The Mysterious Three

It was the dark giant I had first met at dinner at the Stag’s Head, when we had shared a table on the night of the Hunt Ball – the man whom I now knew to be Henry Whichelo.

Chapter Twenty Six

Mr Smithson again

He gave a hardly perceptible start on seeing me. Then he extended his big hand and grasped mine in the most friendly way.

“Well, this is a real surprise – a very pleasant surprise, Mr Ashton,” he said, looking me full in the eyes. “I have often thought of you since the evening we met and had that pleasant meal together, and I told you my name was Smithson, because I knew the name would puzzle you. And what are you doing here? Making an ocular survey – as I am?”

The ready lie rose to my lips. It is very well for moralists to tell us we should always speak the truth. There are occasions when an aptitude for wandering into paths of falsehood may prove extremely useful. It did so now.

“No,” I answered, “I’m not. I am on my way to my little place about twenty miles from here – it is let now, but I think of returning to live there – and it occurred to me to look in at Houghton again. I saw it mentioned, in some paper the other day, that the Thorolds are returning.”

“Yes, that is so,” Whichelo answered. “Sir Charles has instructed me to see to everything, and make all arrangements. I have only to-day heard that he is very ill at the hospital. Have you seen him?”

I told him the latest bulletin. Then I asked him if he had any idea of Lady Thorold’s whereabouts.

“All I know,” he answered, “is that she was abroad when last I heard of her.”

“Abroad? Was that lately?”

“About a week ago. She was then somewhere in the Basses Alpes. Has she not been to see Sir Charles?”

“No. We don’t know where she is.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Vera Thorold and myself.”

“That’s strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Oh, of course Lady Thorold can’t have heard of his illness. She would have come at once, or at any rate have telegraphed, if she had.”

We talked a little longer – we had strolled into the morning-room, and sat down there – when Whichelo said suddenly —

“That discovery of a mummy in Sir Charles’ town house is curious, eh? How would you account for that, Ashton? And for the hole in the ceiling?”

“I don’t account for it at all,” I replied quickly, trying to look unconcerned beneath his narrow, scrutinising gaze. “What is your theory with regard to it?”

“Oh, I never theorise in cases of that kind,” he replied. “What is the use of theorising? One is almost certain to be wrong.”

“You must, however,” I said with some emphasis, “have some view or other as to the mummy’s age. Do you think it is an ancient mummy, or a modern one?”

He smiled, showing his wonderfully white teeth, which contrasted strangely with his crisp, black beard.

“I am not a ‘mummy expert,’ so I won’t venture an opinion,” he replied. “I should say the best thing they can do is to bury it, or give it to some museum. I’m sure Thorold won’t want it.”

“Don’t you think,” I said, speaking rather slowly, “Thorold may know how it came to be concealed there?”

“What a ridiculous idea, if you will pardon my saying so,” Whichelo answered quite sharply. “What on earth can he know about it?”

“After all,” I said, in the same even tone, “it was found in his house. Now, I have a theory. Shall I tell you what it is?”

He could not well say “no,” though I noticed he was not anxious to listen to the expression of my views or theories on the subject.

“Well,” I continued, looking at him steadily, “I have a theory regarding that strange hole in the ceiling. Can you guess what it is?”

“I’m sure I can’t,” he said, rather uneasily. “What is it?”

“My belief is that the mummy has been for a long time hidden in that ceiling – between the ceiling and the floor above. They lifted the boards of the upper room to get the mummy out, when the ceiling, rotted by decay, fell down. That’s my belief. You will, I think, find in the end that I’m right, though the idea does not seem, as yet, to have occurred to anybody else.”

Whichelo laughed. It was obviously a forced laugh.

“By Jove! you have a vivid imagination, Ashton,” he said, “only I fear you won’t find many, if any, to agree with your theory. Why should the mummy have been hidden in the ceiling? Who would have hidden it? People usually have some reason for doing things,” he ended, with a touch of malice.

“They have,” I answered significantly. Then, unable to resist the impulse, I added with affected carelessness: “I suppose, if a man hid a bag of gold, he would have some reason for hiding it, especially if he hid it in a ceiling. What do you think?”

The man’s countenance blanched to the lips. His mouth twitched. He seemed unable to utter a word.

“What do you know?” he suddenly exclaimed hoarsely, clutching the arm of his chair with trembling fingers. Then he added, in a threatening tone: “Tell me!”

I remembered that I was alone with him in there, miles from everywhere. When standing, he towered high above me, a veritable giant, and I knew that, if he chose to attack me, he must overcome me with the greatest ease. At all costs I must pacify him.

“Perhaps now,” I said calmly, “you think there is more in my theory than at first appeared. Listen to me, Mr Whichelo,” I went on, forcing my courage, “from what I have said, and hinted, you probably guess that I know – well – something. It remains for you to decide whether we are to be friends – or not. Personally, I am willing to be friendly with you. Thorold and I are friends, and have been for years. In addition, I am to marry Vera, so, naturally, I should prefer to remain friendly with her friends. Why not take me into your confidence, and tell me all you know? I’m not a man to talk, I assure you.”

I knew I had done right to take him in that way, and to be quite frank with him. Had I shown the white feather at all, even by implication, he would have pounced down upon me. That I felt instinctively.

Our eyes met sharply. During those brief moments something passed between us that revealed our true characters to each other. I had never really mistrusted Whichelo, though on that night we had dined together at the Stag’s Head in Oakham, his manner and his mode of speech had puzzled me a good deal. Now I instinctively knew him to be a man upon whom I could rely.

“Tell me all you know,” he said, in a low tone, glancing about him to make sure we were alone.

At once I came to the point.

“First, I know,” I said slowly, “that the body was hidden in the ceiling. Secondly, I believe the old professor’s theory which you have probably read in the newspapers, that the mummy has not really been dead very many years. Thirdly, I know that you and Thorold entered that house by way of the cellar of the house adjoining – and I don’t mind telling you that it was I who frightened you and Thorold out of your lives by giving vent to that screech in the room above.”

“You!” he gasped, surprised.

“Yes, but don’t interrupt me,” I said. “You and he brought the body to light and intended to smuggle it out of the house in a packing-case.”

I stopped. Then, with my eyes still set on his, I said —

“I saw those implements for coining, which afterwards disappeared. More than that —I saw the bags of gold!” Then I paused. “What has become of them?” I added meaningly.

Whichelo held his breath.

“By Heaven!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Then you know everything! How did you find this out?”

I made a random shot.

“If you will boldly advertise,” I said, “what else can you expect? ‘Meet me two.’”