“Don’t be ghastly.” Mrs. Mead shuddered. “Nothing like that. Poor Mrs. Healy, it’s horrid for her; she has had her rubies stolen - a ruby chain, you know. She had to call in the police, poor thing, and they’ve arrested Mr. Burchard’s valet. They found the rubies in his room. And somebody saw him go into Mrs. Healy’s room before. She’s in a dreadful state, naturally. She says she can’t believe it. She rang me up to ask if any of us had seen anything.”
“No,” said Mrs. Fortune, “nothing. Our room wasn’t in that wing.”
“As you say,” Reggie murmured. “And I don’t know what Burchard’s valet looks like.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Mead approved. “I told her none of us would. How could we? But isn’t it a horrid thing?”
“Yes. Very unpleasant all round. Yes. How does Burchard take it?”
“She says he’s been very nice about it, but of course he’s dreadfully annoyed.”
Reggie has admitted - he may be said to insist - that he did not see what this episode of the valet had to do with anything. He never fails to add that, if anybody had guessed what it meant, the course of events would have been in no way affected, because there was not evidence to act upon. His grievance against himself is that he did not recognise in the introduction of the valet to the case the mocking humour of the irrational element in the universe.
But he is inherently careful. Expecting nothing from it he obtained the report of the valet’s trial in the local paper - the London papers ignored it - and read that Herbert Arnold was convicted, and received a light sentence as a first offender of good character. His defence was feeble. He denied that he had taken the rubies, and protested that he could not tell how they came to be in his room. The evidence of his having been seen to go to Mrs. Healy’s room he did not contest; he said that he had been sent there by Burchard to ask if she could see him. Burchard denied it, and the cross - examination of Burchard by the valet’s counsel lacked confidence. “I never sent him,” Burchard repeated. “Why on earth should I send my valet to my hostess’s room? It’s idiotic.” And counsel made a nebulous suggestion that he had some reason for wanting to see Mrs. Healy. “What reason?” said Burchard. “I met her at lunch. I was going to meet her at tea.” Counsel gave it up, and fell back on the old story of malicious enemies in the household and a plea for mercy.
Reggie saw no reason to feel merciful. He had small doubt that the gentleman’s gentleman whom he had seen furtive at the Letley dance, and coming from the state bedroom - Mrs. Healy’s bedroom - the next day, was this gentleman. A purposeful, calculating fellow. He put the affair out of his mind, and for a month or two was concentrated on his momentous investigation of the tumour in the Siamese cat.
But he was not thus to escape from the case. There came a night when, at the end of dinner - a rite which she always respects - Mrs. Fortune spoke sadly. “I suppose you’ve seen, Reggie. Ann Bracy is going to marry that man.”
“Which one?” Reggie opened his eyes.
“The Burchard man, of course. Did you think it might be the Maminot boy?”
“No. No. Didn’t think.”
“It’s horrible,” said Mrs. Fortune. “Mrs. Mead is so pleased. She wants to come and stay with us and go to the wedding.”
“My poor girl,” Reggie purred. “Do you have to go too?”
“She’ll expect me to.”
Reggie looked at her with plaintive affection. “My dear girl! Oh, my dear girl! Not virtue to do the unpleasant because it’s expected of you. Not noble. Only feminine.”
But of course she did go. Returning from his laboratory, Reggie heard from Mrs. Mead that it was a most beautiful wedding, and Ann looked a perfect angel, the loveliest bride, and you could see that Burchard simply worshipped her. “It was all so just right. Wasn’t it, Joan?”
“I never saw anything more correct,” said Mrs. Fortune. And, when she had Reggie alone, “It was awful,” she told him. “The child was as if she didn’t know what was happening to her, like a saint in a trance, and the man was devouring her.”
Some months later, in the early autumn, Reggie was writing his classic monograph on the Siamese tumour when he was called to the telephone by the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Yes. Fortune sneaking,” he moaned. “I hate you. What’s the matter?”
“Can you go down to Midshire right away? They’re bothered. Clarence Burchard has been found shot. In bis own place. Letley Hall.”
“Oh, Peter!” Reggie mumbled. “That’s what’s happened.”
“Why, what do you mean? Were you expecting something like this?”
“No. No, both ways. Wasn’t expecting anything. And I don’t know what this is like.”
“Rather cryptic, aren’t you? ” said Lomas.
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! You’re mistakin’ ignorance for profundity. The mind is blank. What do you want me for?”
“They’re puzzled about it. And Burchard’s a big man, of course.”
“Grrrh!” said Reggie.
“What?”
“Poetry. By the late Mr. Browning. ‘ Grrrh, you swine!’ All right, I’ll go. We may avoid the worst errors.”
