The Ringer Read Online

"They weren't well advised to put their fortune in the hands of Maurice Meister."

    He stared through the window on to the Thames Embankment. The clang of tram bells came faintly through the double windows. There was a touch of spring in the air; the bare branches along the Embankment were budding greenly, and soon would be displayed all their delicate leafy splendour. A curious and ominous place, this Scotland Yard, and yet human and kindly hearts beat behind its grim exterior.

    Walford was thinking, not of Meister, but of the children who were left in Meister's care.

    "Meister knew The Ringer," he said unexpectedly, and Wembury's eyes opened.

    "Knew The Ringer, sir?" he repeated.

    Walford nodded.

    "I don't know how well; I suspect too well—too well for the comfort of The Ringer if he's alive. He left his sister in Meister's charge—Gwenda Milton. Six months ago, the body of Gwenda Milton was taken from the Thames." Alan nodded as he recalled the tragedy. "She was Meister's secretary. One of these days when you've nothing better to do, go up to the Record Office—there was a great deal that didn't come out at the inquest."

    "About Meister?"

    Colonel Walford nodded.

    "If The Ringer is dead, nothing matters, but if he is alive"—he shrugged his broad shoulders and looked oddly under the shaggy eyebrows at the young detective—"if he is alive, I know something that would bring him back to Deptford—and to Meister."

    "What is that, sir?" asked Wembury.

    Again Walford gave his cryptic smile.

    "Examine the record and you will read the oldest drama in the world—the story of a trusting woman and a vile man."

    And then, dismissing The Ringer with a wave of his hand as though he were a tangible vision awaiting such a dismissal, he became suddenly the practical administrator.

    "You are taking up your duties on Monday week. You might like to go down and have a look round, and get acquainted with your new division?"

    Alan hesitated.

    "If it is possible, sir, I should like a week's holiday," he said, and in spite of himself, his tanned face assumed a deeper red.

    "A holiday? Certainly. Do you want to break the good news to the girl?" There was a good-humoured twinkle in Walford's eyes.

    "No, sir." His very embarrassment seemed to deny his statement. "There is a lady I should like to tell of my promotion," he went on awkwardly. "She is, in fact—Miss Mary Lenley."

    The Commissioner laughed softly.

    "Oh, you know the Lenleys that much, do you?" he said, and Alan's embarrassment was not decreased.

    "No, sir; she has always been a very good friend of mine," he said, almost gently, as though the subject of the discussion were one of whom he could not speak in more strident tones. "You see, I started life in a cottage on the Lenley estate. My father was head gardener to Squire Lenley, and I've known the family ever since I can remember. There is nobody else in Lenley village"—he shook his head sadly—"who would expect me—I—" He hesitated, and Walford jumped in.

    "Take your holiday, my boy. Go where you jolly well please! And if Miss Mary Lenley is as wise as she is beautiful—I remember her as a child—she will forget that she is a Lenley of Lenley Court and you are a Wembury of the gardener's cottage! For in these democratic days, Wembury,"—there was a quiet earnestness in his voice—"a man is what he is, not what his father was. I hope you will never be obsessed by a sense of your own unworthiness. Because, if you are"—he paused, and again his eyes twinkled—"you will be a darned fool!"

    Alan Wembury left the room with the uneasy conviction that the Assistant Commissioner knew a great deal more about the Lenleys than he had admitted.

    IT seemed that the spring had come earlier to Lenley village than to grim old London, which seems to regret and resist the tenderness of the season, until, overwhelmed by the rush of crocuses and daffodils and yellow-hearted narcissi, it capitulates blandly in a blaze of yellow sunshine.

    As he walked into the village from the railway station, Alan saw over the hedge the famous Lenley Path of Daffodils, blazing with a golden glory. Beyond the tall poplars was the roof of grey old Lenley Court.

    News of his good fortune had come ahead of him. The bald-headed landlord of the Red Lion Inn came running out to intercept him, a grin of delight on his rubicund face.

    "Glad to see you back, Alan," he said. "We've heard of your promotion and we're all very proud of you. You'll be Chief of the Police one of these days."

    Alan smiled at the spontaneous enthusiasm. He liked this old village; it was a home of dreams. Would the great, the supreme dream, which he had never dared bring to its logical conclusion, be fulfilled?

    "Are you going up to the Court to see Miss Mary?" and when he answered yes, the landlord shook his head and pursed his lips. He was regret personified. "Things are very bad up there, Alan. They say there's nothing left out of the estate either for Mr. John or Miss Mary. I don't mind about Mr. John: he's a man who can make his way in the world—I wish he'd get a better way than he's found."

    "What do you mean?" asked Alan quickly.