In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with agentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: ‘Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!’
Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.
He did not. He said: ‘Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shocking crime, were you not, young man?’
‘Well, not precisely,’ said Pen.
‘Oh? How is that?’
‘I was, and I wasn’t,’ Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. ‘I didn’t see the body.’
‘No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?’
‘Well, sir, there was an owl,’ confided Pen unblushingly.
‘Come, come! Anowl?’
‘Yes: my cousin said that too.’
‘Said what?’
‘Come, come! He is not interested in bird-life.’
‘Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?’
‘Yes, and also I like to watch birds.’
Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. ‘Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so youwere not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?’
‘No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.’
‘I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,’ said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.
Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. ‘If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?’
Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. ‘A young person?’ she repeated.
‘Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.’
‘Oh!’ said Pen. ‘Oh, very well! Thank you!’
She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to – ‘Wyndham Esq.,’ and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.
‘Dear Sir,’the letter began, primly enough, ‘The Unfortunate Being whom you befriended last night, is in Desperate Case, and begs that you will come to the little orchard next to the road at eight o’clock punctually, because it is vital that I should have Private Speech with you. Do not fail.
Your obliged servant,
Lydia Daubenay.’
It was plain that Miss Daubenay had written this missive in considerable agitation. Greatly intrigued, Pen enquired the way to Major Daubenay’s house of a baker’s boy, and set off down the dusty road.
By the time she had reached the appointed rendezvous it was half-past eight, and Miss Daubenay was pacing up and down impatiently. A thick, high hedge shut the orchard off from sight of the house, and a low wall enclosed it from the road. Penclimbed on to this without much difficulty, and was greeted by an instant accusation: ‘Oh, you are so late! I have been waiting ages!’
‘Well, I am sorry, but I came as soon as I had read your letter,’ said Pen, jumping down into the orchard. ‘Why do you wish to see me?’
Miss Daubenay wrung her hands, and uttered in tense accents: ‘Everything has gone awry. I am quite distracted! I don’t know what to do!’
Pen betrayed no particular solicitude at this moving speech, but critically looked Miss Daubenay over.
