever knew what became of it. Now——”

“Now it turns up in the possession of Baldwin Grison, who has evidently
been murdered on its account. And yet you deny latter-day romance.”

“Well,” observed Alan rubbing his knees again, “I admit that your truth
is stranger than your professional journalistic fiction. But how did
this man become possessed of the ornament?”

Latimer shrugged his mighty shoulders. “How dense you are! Didn’t I
tell you how Louisa Grison declared that her brother had been secretary
to a certain person, whose name I said I would tell you later on. I
shall tell you now, if you aren’t clever enough to guess it.”

“Rats,” said Fuller inelegantly. “How can you expect me to guess it?”

“By using what common-sense Nature has given you. Hang it, man, here is
an excessively unique ornament belonging to the Inderwick family which
has been missing for over twenty years. Grison’s sister says that she
intends to bury her brother’s body in Belstone churchyard, and declared
at the inquest that at one time he was the secretary to a certain
person. Now if you put two and two together, you will find that the
person is——”

“Mr. Sorley. Randolph Sorley,” cried Fuller suddenly enlightened.

“In other words, the uncle and guardian of Miss Marie Inderwick. Well
now, you can see that two and two do make four.”

“Humph!” Fuller nursed his chin and looked thoughtfully at the fire.
“So this murdered man was Mr. Sorley’s secretary. According to his
sister he lost the situation—perhaps, Dick, because he stole the
peacock.”

“We can’t be positive of that, Alan. Grison, in his secretarial
capacity, certainly lived at The Monastery and assisted Mr. Sorley in
preparing for the press that dreary book about precious stones which
seems to be his life work. He had every chance to steal, but if Mr.
Sorley had suspected him he assuredly would have had him arrested.”

“Perhaps Grison bolted and could not be traced.”

“I think not. He was, so far as I can gather from what Miss Grison
says, dismissed in due form. He lived with her for a time at the
Bloomsbury boarding-house and later on drifted to Rotherhithe to
indulge in his love for the black smoke. No! no! no! my son. Mr. Sorley
could never have believed that Grison was in possession of the peacock
of jewels.”

“Then why did he discharge him?”

“We must find out, and that won’t be easy after twenty years. Mr.
Sorley is growing old and may not remember clearly. But Grison on the
evidence of Jotty undoubtedly had this peacock, and since it cannot be
found, he must have been murdered by someone who desired the ornament.
The disorder of that sordid room shows that a strict search was made by
the assassin, and it could be for nothing save the golden peacock. Now,
if the assassin did find it, Alan, and if you and I and Moon and Jotty
keep silent, the man will think that he is safe and will sell his
plunder.”

“Wait a bit, Dick. He may unset the jewels and sell them separately.
Then it will be difficult to trace him by the sale of the article.”

“True enough of Solomon. However we must take our chance of that. If he
is certain that the loss is not suspected he may sell the whole without
splitting it into parts. If he does, Moon—who has his eye on all
pawnshops and jewellers and on various receivers of stolen goods—can
spot the beast and arrest him. But, as a second string to our bow, it
is just as well to know all about this family fetish, since its history
may throw some light on the mystery of its disappearance. Now what you
have to do, my son, is to go down to Belstone and learn all you can
about Grison when he was secretary to old Sorley. Ask Miss Inderwick
and her uncle about him.”

“Marie won’t know anything save by hearsay,” said Alan, shaking his
head. “Remember she’s only twenty years of age, and was an infant in
arms when the family fetish disappeared. Besides if I make inquiries I
shall have to account for my curiosity by revealing what you have told
me to keep secret.”

“H’m! h’m! h’m!” murmured the other, frowning, “there is that objection
certainly. We must put out our sprat to catch the mackerel. However, it
wants three days till Saturday, so I shall see Moon and hear what he
suggests about the matter. The Inderwicks are poor, aren’t they, Alan?”

“There is only one Inderwick left,” answered the young solicitor,
rising to stretch his limbs, “and that is Marie. Of course she is
desperately poor, as I told you ages ago. She has The Monastery, the
few acres of the park, and two hundred a year to live on. Sorley is her
mother’s brother, her uncle and guardian, with another two hundred
income. By pooling the cash, the two manage to keep things going.”

“H’m! It’s a dull life for the girl. Do you like Mr. Sorley?”

“No,” replied Fuller serenely. “He’s a selfish old animal, who only
regards Marie as a necessary piece of furniture. She was at school for
many years and only returned home some twelve months ago. Now she acts
as her uncle’s housekeeper, and leads an infernally dull life. Mr.
Sorley never seems to think that Marie is young and requires enjoyment.
He’s a beast.”

“Ho,” chuckled Dick shrewdly, “you seem to dislike him excessively. I
can easily see that he doesn’t favour your suit.”

“No, hang him, he doesn’t. If Marie married me, the old man would be
left with his two hundred a year to get on as best he could, and you
may be jolly well sure, Dicky, that he doesn’t want to leave the big
house.”

“Natural enough,” yawned Latimer. “Well, my son, you help Moon to hunt
down Grison’s assassin and recover the fetish of the Inderwicks and
perhaps the old man, out of gratitude, may accept you as a
nephew-in-law.”

“It’s worth trying for at all events,” said Alan thoughtfully. “Marie’s
an angel, and I’m bound to marry her sooner or later. I’ll go down on
Saturday and start operations.”