Chapter 2

Alan Fuller thoughtfully tucked the rug round his knees in the
third-class compartment of the train which was taking him to Belstone.
There was no station at the village, but the Brighton express stopped
at Lewes, and thence he could walk or drive to his destination. The
young man was in tip-top spirits, as the suggestion of Latimer that he
should join in the search for Grison’s assassin, and secure the return
of the peacock fetish to Marie Inderwick, ‘rendered him hopeful that
success in this direction would lead to his marriage with the girl. Of
course that could not take place for some time since he was not yet
making a sufficient income to justify his becoming the husband of the
most adorable girl in the universe. Still, if Mr. Sorley would withdraw
his absurd opposition—and he probably would do so, were the peacock
recovered—Alan concluded that he might become officially engaged to
Marie, and so she would not be snapped up by other suitors. Legally
speaking he would have a lien on her.

Not that this was really needed, since Marie loved him as much as he
loved her, but the position would be more satisfactory to both if
matters were arranged on this basis, and in a practical way. After all,
Marie was young and impressionable, and if Mr. Sorley found a rich man
anxious to become the husband of his lovely niece he might, and
probably would, worry her into accepting the suitor. Marie would
fight—Alan was quite positive on this point—but she might be worn out
by her uncle’s persistence, and Fuller knew well enough that the old
man was as obstinate as a mule, when once he set his mind on achieving
a certain end. On the whole then, Alan was pleased that chance had
thrown in his way an opportunity of doing Mr. Sorley a service, as a
benefit conferred would undoubtedly soften him. Certainly the peacock
belonged to Marie, but—looking upon it, as she would, as a mere
ornament—she probably would not mind its remaining in her uncle’s
possession when it was found. And Sorley was a fanatic about jewels:
their glitter and rainbow hues seemed to send him crazy with delight.
To recover the radiant splendor of the peacock, he would assuredly
concede much and Alan felt quite sure that consent to his marriage with
the girl would not be withheld. But everything depended upon the
tracing of the miserable Grison’s assassin and that was not an easy
task.

Before leaving London, Fuller had visited Inspector Moon at his
Rotherhithe office, along with Latimer, and the policeman had been
greatly interested in the fact that the solicitor knew the original
possessors of the article for which Grison had apparently been
murdered. He had also been astonished, and with good reason, at the
coincidence that Latimer, to whom he had spoken about Jotty’s evidence,
should have a friend who was—so to speak—mixed up in the matter of the
peacock. Since Fate appeared to point out Fuller as an active agent in
bringing this unknown murderer to justice, through the instrumentality
of the stolen ornament, Moon had readily given the young man permission
to speak of the matter to Mr. Sorley and to Marie. Meanwhile the
inspector still continued to hunt for the trail, but without success.
The assassin had come and gone in the crowd which inhabited Mother
Slaig’s boarding-house entirely unnoticed, and now that Grison was
buried in the Belstone churchyard as arranged by his sister, it
appeared as if the Rotherhithe murder would have to be relegated to the
list of undiscovered crimes. Further revelations depended either on the
chance that the criminal would pawn or sell what he had risked his neck
to obtain, or on some evidence procured from Marie and Sorley, relative
to the peacock. Where had it originally come from? who had manufactured
it? why did the Inderwick family regard it as a fetish? and finally,
why had Grison stolen it? These were the questions which Fuller came
down to Belstone to ask.

Meanwhile the inspector still continued to hunt for the trail, but
without success. The assassin had come and gone in the crowd which
inhabited Mother Slaig’s boarding-house entirely unnoticed, and now
that Grison was buried in the Belstone churchyard as arranged by his
sister, it appeared as if the Rotherhithe murder would have to be
relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Further revelations
depended either on the chance that the criminal would pawn or sell what
he had risked his neck to obtain, or on some evidence procured from
Marie and Sorley, relative to the peacock. Where had it originally come
from? who had manufactured it? why did the Inderwick family regard it
as a fetish? and finally, why had Grison stolen it? These were the
questions which Fuller came down to Belstone to ask.

It was therefore no wonder that, since Alan’s future happiness depended
upon his success in solving so deep a mystery, he should be thoughtful
on the journey, to Belstone. Dick and he had talked a great deal about
the matter but, for want of further evidence could arrive at no
conclusion. Until Mr. Sorley explained about the peacock, and stated
what he knew concerning Grison, there was nothing more to be done. Alan
thought that the uncle would probably know more than the niece, since
she had been an infant in arms when the fetish had been stolen. All the
same he resolved to question Marie first, on the chance that she might
know something, and upon what she stated would depend his future plans.
The young man did not like Mr. Sorley, not only because that gentleman
thwarted his marriage with Marie, but also for the very simple reason
that he mistrusted Sorley’s character. His eyes were too shifty; his
manners were too suave; and although he always wished to know the
private affairs of everyone else, he never by any chance confessed
anything that had to do with himself. It was necessary on these
grounds, as Fuller considered, to deal with Marie’s uncle in a wary
manner.

In due course the train stopped at Lewes, and Alan got out with the
intention of walking the five miles to Belstone. He had only a
gladstone bag containing a few necessary articles for a
Saturday-to-Monday’s stay in the country, since he invariably kept a
supply of clothes at his home. With a nod to the station-master, to
whom he was well-known, Fuller left the station, and ignoring the
application of several cabmen, struck at an angle to reach the high
road. He was soon on the hard metal and walked along swiftly and easily
swinging his bag, glad of the exercise to grow warm again, as the day
was cold and he was chilled from sitting in the train. As it was now
the end of November there was a slight grey fog spreading its veil over
the surrounding country, and the sun was conspicuous by its absence.
But that Alan thought of Marie’s bright face, which he would be certain
to see smiling before him on this day or the next, he would have been
depressed by the want of sunshine. But what lover who hopes to look
into the eyes of the girl he adores within a specified number of hours
can feel down-hearted, however gloomy the skies or moist the earth? Not
Alan Fuller, who moved on to his much-desired goal with love songs
humming in his active brain. And the burden of these was “Marie Marie
Marie!” with the delicious name joined to the most eulogistic
adjectives in the English tongue.

It was when he was almost within sight of Belstone village that the
motor bicycle came along. Alan heard the buzz of the machine round the
corner and stood aside to let it pass, indifferent to its coming and
going. But when he saw a slim old man with an ascetic, clean-shaven
face, smartly dressed in a grey suit with brown gaiters, seated
thereon, he both started and called out in his surprise.

“Mr. Sorley. This is unexpected. You on a bicycle?”

The rider shut off the motive power and brought his machine to a
standstill a few yards past the young man. “You are astonished,” he
said, coming back wheeling the bicycle. “Well, Alan, I don’t wonder at
it. At the age of sixty, it is not many people who would risk their
brittle bones in this way.”

“No, indeed,” replied Fuller, staring at Mr. Sorley’s fresh complexion
and closely-cropped white hair surmounted by a very juvenile tweed cap.
“And I thought you were such an indoor man.”

“Pooh! pooh! pooh!” said Sorley good-humoredly. “You know how
particular I am about exercise, Alan. I walk every day a certain
distance in order to keep myself in health. For years I have slipped
out to range the park; but with increasing age should come increasing
activity, so, I have bought this,” he shook the machine, “and
already—in three weeks that is—I have learned to ride it without fear.
I can explore the country now, and intend to do so, my dear lad. The
park is too small for me, and I must take all the exercise possible if
I wish to keep my looks and vitality. Increasing age: increasing
activity,” said Mr. Sorley again, “there you are.”

“Increasing age generally means sitting by the fire and going to bed
early, sir,” replied Alan dryly, “don’t overdo it.”

“My boy, there is nothing so objectionable as advice.”

“I beg your pardon. I only thought——”

“Then don’t think on my behalf at all events,” snapped Mr. Sorley, who
appeared rather ruffled by Fuller’s reflection on his age. “When you
come to my years, Alan, I doubt if you will look so healthy as I do.”

The young man mentally admitted that it was possible he might not wear
so well. Sorley was a marvel of preservation, and although he had
turned sixty certainly did not look more than forty-five at the most,
save for his white hair. His face was almost without wrinkles; his
form, spare and lean, was unbowed, and the up-to-date clothes he always
affected gave him quite a youthful air at a distance. In fact he was a
very handsome man in an elderly way, and but for his shifty eyes and
slack mouth—these marred his appearance considerably—he would have
impressed people even more than he already did. But with all his
juvenile aspect and ingratiating ways, there was something
untrustworthy about the man. At least Alan thought so, and had always
thought so, but perhaps he might have been more observant than the
usual run of humanity, for Marie’s uncle was extremely popular,
although his usual life was somewhat after the style of a hermit. But
this Mr. Sorley ascribed less to inclination than to the want of money,
since he humorously said that he and Marie, unable to make both ends
meet, had to make one end vegetables.

“You are wonderful, Mr. Sorley,” said Alan, hastening to soothe the old
man’s easily hurt vanity. “I never saw you look better. How do you
manage to knock all these years off your age?”

“Abstention from over-drinking and overeating,” said Mr. Sorley
briskly, giving his recipe for everlasting youth. “An hour’s sleep in
the afternoon and plenty of it at night. Cold tubs, dumbbell exercises
in the altogether as Trilby says with the window open, judicious walks
and an optimistic way of looking at things. There you are,” he ended
with his favourite catch-phrase as usual.

“Now you must add trips on a motor bicycle,” laughed Alan, smiling. “By
the way, how is Marie?”

“Blooming as a rose, fresh as a daisy, cheerful as a lark,” prattled
Mr. Sorley, with a swift and not altogether approving glance at the
speaker’s face. “She’ll be getting married soon. I can’t expect to keep
such beauty and grace hidden from the world. And she must make a good
match, my lad”—this was for Alan’s particular benefit as the young man
knew very well——“a title and money, good looks and a landed estate,
with brains added. That is the suitor I have chosen for Marie.”

“You are looking for a bird of paradise,” said Fuller, coloring at the
hint conveyed, “does such perfection exist in a mere human being?”

“I hope so; I hope so,” said Sorley, still cheery and still shifty in
his glance, “we must look for the rarity, my lad. But I’m in no hurry
to lose Marie. She is a great comfort to her old uncle. I was annoyed
the other day, greatly annoyed, and she talked me into quite a good
humor.”

“What annoyed you, sir?” asked Fuller, not because he cared, but merely
from a desire to chat about Miss Inderwick.

“A funeral which took place in the village.”

“Oh, Baldwin Grison’s funeral?”

Sorley brought his shifty green eyes to the young man’s face. “What do
you know about Baldwin Grison?” he asked sharply, and, as it seemed to
Alan’s suspicious nature, rather uneasily.

“All that the newspapers could tell me, Mr. Sorley. He was murdered at
Rotherhithe by some unknown person, and his sister brought the body
down here for burial in the village churchyard.”

“That last wasn’t in the newspapers,” retorted the other quickly and
looking everywhere but at Alan’s face.

“No, it wasn’t. But my friend Latimer—you may remember meeting him at
the vicarage, Mr. Sorley—was at the inquest and afterwards spoke to
Miss Grison, who told him of her intention.”

“Did she tell him also that her brother was my secretary twenty years
ago, Alan?” demanded Sorley, his face growing red and his eyes
glittering. “Did she say how he was turned out of the house as a
drunken swine?”

“Miss Grison hinted something of those things at the inquest, but did
not go into details, and, as they were unnecessary, she was not
pressed. But she told Latimer that her brother had been discharged by
you for some reason.”

“He was a hard drinker, and also smoked opium,” said Sorley angrily. “I
did what I could for him, but had to discharge him in the long run.
That woman had no right to bring the body here and bury it under my
nose, as it might be. Decency should have prevented her bringing back
the man to a place whence he was kicked out twenty years ago.”

“She didn’t bring back the man, but his remains, sir.”

“It would have been better had she thrown those into a London ditch,”
replied Sorley tartly. “Grison was a bad servant to me and a bad
brother to her and a profligate animal. I don’t wonder he was
murdered.”

“Can you suggest any motive for the commission of the crime?” asked
Fuller, looking straightly at the elder man.

“Grison was a drunkard, an opium-smoker, a liar and a loafer. A man
like that must have made many enemies, and in the low slum he lived in
he certainly risked what has, in the end, happened. The wonder is that
he was not murdered before, Alan.”

“Well, he had one good point,” said Fuller meaningly and to force
confidence if possible on the part of Sorley. “He wasn’t a thief.”

“Can you prove that he was not?”

“Can you prove that he was?” demanded Alan in his turn. “At all events
you omitted that particular crime from your category.”

“The poor devil’s dead and I don’t wish to say more about him than I
have already stated,” said Sorley moodily, and beginning to start his
machine, “but I trust that his silly sister will not come and worry
me.”

“Why should she?” asked Fuller, noticing that the man before him evaded
the question of Grison being a thief.

“There’s no reason in the world why she should, except that she was
infatuated with her brother and believed that I had discharged him
unjustly. I shouldn’t be surprised if she came to tell me that again,
by word of mouth as she has told me dozens of times by letter. She
ascribed Grison’s downfall to me, and was always asking me to assist
him when he was at Rotherhithe during the last twenty years. Of course
I didn’t, both because I am poor as you know, Alan, and for the simple
reason that Grison was not worth helping. I was his best friend, and
far from bringing about his downfall I did my best to keep him
straight. But all in vain: all in vain. He became quite a scandal in
the place and Mrs. Inderwick, my sister, insisted that I should get rid
of him. I did so, and he went to the dogs entirely. So there you are,
Alan, my boy, and I can’t stay here all day talking about a matter
which annoys me intensely.”

By this time the machine was alive with energy and Mr. Sorley swung
himself into the saddle as he ended his voluble speech. With a nod he
set the starting gear in motion, and almost instantaneously was a dot
on the horizon travelling towards Lewes at the speed of a swallow. Alan
looked after him thoughtfully, and tried to arrive at some conclusion
regarding his apparently frank speech. By the time he reached the
vicarage he came to one resolution at least, and that was to say
nothing for the present to Mr. Sorley about the peacock. The young man
could scarcely decide himself what made him refrain from speaking, save
that the old gentleman’s manner and vague speech communicated to him a
sort of uneasy feeling, which hinted that reticence was wise for the
time being. It might have been some sixth sense which induced the
decision, for Fuller certainly could not argue out the matter
logically. However, he determined to obey the intuition, and to avoid
making a confidant of the uncle, while speaking freely of his errand to
the niece. There was no feeling in his mind against discussing with
Marie the theft of the peacock as the possible motive for the murder of
the man her relative seemed to detest so thoroughly.

As usual the young man received the warmest of welcomes from his
parents, who adored their only son and thought him the most wonderful
person in the world. The vicar assuredly did not worship the marvellous
boy so devotedly as did Mrs. Fuller; nevertheless he took a great pride
in Alan’s handsome looks and clever brains and general good conduct. He
was a bright-eyed, rosy-faced little man, who scarcely came up to his
tall son’s shoulder, with a kindly nature, which was always being
imposed upon. His wife, a sweet-faced old lady, tall, grey-haired, and
singularly graceful, was more practical in many ways than her husband.
She checked the vicar’s too generous way of dealing with those who took
advantage of his lavish kindness, and was the true ruling power in the
house. Her weak point was Alan, and she often sighed to think that he
would never find a woman worthy to be his wife. A dozen of the best
women in the world rolled into one perfect creature would never have
come up to the standard she had set up in her own mind which the future
Mrs. Alan Fuller was to reach.

Alan always enjoyed his home visits, not only because he loved his
parents with a tenderness and respect rare in these modern days of
revolt against domestic authority, but also on account of the quiet and
well-ordered life which made the vicarage so uncommonly pleasant. Mrs.
Fuller was a famous housewife, and managed her establishment with such
rare tact that she kept her servants for years. Her husband’s income
was not a large one, but no one would have guessed this, seeing the
perfectly appointed dinner-table and the dainty meal prepared. The
vicar’s wife had brought to her husband by way of dowry a quantity of
valuable old furniture, so that every room looked graciously beautiful.
And as the house was quaint and old, and kept in perfect repair and
order, those not in the secret of the income believed that the Fullers
had ample means. But everything grateful to the eye and the touch and
the palate was due to the “vicaress,” as her husband jocularly called
her. The worst-tempered person in the world would have succumbed to the
soothing influences which permeated the place.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,” hummed Alan, when the trio sat in the
fragrant old drawing-room after an admirable dinner. “Mother darling,
you have no idea how restful this is, after the noise and bustle of
London.”

Mrs. Fuller smiled from her favorite chair, and went on with her
tatting, busy as a bee, for she was rarely idle. In her silver-grey
dress with a lace cap of dainty gossamer resting on her white hair,
worn cast back after the style of Marie Antoinette, and her
old-fashioned set of amethyst ornaments, she looked singularly
charming. In the subdued light which came through the pink lampshades
she looked like some gentle ghost of early Victorian days, soothingly
womanly and motherly. She had grown old gracefully, and as the diamonds
flashed from her rings while she tatted diligently Alan thought what a
delightful gentlewoman she looked, placid, dignified and gracious.

It was the vicar who answered his son’s question, although Alan had
scarcely put his remark as such. “Ah, my boy, you’d soon grow weary of
this drowsy place, and would long for the crowded hour of glorious
life. It is the contrast that makes you appreciate our Eden.”

Mrs. Fuller nodded her approval. “White always shows up best against
black.”

“Well, you have had some London black down here lately, mother.” And
when she looked at him inquiringly, Alan continued, “I mean the
funeral.”

The vicar’s face grew sad. “Yes! yes! That was indeed an unpleasant
reminder of what lies beyond our quiet hills. Poor Grison and poor
Louisa tool I do not know which I am most sorry for.”

“For Louisa?” said Mrs. Fuller, raising her quiet eyes. “You need not
be sorry for her, John. She did her duty and more than her duty by that
poor creature who has gone to his account, so she has nothing to
reproach herself with. I am glad she is staying for a few days, as I
wish to have a talk with her.”

“Is Miss Grison staying here then?” asked Alan, wondering if it would
be worth while to look her up.

“At Mrs. Millington’s, the dressmaker, my dear. She and Louisa were
close friends twenty years and more ago.”

“That was when Grison was secretary to Mr. Sorley.”

“Yes,” chimed in the vicar. “But who told you about that, my boy?”

“Miss Grison spoke about it at the inquest and also to Dick and
Inspector Moon, father. Then I met Mr. Sorley on my way here and he
told me that he had employed the man, but had to get rid of him for
drink, and——”

“I don’t think that is true,” interrupted Mrs. Fuller with some
indignation in her usually gentle voice. “Poor Baldwin—we called him so
when he was a young man—did not drink to excess, although he certainly
took more than was good for him at times.”

“Then why was he discharged?”

“I cannot say, Alan, nor can anyone else. Louisa knows, but she would
never tell me. But Mr. Sorley was much to blame in throwing Baldwin on
the world without a character, since he was too weak to stand by
himself. Louisa did what she could, but he fell from bad to worse
until—alas! alas! Tell me, Alan, has anything been discovered as to who
killed him?”

“Not yet, mother. You have read the papers.”

“Oh yes. Louisa sent all the reports down to your father and to me,
knowing that we took a deep interest in Baldwin. Don’t you remember
him, Alan? You were a little boy of six or seven then.”

Alan shook his head. “I have a faint recollection only, mother. A
little man, wasn’t he, with fair hair and blue eyes? But there, I may
have got that impression from Dick’s description. He saw the corpse.”

“Don’t talk about such things, Alan,” said the vicar hastily. “It
worries your mother: she is very impressionable. Let us be thankful
that the poor creature has been brought back to lie in our quiet
churchyard. As to the person who murdered him, he will suffer for his
sin in God’s good time.”

“I doubt if the truth will ever be discovered,” said Alan with a shrug.
“By the way, father, do you remember that peacock of jewels which was
the fetish or luck of the Inderwicks?”

Not knowing what connection there was between the murder of Grison and
the ornament in question, the vicar thought that the apparently
irrelevant inquiry was made by his son in obedience to his request that
the crime should not be discussed in the presence of Mrs. Fuller.
“Everyone in the village, if not in the county, knows about the
peacock,” he said with an approving smile, “but as to its bringing
luck, I do not believe in such superstitions, my boy.”

“Perhaps not,” said his wife quietly, “but you must confess, John, that
since what the Inderwicks call their luck has been missing nothing has
gone well with them—that is with Marie, who alone represents the
family.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Marie is young, healthy, pretty, and happy enough
in her own way, as Sorley is kindness itself to her. There’s no bad
luck haunting the girl so far as I can see.”

“No, of course not. But I allude rather to her poverty. The Inderwicks
used to be rich, and Mrs. Inderwick was left comparatively well off.
Then she lost her money when Marie was born, and afterwards died.”

“Inderwick—Marie’s father, that is—should not have made Sorley trustee,
for he is, and always was a bad business man. He acted honestly enough,
I daresay, but even with his sister’s consent he should never have
speculated as he did. No wonder the money was lost.”

“What were the speculations?” asked Alan.

“Land in Australia—in Melbourne chiefly, I believe. There was a big
land boom there, over twenty years ago. Then everything failed and bank
after bank went smash. Before Sorley could get a letter or even a
telegram out, everything was gone. However, Marie has The Monastery and
the park and sufficient to keep her in food and dress, so she can’t
grumble.”

“Marie never does grumble,” said Mrs. Fuller decidedly, “she is the
brightest person I know. But it’s a dull life for a young girl at The
Monastery. She ought to have a season in London and be presented at
Court and have an opportunity,” here she stole a shy glance at Alan’s
expressive face, “of making a good match. With Marie’s blood and looks
she should secure a title.”

“Well, perhaps she will, when the peacock returns to bring back the
luck,” said Alan, refusing to be drawn into an argument with his mother
over Marie.

“It will never be found,” said the vicar positively. “How was it lost,
father?”

“I can’t tell you. But it has been missing twenty years and is not
likely to reappear. Marie can do very well without it. Such
superstition is ridiculous. And now we must have prayers,” ended Mr.
Fuller inconsequently. His wife looked up amused, since she knew that
he acted thus because he had no patience with her belief in the peacock
as a fetish.

And while prayers were being said Alan wondered if the peacock would
ever reappear, in spite of his father’s doubts, to influence Marie’s
destiny.