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  Of course, neither Miss Dalrymple nor I knew anything of this at the time, but we were speedily undeceived. The day after the funeral she came to see me in great distress and told me that she had been to consult a lawyer as to what was to be done about Mrs. Wheeler’s estate, and he had told her that by witnessing the will she and the vicar had signed away all their inheritance. She told me also that the vicar had called upon her and expressed his sorrow that his ignorance had led to her losing the reward of her long years of service, not to mention his own thousand pounds, which he admitted was a serious matter for him, for the living was not a good one.

  After that Miss Dalrymple left the village, and I understand she secured another post with a lady at Cheltenham, where she was not well paid, and where, I am afraid, she was anything but happy. Meanwhile we in the village awaited the dreadful moment when Mr. Charles Wheeler would descend upon us to take possession of the property which had in this strange way become his after all. A week or more went by, and then we heard the great and unexpected news. I had it first from Mrs. Tomlin, at the post office; and although I always suspect anything from that source, it was soon afterwards confirmed by the vicar himself. It appeared that as soon as it was established that the will was of no effect, the vicar had enquiries made for the whereabouts of the son, and these enquiries had met with a speedy and most unhoped result. Charles Wheeler was no more! He had perished, very miserably, I am sorry to say, in some foreign town, quite soon after his last letter to his mother asking for assistance. The vicar had been shown that letter at the time, and he told me that in it he had stated that he was dangerously ill. It was the vicar who had counselled Mrs. Wheeler not to reply to it, thinking that the statement of his condition was only a ruse to get more money from the mother who had cast him off; and he said, very generously as I thought at the time, that he now regretted that he had not allowed his aunt to take measures which might have prolonged the unfortunate man’s life a little longer. But I told him that although the sentiment did him credit, it was much better as it was, and I remember that I went so far as to say that the death of Charles Wheeler might be accounted a providential event.

  So after all the vicar, as the only living relative of his aunt, came into all her possessions, and we were all so pleased at this happy turn of events that I am afraid we had very little thought to spare for poor Miss Dalrymple, who, after all, was the person whom Mrs. Wheeler had mainly had in mind. And the vicar was so popular in the village—except, of course, with old Judd and people of his stamp—that there was no one who did not rejoice in his good fortune. Indeed, and this is my great difficulty at the present moment, he is still just as popular as ever, simply because nobody, myself only excepted, knows the truth.

  * * *

  Just over a week ago I spent a night in London with my brother and sister-in-law, a thing I do very rarely, except when the summer sales are in progress. They took me to the theatre that evening, I remember—it was a most amusing piece, but I do not recollect the name—and invited to join the party a Mr. Woodhouse, whom I had never met before. During the interval, between the acts, he asked me where I lived and, when I told him, said, “Then I suppose you know Mr. ——” (mentioning the vicar by name).

  “Indeed I do,” I told him, and was about to go on to tell him something of the strange story of Mrs. Wheeler’s will when he interrupted me.

  “I was up with him at Oxford,” he said. “A very clever fellow, I thought him.”

  “He is a very good man,” I answered with some emphasis, “and I think that is more important.” One does not somehow like to hear one’s vicar described as “a very clever fellow”, even if it is kindly meant.

  “Oh, but he is clever too,” Mr. Woodhouse persisted. “I remember he took a first-class honours degree in Law the year I graduated.”

  I was thunderstruck.

  “In Law, Mr. Woodhouse?” I said. “Are you sure that you are not mistaken?”

  “Quite sure,” he said. “He was intended for the Bar, you know, but he changed his mind and went into the Church instead. Rather a waste of a good intellect, I thought.”

  Luckily the curtain rose for the next act before I could ask him what he meant by his last very improper observation, and I took good care not to refer to the subject again.

  All the way down in the train next day I could think of nothing but what Mr. Woodhouse had told me. If the vicar had really studied the law at Oxford how was it possible that he had made such a mistake as he had done about witnessing the will? I tried to comfort myself by reflecting that he might have forgotten this particular point, but it seemed hardly possible, and indeed John has told me since that it is one of the “first principles” of the Law of Wills—though why they should make a first principle of anything so unjust and cruel I do not in the least understand. But if he knew that by becoming a witness Miss Dalrymple was losing her right to Mrs. Wheeler’s property, however hostile to her he may have felt, why had he been content to destroy his own chances of getting a thousand pounds also? It was all most puzzling and mysterious, and I made up my mind, come what might, to speak to him at the very first opportunity. And that opportunity came last Sunday, after matins.

  I still blush when I think of it—not for myself, for I feel that I only obeyed my conscience in saying what I did, but for him. His effrontery was so astonishing. I can recall—I do not think I shall ever forget—exactly what passed between us.

  I met him, as I said, just as he was coming out of the vestry door after the service. He said “Good morning” to me, and I responded as politely as I could.

  Then I said, “I met an old acquaintance of yours in London, Vicar, a Mr. Woodhouse.”

  “Oh, yes, Woodhouse,” he replied. “I haven’t seen him for a very long time.”

  I resolved not to beat about the bush.

  “He told me,” I said, “that you had studied the law at Oxford, and were awarded first-class honours for your proficiency.”

  He did not show the least confusion, but merely said, “It is pleasant to have one’s little triumphs remembered.”

  “Then did you not know,” I pressed him, “that Miss Dalrymple ought not to have witnessed that will?”

  “Ought not, Miss Burnside?” he asked. “I should prefer to say that Mrs. Wheeler ought not to have tried to dispose of her property in the way that she did.”

  I could hardly speak for indignation.

  “Then you deliberately so arranged matters that Miss Dalrymple should lose what Mrs. Wheeler wished her to have?” I said.

  “I did.”

  “Even at the cost of losing your own legacy?”

  “But you see, I have not lost it,” he answered with a smile, and then I suddenly saw the light.

  “Vicar!” I said. “You knew all the time that Charles Wheeler was dead!”

  He nodded.

  “I had a telegram from the British Consul informing me of his death some months ago,” he said. “In view of my aunt’s state of health I thought it wiser to keep the news from her. Do you blame me?”

  I was so angry that I am afraid I lost all respect for his cloth.

  “Blame you?” I said. “I think you have behaved like a common thief!”

  And then he used those awful words that I have already mentioned: “Well, Miss Burnside, and what are you going to do about it?”

  * * *

  What indeed! Tomorrow it is Sunday again. I know that my absence from church would cause the most undesirable talk in the place, but yet I feel as if, so long as he is vicar, dear St. Etheldreda’s can never be the same place for me again. The Hall is up for sale and I hear dreadful rumours that it is to be bought by a builder. All our pleasant life in this village is at an end, so far as I am concerned. I wish somebody would answer that question for me: What am I going to do?

  Name of Smith

  On the death of Sir Charles Blenkinsop, some-time Judge of the High Court of Justice, the benchers of his Inn, as was only proper, arranged a memorial
service for him. It was not so well attended as such functions usually are, for Sir Charles, in spite of his acknowledged competence as a lawyer, had never been popular. Moreover, there had been certain rumours concerning his private life of a type particularly detrimental to judges. Some of his colleagues had breathed a sigh of relief when Sir Charles, a few years before, had earned his pension and quitted the Bench without open scandal.

  Francis Pettigrew, still “of counsel” but now in country retirement, was at the service. His friend MacWilliam, the Chief Constable of Markshire, had thought it his duty to attend, since the deceased had been a Markhampton man; and Pettigrew accompanied him, more on the chance of meeting old Temple acquaintances than as a tribute to Blenkinsop’s memory. He was disappointed to see so sparse a congregation and was correspondingly pleased on leaving the church to find himself behind the familiar, square-built figure of his old friend Challoner, a well-known City solicitor.

  He overtook Challoner at the door, introduced him to MacWilliam, and was standing with them in the porch when his eye was caught by a shabby man of about forty who smiled at him in a friendly but slightly embarrassed fashion and walked hastily away.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Challoner, as they strolled down Fleet Street.

  “Apparently,” said Pettigrew. “He certainly seemed to know me, and I have an idea I’ve seen him before, but where, I haven’t the remotest notion.”

  “Name of Smith.”

  “The name is certainly familiar.”

  “Charles Smith. Does a certain amount of reporting in the Courts. I dare say he was covering the service.”

  “Charles Smith,” said Pettigrew meditatively. “Charles——!” He stopped dead on the pavement. It may have been mere coincidence that it was at the door of a saloon bar. He took the solicitor by the arm and gently impelled him inside, leaving MacWilliam to follow. “Of course I know the chap. I defended him once—on a charge of murder.”

  “Really?” said Challoner with polite interest. “I don’t read the Old Bailey reports.”

  “This wasn’t at the Bailey. It was at Markhampton Assizes, six or seven years ago. And, what is more, old Blenkinsop, whose demise we have just been mourning, tried him. That would be before your time, MacWilliam.”

  “As a matter of fact——” said the Chief Constable. But Pettigrew’s attention was devoted to ordering drinks, and he did not bother to complete the sentence.

  “Odd running into Smith like that,” Pettigrew went on a few minutes later. “I may forget faces, and cases too, as often as not, but that was a case I shall remember all my life. Cheers!”

  “Your health, Pettigrew! Was it a difficult task to—ah—‘get him off’ is the phrase, is it not?”

  Pettigrew smiled grimly. “Very. Too difficult for me, at all events,” he said. “On that evidence and before a local jury he never had an earthly. The case was as dead as mutton.”

  “That being so, I don’t quite see why Smith isn’t——”

  “Isn’t also as dead as mutton? Therein lies a mystery which will always puzzle me. Charles Smith escaped hanging solely and entirely through the positively goat-like conduct of Blenkinsop.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said MacWilliam again, and this time he was allowed to go on. “As a matter of fact, I had occasion to read the summing-up in that case quite recently. It was remarkable.”

  “Remarkable? The Court of Criminal Appeal used stronger adjectives than that. I’ve never heard such a performance in my life. And from Blenkinsop, of all people! Now that we’ve done our duty by him in church we can speak the truth about him and we all know that by and large Charlie Blenkinsop was a pretty nasty piece of work, but, hang it all, the man was a lawyer. If anybody on the Bench knew his stuff, I should have said he did. But in this case the old boy went completely hay-wire. When I tell you that he actually directed the jury, as a matter of law . . .”

  To detail all the iniquities of the summing-up took Pettigrew a full five minutes of blistering technicalities.

  “Of course the thing was a push-over on appeal,” he concluded. “The conviction was quashed with more rudery than I have ever heard applied to a Judge of Assize. That case should go down in history as Blenkinsop’s biggest boner. But what will always puzzle me is—why on earth did he do it?”

  “Had he—er—lunched very well on that day?” Challoner ventured.

  “Not a bit of it. He was as sober as—as a judge, if you follow me.”

  “I have my own theory about the matter,” MacWilliam put in. “I think the explanation is that all the parties involved—including the judge—were Markhampton people. You’ll remember, Mr. Pettigrew, that your client came from what was locally considered pretty poor stock. His mother, Mary Smith—she’s still alive, by the way—was no better than she should be, and nobody ever knew who his father was. The girl he was accused of killing, on the other hand, belonged to one of the most respectable families in the town. Her father was a pillar of the strictest sect we have—and when Markhampton people are moral they take their morality seriously. Smith had got her into trouble, and she was desperate to be made an honest woman of—which didn’t suit Smith’s book at all, as he had engaged himself to a much wealthier woman. His defence was that she had committed suicide rather than face her family with the news of her downfall.”

  “Precisely,” said Pettigrew. “Not the line of defence to commend itself to a jury of townspeople inflamed with piety and rectitude, even if the medical evidence hadn’t killed it stone dead.”

  “Very true. Local feeling was strong against Smith. And my point is, that in this matter the judge was a local man.”

  “He left the town quite young, did he not?”

  “He did, sir, and according to my information he left it under a cloud. Young Blenkinsop had not been one of the respectables. My belief is that he took this opportunity to put himself right with the town, by taking the part of respectability, and ramming home every point against the young sinner. Only, of course, he overdid it.”

  “It’s an idea, certainly,” said Pettigrew. “There must have been some explanation for Blenkinsop’s extraordinary lapse. But why should you know so much about the case? I should have thought there was enough current crime in Markshire to occupy you without digging up the past.”

  “The past has a habit of digging itself up,” said MacWilliam. “The Smith case came alive again last week. That is why I turned up the records.”

  “Then you’ve been wasting your time. They can’t try Smith again, you know.”

  “Unfortunately for Smith, they cannot. He was innocent.”

  “What?”

  “The girl’s father died a few days ago. He left a full confession. He killed her himself to punish her for her sins. He quoted a number of texts to justify his action. He was a religious maniac—poor fellow.”

  Nobody said anything for an appreciable time after that, and then Challoner remarked quietly, “I think this round is on me.” When the drinks had been brought, he asked MacWilliam abruptly, “What is Mary Smith’s address?”

  “Whose?”

  “Mary Smith’s—Charles Smith’s mother.”

  “Why, she lives where she always has lived—Lower River Lane. Why do you——?”

  “Number Nine?”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  Challoner pursed his lips.

  “I was the late Sir Charles Blenkinsop’s solicitor,” he said. “By his will, he left a substantial sum of money in trust for this lady during her life. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  Pettigrew whistled.

  “There is one obvious conclusion to draw,” he said. “But beyond it, I see another. The judge was Charles Smith’s father.”

  “It certainly seems probable.”

  “But this is outrageous!” cried MacWilliam. “He tries his own son for murder and does his damnedest to send him to the gallows. What sort of a father do you call that?”

  “I should describe
him as somewhat unnatural, I admit. But there are the facts.”

  “The old devil!”

  It was at this point that Pettigrew burst out laughing. MacWilliam looked at him in disapproving surprise.

  “I don’t see what there is funny about it,” he said severely.

  “Don’t you?” spluttered Pettigrew. “I bet Blenkinsop does, if he can see anything now. He always had a low sense of humour. I’ve just seen the point of that famous summing-up of his. It explains everything. He made a muck of it on purpose! He knew that Smith hadn’t a chance with the jury, so he did the next best thing, by giving him a cast-iron case on appeal. Unnatural father, my foot! He was a damned affectionate one, who was prepared to spoil his reputation and pervert justice to save his son’s neck. I never thought the old ruffian had so much humanity in him.”

  He raised his tankard.

  “Here’s to you, Charlie Blenkinsop, wherever you are,” he said. “When you misdirected a jury you knew what you were about—which is more than I can say of some of your learned brothers!”