“I see. Then they found the emeralds and Cranton killed Legros. How sad it makes me to think of all this violence for the sake of a few stones!”
“It makes me still sadder to think of poor Hilary Thorpe and her father,” said Mrs. Venables. “You mean to say that while they needed that money so badly, the emeralds were hidden in the church all the time within a few feet of them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And where are they now? Has this man Cranton got them? Why hasn’t somebody found them by now? I can’t think what the police are doing.”
* * *
Sunday seemed an unusually long day. On the Monday morning, a great many things happened at once. The first thing was the arrival of Superintendent Blundell, in great excitement.
“We’ve got that letter from Maidstone,” he announced, “and whose do you suppose the writing is?”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” said Wimsey. “I think it must have been Deacon’s.”
“There!” said Mr. Blundell, disappointed. “Well, you’re quite right, my lord; it is.”
“It must be the original cipher,” said Wimsey. “When we found out that it had to do with bell-ringing, I realised that Deacon must be the author. To have two bell-ringing convicts in Maidstone Gaol at once seemed rather too much of a coincidence. And then, when I showed the paper to Mrs. Thoday, I felt sure that she recognised the writing. It might have meant that Legros had written to her, but it was still more likely that she knew it to be her husband’s.”
“Well, then, how did it come to be written on that foreign paper?”
“Foreign paper is much of a muchness,” said Wimsey. “Did Lady Thorpe ever have a foreign maid? Old Lady Thorpe, I mean.”
“Sir Charles had a French cook,” said the Superintendent.
“At the time of the theft?”
“Yes. She left them when the War broke out, I remember. She wanted to get back to her family, and they scraped her across on one of the last boats.”
“Then that’s clear enough. Deacon invented his cryptogram before he actually hid the emeralds. He couldn’t have taken it into prison with him. He must have handed it to somebody—”
“Mary,” said the Superintendent, with a grim smile.
“Perhaps. And she must have sent it to Legros. It’s all rather obscure.”
“Not so obscure as that, my lord.” Mr. Blundell’s face grew still grimmer. “I thought it was a bit reckless, if you’ll excuse me, showing that paper to Mary Thoday. She’s skipped.”
“Skipped?”
“First train to town this morning. And Will Thoday with her. A precious pair.”
“Good God!”
“You may say so, my lord. Oh, we’ll have them, don’t you fear. Gone off, that’s what they’ve done, and the emeralds with them.”
“I admit,” said Wimsey, “I didn’t expect that.”
“Didn’t you?” said Mr. Blundell. “Well, I didn’t either, or I’d have kept a sharper eye on them. And by the way, we know now who that Legros fellow was.”
“You’re a perfect budget of news to-day, Super.”
“Ah! well — we’ve had a letter from your friend M. Rozier. He had that woman’s house searched, and what do you think they found? Legros’ identification disc — no less. Any more guesses coming, my lord?”
“I might make a guess, but I won’t. I’ll buy it. What was the name?”
“Name of Arthur Cobbleigh.”
“And who’s Arthur Cobbleigh when he’s at home?”
“You hadn’t guessed that, then?”
“No — my guess was quite different. Go on. Super. Spill the beans.”
“Well, now. Arthur Cobbleigh — seems he was just a bloke. But can you guess where he came from?”
“I’ve given up guessing.”
“He came from a little place near Dartford — only about half a mile from the wood where Deacon’s body was found.”
“Oho! now we’re coming to it.”
“I got on the ’phone straight away as soon as this letter came. Cobbleigh was a chap aged somewhere about twenty-five in 1914. Not a good record. Labourer. Been in trouble once or twice with the police for petty thieving and assault. Joined up in the first year of the War and considered rather a good riddance. Last seen on the last day of his leave in 1918, and that day was just two days after Deacon’s escape from prison. Left his home to rejoin his unit. Never seen again. Last news of him, ‘Missing believed killed’ in the retreat over the Marne. Officially, that is. Last actual news of him — over there!”
The Superintendent jerked his thumb in the general direction of the churchyard.
Wimsey groaned.
“It makes no sense. Super, it makes no sense! If this man Cobbleigh joins up in the first year of the War, how, on earth could he have been elaborately in league with Deacon, who went to Maidstone in 1914? There was no time. Damn it! You don’t get a man out of quod in a few spare hours spent on leave. If Cobbleigh had been a warder — if he’d been a fellow-convict — if he’d been anything to do with the prison, I could understand it. Had he a relation in the gaol or anything of that sort? There must have been something more to it than that.”
“Must there? Look here, my lord, how’s this? I’ve been working this thing out coming over, and this is what I make out of it. Deacon bust away from a working-party, didn’t he? He was found still wearing his prison dress, wasn’t he? Doesn’t that show his escape wasn’t planned out elaborately beforehand? They’d have found him fast enough, if he hadn’t gone and pitched down that dene-hole, wouldn’t they? Now, you listen to this, and see if it don’t hold water. I can see it plain as a pike-staff. Here’s this Cobbleigh — a hard nut, by all accounts. He’s walking through the wood on the way from his mother’s cottage, to take the train at Dartford for wherever he might be going to join up with the troops going back to France. Somewhere on that moor he finds a chap lurking about. He collars him, and finds he’s pinched the escaped convict that everybody’s looking for. The convict says, ‘Let me go, and I’ll make you a rich man,’ see? Cobbleigh’s got no objection to that. He says, ‘Lead me to it. What is it?’ The convict says ‘The Wilbraham emeralds, that’s what it is.’ Cobbleigh says, ‘Coo! tell us some more about that. How’m I to know you ain’t kidding me? You tell us where they are and we’ll see about it.’ Deacon says, ‘No fear — catch me telling you, without you helps me first.’ Cobbleigh says, ‘You can’t help yourself,’ he says, ‘I only got to give you up and then where’ll you be?’ Deacon says, ‘You won’t get much out o’ that. You stick by me and I’ll put hundreds of thousands of pounds in your hands.’ They go on talking, and Deacon, like a fool, lets out that he’s made a note of the hiding-place and has it on him. ‘Oh, have you?’ says Cobbleigh, ‘then you damn well take that.’ And lams him over the head. Then he goes over him and finds the paper, which he’s upset to find he can’t make head or tail of. Then he has another look at Deacon and sees he’s done him in good and proper. ‘Oh, hell!’ says he, ‘that’s torn it. I better shove him out of the way and clear off.’ So he pops him down the hole and makes tracks for France. How’s that, so far?”