Читать книгу Son of a Hundred Kings - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 23

“Come to my room, Mr. Christian,” said the chief. “I’ve something to show you.”

The office of the head of the force was small, and the chairs it provided for visitors were in such bad repair that the stuffing was sticking out in many places through the horsehair coverings. There were a number of photographs of women on the walls, and one of these showed a plump female, with an enormous feather in her hat and a sash draped over her hips, standing between two heavy-looking men. The men were in plain clothes, but there was no mistaking the fact that they were police. This was not surprising, for the woman was Mrs. Rosa Rushon, who had been tried for the poisoning of her husband. She had been acquitted and had immediately turned ugly, bringing suits against everyone concerned, the judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, the press, even one of the jurors who did some talking afterward. Nothing had come of the suits, and eventually the broad-beamed Rosa had gone out west and married a minister. Chief Jarvis kept her picture in full view as a warning to the force on the need to be careful about the nature of evidence.

To lend respectability to this gallery Mr. Jarvis had a framed picture of a pleasant-faced woman in a black hat, Mrs. Jarvis, no less, and a steel engraving of Queen Victoria.

Seating himself at his desk, the chief drew out an envelope from a drawer, and from the envelope produced a watch. This he placed in Christian’s hand.

“Look at it carefully and tell me if you see anything curious about it.”

After an inspection of several moments the carpenter said, holding the watch on the palm of his hand as though weighing it: “It’s heavy. A lot of gold in it.”

“Don’t you see anything else?”

“N-no. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Look at the initials on the back of the case.”

William turned over the watch and then said: “Now I see. The initials are V. R. and not V. P.”

“Exactly.” The chief nodded his head with satisfaction. “The man’s real name was not Prentice but something beginning with R. What’s more, the people in England who sent the boy out were aware of the fact. They used the assumed name for the boy.”

He replaced the watch in the envelope, and the envelope in the drawer. Then he produced a small and somewhat faded picture of a group of children standing by a dogcart to which a fat little pony was hitched. This he also handed across the desk to his visitor.

“There’s something about this.”

In a childish hand at the bottom of the photograph appeared five names: Nancy, Poppy, Cyril, Vivien, and Goonhilly.

“I suppose,” said William, “that this curious word——”

“Goonhilly?”

“Yes. Does it refer to the pony?”

“Naturally. The goonhilly is a type of pony, raised, I think, in Cornwall. Or Devonshire.”

Chief Jarvis retrieved the picture and dropped it back into the drawer. “With these two bits of evidence we may safely take it for granted that the name Prentice was assumed by the man. It’s clear also from the value of the watch—he seems to have preferred to starve rather than part with it—and the fact that the children had a pony—that the family had position and wealth. The last piece of evidence we found in his belongings was this letter from one of his sisters. At any rate, it’s signed Poppy, which would be the pudding-faced little girl second from the left, and it’s dated nearly two years ago. All names are carefully scratched out. I’m not going to read you the letter, but it offers more proofs of the importance of the family. She tells him his wife is dead—that would be the boy’s mother, without a doubt—and that she wishes she could send him more money than the small postal order enclosed but that she and her husband, who is referred to only as Dear Old Fishface, have bought a place of their own with a trout stream and are strapped. She says she has named her second son after him and that she wishes ‘dear old Viv’ would be sensible and come home. She’s sure that all would be forgiven. Now there we have a clear picture of this man’s background.”

Christian nodded his head. “What a sad end for him!”

“The coroner says he was pretty far gone with consumption. No doubt that decided him to make an end of it.”

Sergeant Feeny put his head in at the door. “The hack’s here,” he announced. “He’s stewed, Barney Grim is, and it’s quite a ride you’ll be having, mister. If someone yells at him, ‘Barney Grim, who’s your father?’ and he gets his whip out to be lashing at them, you just be taking it away from him. It will be trouble you’ll save by doing it.”

William nodded his head, although it was highly unlikely that he would ever assert himself to the extent of taking a whip out of the hands of a drunken driver. He was, as a matter of fact, paying little attention, his mind being fixed on the need to get home as soon as possible.

“And speaking of fathers,” went on the sergeant, “it would be only right and fitting to take the boy to the undertaker’s on the way. It’s the one chance he’ll be having to see his father.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” said William, becoming attentive at once. “Children shouldn’t be shown dead people. It would frighten a small boy like this.”

The policeman looked at them blankly. “He’d be scared, you say? Why, mister, there’s been all manner of people asking to see the body and bringing in children with eyes on them as round as saucers. And why should the sight of a good clean corpse frighten them?”

“Mr. Christian’s right,” said the chief.