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The
Strange Case of
"WILLIAM"
COOK





The
Strange Case of
"WILLIAM" COOK
By
Richard Keverne
Author of "Carteret's Cure"

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1928


THE STRANGE CASE OF
"WILLIAM" COOK
Printed in the U. S. A.
K-C
▼


The
Strange Case of
"WILLIAM"
COOK





The Strange Case of
"WILLIAM'' COOK
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
I
To most of the summer visitors at the little Belgian plage
of St. Gules, old Jean, of the Natation Cafe, was as
familiar as the grey-green sea itself, or the great sand
dunes amid which the quaint old place was built.
Jean was a local character, an odd-job man with
mysterious occupations, but a regular waiter at the cafe
on the beach during the summer season. The natives
mistrusted and disliked him. But that was because he
was a foreigner. A Frenchman, some said, others a Ger-
man or a Scandinavian. And Jean kept himself very
much to himself, and returned the local hatred with
interest. • •*■
He said very little: he never explained his frequent ab-
sences, though the whole fishing quarter jeered at him and
said he had been in gaol. Only now and again they could
rouse him to retort, and then his epithets would rival
theirs in savage insult. So they grew a little afraid of
Jean, and learned to leave him alone.
Portly, blonde Mme. Levasseur, of the Natation, shared
the common hostility, but she was too keen a business
woman to express it. Jean was a good workman and
cheap. She could beat him down every time, which she
could not do when she tried to haggle with her own


2 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
people. And Jean, in his wooden, surly way seemed to
understand the English, who were responsible for the
fattening of the Levasseur money-bags each season.
Not that Jean spoke their language, but he was resent-
fully patient with their stupid jokes and their preposterous
requests. Madame often thought that Jean was so easy
about wages because he made such a good thing out of the
fool English. But Madame was always polite to the Eng-
lish. What would you? Without them where would
trade be?
That was why, when M. Culver drifted into the Nata-
tion one August afternoon and inquired, in his execrable
French, what had happened to old Jean, that Mme. Le-
vasseur feigned an intense sympathy. M. Culver was an
old customer who came year after year. He paid well,
and, for an Englishman, was very "gentil."
"Poor Jean!" Madame exclaimed. "Oh, how I am
sorry! He is ill, these few days past. It is the heart, I
think. Such a good fellow!"
Richard Culver tried to explain jocularly, in French,
that he never believed Jean had a heart. "I always
thought he was a mummy," he laboured out. "You know,
madame, like Pharaoh."
Madame did not know, but she smiled agreeably, and
after his glass of beer, Culver asked for Jean's address.
"I'll go and call on the old pirate," he said. "The Nata-
tion without Jean is—is—a different place, madame," he
explained.
Madame said, "But, certainly, monsieur," and began to
take a more sincere interest in the old fellow's recovery.
Jean loomed now as a bigger asset.
Dick Culver lounged off, through the afternoon heat,
towards the harbour. For no particular reason he felt
sorry about Jean. He was a queer, old thing, and so


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 3
much part and parcel of St. Gules. Culver had known
him for five years; he always looked forward to ragging
him when he came to the Natation; and it flattered him,
too, to realise that he had managed to get nearer to this
surly old waiter than most visitors.
Jean would listen to him when he stumbled on in his
indifferent French. Sometimes he had asked him ques-
tions about England. And Jean had permitted Culver to
sketch him.
This was a signal honour. St. Gules was popular with
artists, and Jean continually received invitations to pose.
He refused them all roughly, contemptuously, and with
angry words. Yet last year, when Culver had suggested
making a sketch of him, the old man had broken off in
the midst of his usual refusal, shrugged his shoulders, and
exclaimed, in his rude accent: "If you want to—and will
tell no one."
And Culver had made a clever, careful portrait. "The
Pirate" he always called it to himself, for there was some-
thing about old Jean that suggested a violent past. There
was an alert suspicion in the brown eyes, which seemed
to veil a life of mystery. The old scar across the right
cheek-bone might have come from a cutlass, the stiff leg
with which he walked was suggestive; his dark hair and
swarthy, weatherbeaten face marked him more as a sea-
man than a cafe waiter.
Tall, lithe, wiry, independent, Culver could always
imagine Jean, a coloured handkerchief about his head,
swarming up the rigging with a knife in his teeth.
Dick Culver came to the open door of a whitewashed
cottage by the harbour side, and called out: "Hallo there!
Does Jean of the Natation live here?"
A dark-haired virago of a woman disengaged herself


4 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
from a knot of peasants chattering noisily on the neigh-
bouring quay.
"Yes, he does. And what do you want with the lazy
good-for-nothing?" she snapped at him. "And how is he
going to pay his rent, staying indoors all day saying he is
ill? Tell me that? 111! He's not ill—the lazy one!"
Culver smiled blandly, mainly because he had missed
the greater part of the spitfire's outburst.
"I want to see him," he said amicably.
"In the upstairs room," the woman said, with im-
patience, and turned back to her neighbours.
Culver climbed a steep ladder-like staircase.
"You in here, Monsieur Jean, le pirate?" he called out
cheerily. "This is Monsieur Culver, you remember him?
Come to see what's the matter."
II
That Jean was seriously ill was immediately plain. The
old man was lying, fully dressed, on a low truckle bed.
His face was mask-like, his skin brown and wrinkled as a
shrivelled pear. He spoke with an effort, rudely and
hostilely.
"I don't know you. Why do you come here?" he
growled.
Culver jollied him.
"Who's to look after me at the cafe if you stay sulking
in your bunk?" he asked. Then, with an odd tenderness:
"Look here, Jean, what's up; are you really ill?"
But the man would not respond, merely shifting his
deep-set eyes, in gloomy suspicion, to Culver's face, then
back again to the damp-stained wall.
"Nothing's the matter," he answered at last. "What
do you want with me?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 5
Culver made another effort to gain the surly fellow's
confidence. But it was no good. He gave up, and, with
a cheery "Good-bye" went downstairs to seek the garru-
lous, acid-tongued woman.
She was waiting for him. Once again she burst into an
angry denunciation of that lazy good-for-nothing upstairs.
Culver checked her in the way he knew to be the most
effective with the Flemish peasant. He spoke of money.
"How much is it that he owes you?" he asked
brusquely.
The woman became immediately placatory. Of course,
if monsieur were going to pay, it was another matter.
But she was a poor, hard-working widow with children to
bring up, and she must think of them first.
"Naturally," Culver said, with a shrug; "but how much
is it?"
After a rapid calculation, the woman named a pitiably
small sum when translated into English currency. Culver
marvelled at the hardness of these people, who would
blackguard an ill man for a matter of about eighteen
shillings.
He gave her three hundred francs, and told her that
would clear off the debt and pay the old man's bills for
some time to come.
"Now see that you look after him properly," he said
sternly.
The woman was cowed, murmuring "Oui, m'sieu; oui,
m'sieu," as she fingered the notes greedily.
"And you are to get a doctor in to him," Culver went
on. "I shall pay. I'll come again to-morrow and hear
what the doctor said." He left with a parting shot: "Look
after Jean well and you shall be paid well." And he
wandered back to the beach in a curiously sad mood.


6 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
III
Richard Culver was a lonely man himself. He made
acquaintances easily enough, but friends seldom. There
was something in old Jean's plight that appealed to his
sympathy. To lie ill, perhaps dying, amid people who
hated you, struck him as being the saddest end to any
life.
And Culver, recently, had had a stroke of good for-
tune; perhaps that helped to sharpen his sympathy for
one who appeared to have had none at all.
A gamble on the Stock Exchange, in which he had
risked the whole of his small capital, had come off. In a
spectacular boom of Kwaga rubber shares he had turned
twelve hundred pounds into over nine thousand. Nine
thousand pounds meant that he need not worry for a
year or two. He could settle down somewhere, in com-
fort, and write the books he wanted to write, and not
be tied to hack journalism for eleven months each yean
For Dick Culver had never followed any settled pro-
fession. When he came out of the army he had gone
into a stockbroker's office with an old friend of his
father's. A year of the City had nearly broken his heart.
He gave up that job and tried painting, for which he
had an amateur flair. But he soon realised that there was
no career for him in art. Then he drifted into journalism,
wrote a couple of unsuccessful novels, and found himself
past his thirtieth birthday, full of unfulfilled ambitions
and tied down to a life of hard, but undistinguished, work
from which he could see no escape. But now he was
free.
Yet, as he wandered, thoughtfully, along the boarded
promenade of St. Gules' Plage, he was feeling a little
disappointed. His rather serious grey eyes were wrinkled


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK J
at the corners, and he hurried his pace, as he was apt
to do when lost in thought. Life was not panning out
as he had dreamed it would.
He had come to St. Gules the day before, on the impulse
of a moment, and because he had been there so often. It
would be rather jolly, he thought, to spend a luxurious
week at the Grande Hotel on the sea front and not have
to worry about his bill. Afterwards he would travel until
the autumn.
But he found the hotel crowded and not nearly so com-
fortable as the Trois Poissons in the town where he used
to stay, and when he had wandered down to the Natation
Cafe, that seemed changed, too, without old Jean.
Culver flung his six feet of muscular manhood down
upon the warm sand and let the hot August sun beat
down upon his unruly fair hair while he tried to diagnose
his hump.
He was not naturally moody, and a glistening sea soon
tempted him to a better occupation than introspection,
and sent him, feeling fit and happier, back to the Natation
for tea after a joyous swim. And Fate sent to him, on
the little terrasse by the broad walk, Phil Norman, the
landscape painter, who had a cottage in the fishing town
overlooking the Mole, whom he had frequently met both
here and in town. Life seemed good again.
They dined together that night and joined a merry
party at the Casino afterwards. For the time being old
Jean passed out of Culver's mind, and when he remem-
bered the old man he did so with a touch of shame.
iv
Culver passed the Natation on his way back from a
before-breakfast bathe a couple of mornings later. Mme.


8 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Levasseur saw him, and came fluttering out from the
caf6, calling him by name.
"Monsieur Culver," she cried in agitation, "Madelaine
has been asking for you. Poor Jean, he is very ill; he
is dying; he wants to see you at once. You will go? It
would be an act of mercy."
Culver nodded, and broke into a run towards the port.
He felt terribly guilty for having forgotten the old man;
it seemed so mean and selfish.
He found Madelaine and several neighbours in a state
of awed excitement, though garrulous as ever. The old
man was still alive, he learnt, though they assured him,
hopefully, that he could not last much longer.
Culver pushed his way through the gabbling women
and climbed the steep stairs. At first glance he thought
Jean was already dead. He lay on his bed, looking more
like a mummy than ever, motionless, his tanned cheeks
'turned to a darker, unearthly hue. Culver spoke softly,
hardly expecting to get any reply.
"Jean, it's Monsieur Culver. Jean, can you hear me?"
Slowly the old man's eyes opened and he motioned
ifeebly for him to come nearer.
"Shut the door. Lock the door," he whispered with
difficulty. "Keep them out, those women."
Culver obeyed and went back to the old man's bedside.
''You wanted to see me, Jean," he said in a low voice.
"What is it? Can I do anything for you?"
Jean's speech came so slowly and in such a weak tone
that Culver could scarcely understand him. He was
patently uneasy, and it was pitiable to watch him groping
in i gathering darkness for words that would not come.
The man seemed almost tortured as he tried to form a
foherent phrase. He appeared to be appealing to Culver
to help him as friend to friend.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK, 9
Culver was aware of an intangible change in old Jean;
it was as though some barrier between them had been
broken down. He no longer thought of him as the rough,
surly waiter.
"You want to tell me something?" he asked.
Jean nodded slowly.
"You—will—help ," he faltered with painful effort.
"Yes, Jean. Anything. Tell me."
"You—will—go—to—try "He broke down, un-
able to sustain the effort, and presently his weak and
shaking hand groped towards the grimy pillow.
"All right, old man. I understand," Culver murmured
softly. "Don't worry." Tenderly he felt beneath the
pillow and brought out a packet of papers loosely tied
with twine. "This is what you mean—eh?"
"You—promise—me?"
The words were faint yet so eager. The sibilant
French seemed to whisper in the air. Richard Culver
was deeply moved. He did not know what he was to
promise, though he answered distinctly: "All right. Trust
me, Jean," all unconsciously speaking in English.
His words seemed to bring a sudden peace to the dying
man. He seemed satisfied. The ghost of a smile flickered
in the brown eyes, a smile of gratitude; and for some time
he lay staring at the damp-stained ceiling.
And, as he watched, Culver saw that the tired face was
softening. The deep lines grew less prominent, the sallow
skin took upon it a finer look. Old Jean's mind was no
longer in the shabby room; it had gone back to some
distant past.
Culver knew he was watching death; death drawing its
kindly fingers across Jean's rugged cheeks, and for a
long time he sat there in silence, awed and feeling inex-
pressibly impotent.


10 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Then, with a sudden, superhuman strength, the old
man roused, and raised himself with a jerk, gazing far
away into an immense distance, and the dry lips began
to move.
The face was no longer that of old Jean of the Natation,
but of a younger man, cleaner, less furtive. The brown
eyes opened wide in wonder, and from those lips came
clear, crisp words in the voice of a cultured, educated
Englishman.
"Our Father "it began. There was no hesitation,
no slurring of syllables. Right to the end, old Jean
repeated the Lord's Prayer, as Culver had heard it said
hundreds of times in church. Then, just for a moment,
he did hesitate, and his head drooped slowly towards
his breast, and his last words came in a quieter, sub-
dued voice.
"Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy
kingdom," he said distinctly. The wondering brown
eyes closed slowly, and with a deep sigh old Jean of
the Natation died.
v
Richard Culver was neither shocked nor afraid. He
found himself feeling glad, glad that old Jean had left,
at last, a world that must have held only sorrow for him.
He felt, too, that he had witnessed the fall of the
curtain upon a tragedy. Old Jean, the queer old fellow
who had gone out with the words of the Penitent Thief
upon his lips, was no German or Frenchman, but Eng-
lish, English as Culver himself. And educated, too; there
was the accent of the Public Schools in his last speech, a
peculiar quality of voice that belonged to no uncultured
man.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK II
He looked at the still figure on the bed, so peaceful
and quiet now.
"Good-bye, Jean," he said, covering the softened face
reverently. He remembered suddenly the papers he held,
still clutched in his hand.
For the moment he was sorry they were there. Sen-
sitive as he was, he felt he did not want to pry further
into the secret of this man's past. Yet he had promised
something. What, he did not know. But, he realised,
quickly, it would be far better for him to deal with
Jean's papers than for a soulless officialdom. If this
were the end of some great scandal, some family tragedy,
then Richard Culver would use his own discretion as
to how much or how little he told the world.
He crammed the packet into his pocket and instinc-
tively began to search the room. But the search pro-
duced nothing. A tottery chest of drawers held Jean's
meagre wardrobe: the battered canvas-covered portman-
teau, with its broken lock and frayed corners, held only
his shabby dress-suit.
Culver went out of the, now so quiet, room with a new
sense of responsibility.
By the door, Madelaine was still chattering excitedly
with the other women. As Culver appeared she stretched
out a powerful arm scornfully, and pointed to a peasant
girl who hovered uncertainly on the outskirts of the
crowd.
"There she is; look at her; the young lady who is
afraid," she taunted. "A dutiful niece indeed! Why
don't you come and thank the English gentleman? Too
fond of your money, yes? Afraid you would have to
pay your uncle's debts?" She finished with a vile epithet.
Culver stood amazed for the moment, his eyes fixed
upon the cowering girl. She gave him only a momentary


12 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
glance, but there was fear as well as anger in the startled
eyes. Indeed, she looked innocent enough for all that
Madelaine said of her; a scared woman, and undeniably
attractive in her peasant garb.
Richard Culver strove to check Madelaine's storm of
abuse.
"What is it? What is it?" he asked impatiently.
Madelaine began a torrential explanation, and when
Culver glanced up again, the girl had gone.
"Marie Schmidt, the worthless one! Jean's niece, she
says she is," the woman sneered. "Jean asked for her;
I sent the telegram. But she was afraid to come in, afraid
because she heard you were there; afraid because she
thinks you would make her pay some of the money Jean
owes. Jean's niece—huh!"
"Be quiet, Madelaine! Be quiet!" Culver interrupted,
able only to understand a few words of the woman's
speech. "It does not matter. Poor Jean is dead."
Madelaine ceased her tirade.
"Poor fellow," she murmured in affected grief. She
crossed herself.
Culver went on.
"Madelaine, attend to me." He spoke slowly in his
halting French. "You are to see about the funeral, a—a
—worthy "he could think of no other word—"fu-
neral. I will pay everything, and you for your pains."
Money spoke to Madelaine as it always did. Instantly
she was attentive and acquiescent. Everything, she said,
should be done; everything.
"And," Culver said as he turned to leave, "if Marie
Schmidt comes again, send her round to me, at the Grande
Hotel."
He hurried off, anxious to get away from the vitupera-
tion and sordidness of the place where poor old Jean


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 13
lay dead. That half-comprehended incident of Marie
Schmidt fretted him. Two fish-wives screaming at one
another as it seemed to him, though Marie had not ut-
tered a word, struck him as a deplorable anti-climax to
the tragedy.
Forgetful of hunger, he wandered on past the hotel,
out into the waste of sand dunes beyond the Plage.
They looked lonely, and detached, and Dick Culver
wanted to be alone just then.
He found a resting place, high up on top of a rush-
covered dune, with the grey-green sea of sandhills behind
him and the grey-green sea idly lapping in below, and
great white-winged gulls riding easily in the sky above
his head. And there, in solitude, he went through old
Jean's papers.
They told little enough. There were the identifica-
tion papers and a passport of Jean Jacques Malet, born
in Antwerp in 1867, a few francs in Belgian notes. A
creased and worn front page of The Times of twenty
years ago, a railway map of Belgium, and a letter, newly
written in a shaky hand, yet so clearly that of the real
Jean, the neat, small, well-formed script with its Greek
"e's" of the educated Englishman.
The letter was already addressed: "William Cook,
Esqre., The Pines, Oldford, Suffolk, Angleterre."
That was the only hint Jean's papers gave of the
mystery of his life.
For a long time Dick Culver sat staring out across
the gently heaving sea. Seventy or eighty miles over
there was Suffolk. And William Cook, whoever he might
be. Perhaps an old and broken man, to whom the news
of Jean's death might come as a shock—or as a relief.
Away to the left, St. Gules was waking to life under
the warm morning sun. Gay parasols dotted the sands,


14 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
and a trim yawl was nosing her way between the har-
bour piers.
Dick Culver returned by a roundabout route. He had
to redeem his unspoken promise to a dead countryman.
How he should redeem it he did not quite know, but he
was going to Oldford to see William Cook, and what
he told when he saw him should depend on—William
Cook.


CHAPTER II
i
They buried Jean Jacques Malet in the dreary little
cemetery at the back of St. Gules on a blazing hot morn-
ing, and only Richard Culver and Madelaine followed
him to his grave.
That same evening found Culver at Antwerp; early
the next morning at Harwich. He did not hurry. In-
deed, now that he was drawing near the end of his
journey, he felt a growing distaste for the task he had
undertaken.
It was not a pleasant job to look forward to. He
would have to be tactful; lie if necessary. Old sores
reopened and old scandals revived were apt to hurt all
the more because they had been put out of mind for
many years. And there must have been one of the most
poignant of tragedies behind old Jean's life.
Culver delayed long over breakfast at Harwich, and
hired a car to drive him to Oldford. For once the rich
beauty of the August landscape made no appeal to him.
The yellow harvest fields, all shimmering in the sun,
the wide sweep of purple heather on the Suffolk com-
mons; the golden glory of the gorse, he hardly saw, for
his mind was back in that squalid attic chamber in the
fishing town of St. Gules, and old Jean's last distinct
words were ringing in his ears.
And then he came to Oldford, past the crowded golf-
links, down the steep hill, with the same, grey-green sea
glistening in the distance, to the Palace Hotel with its
throng of white-clad, laughing holiday-makers drinking
their before-lunch cocktails and chattering of games and
pleasures, and life. Richard Culver felt like some aveng-
15


16 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
ing fate as he elbowed his way to the office to demand a
room.
II
Oldford is a queer place. The old town sprawls itself
along a mile of shingly coast with the modern town rising
sharply from the beach, a haphazard collection of villas
and little terraces of lodging-houses, with the flint tower
of the ancient church crowning all.
In times past Oldford was a busy port, doing a brisk
trade with the Low Countries; but that is all over now,
and Oldford thrives on its summer visitors and its famous
golf-links.
For nine months of the year the place is as dead as
its own, silted-up harbour which shows silent mud flats
to the sky for sixteen hours out of each twenty-four.
But in the holiday season Oldford wakes to life, like
its harbour at high water when it dances and sparkles
in the sunshine.
And Oldford seemed very much alive that August
afternoon as Richard Culver made his way thoughtfully
along its main street, filled with flannel-clad youths and
white-frocked girls. The hot sun shone from a cloudless
sky, and down each narrow lane which led to the beach
there was a vista of yellow shingle backed by a dancing
sea, with here and there a sail, or a smudge of smoke
on the horizon from some steamer far out.
"The Pines," they had told him, "was down by the
river," which he came to understand was the local descrip-
tion of the harbour. "Keep the lane round by the marshes
and you can't miss it," the hotel-porter explained.
Culver found it easily enough. It stood alone, a pros-
perous, peaceful-looking place, just the sort of home to


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” Cook 17
which conventional, well-to-do gentlefolk would retire,
and utterly unlike anything connected with Jean of the
Natation.
Culver stood hesitating just inside the neat, white-
painted gate. From beyond a tall hedge of laurels, which
skirted the gravelled drive, there came the sound of laugh-
ter and the thud of a hard-hit tennis ball. He could see
a flicker of white through the gaps in the evergreens, and
somebody called in jesting reproof: "Really, Elsa! you
might have taken that one."
Culver turned to go. He could not break in upon
this pleasant scene with his grim story of family disgrace.
He halted, frowning down at the gravel, prodding little
holes in it with his stick. Then a girl's voice at his elbow
caused him to look up, almost with a guilty start.
"You looking for anybody?” she asked in a lazy drawl.
He found himself staring into a pair of big, questioning
hazel eyes which seemed to be appraising him part in
interest, part in amusement. And under that steady gaze
he grew inexplicably embarrassed.
"I-er-I wanted to see Mr. Cook-Mr. William
Cook," he began nervously.
“Yes?” She waited, as if she expected him to say
more. “You're a pal of Bill's, I suppose?”
“No. Oh no.” He looked at her stupidly. She had
appeared so silently and unexpectedly from the gate
that he had not yet recovered from his surprise.
She was hatless, and her shingled, brown hair fell
carelessly over her forehead in a provocative way. Her
clear skin was burnt by the sun, and under one shapely,
tanned arm, which made her tennis frock look the whiter,
she carried a couple of rackets.
She seemed to sense his embarrassment.


18 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Well, come along in," she said, with a slow smile.
"Or—or—do you want to see Bill on business?"
"I do rather—that is, perhaps I'd better not interrupt
him now. I'll look round later on—when he's not busy."
"Oh, don't do that. Bill's never busy, really. I'll tell
him. Who shall I say?"
"Culver. But—but Mr. Cook won't know me. I say—
really, I'd better leave it."
"I shouldn't." There was a glint of laughter in the
hazel eyes; a suggestion that this graceful, sunburned
girl was enjoying some secret joke. It fretted Culver,
conscious as he was of the gravity of his mission.
"Thanks; but I think I will," he answered stiffly.
She smiled, frankly now.
"Just as you like," she said, seeming to mock him. "But
here is Bill—if you want to see—him."
Culver swung round sharply.
A tall, spare woman, past her first youth, yet unde-
niably attractive, had just emerged from a path in the
shrubbery. She was smoking a cigarette in a long amber
holder, and she was looking in question at Culver and
the girl by his side.
"Hallo, Bill," the girl called gaily. "Here's a visitor
inquiring for you."
Dick Culver felt almost that he was blushing in his
confusion.
"It was a Mr. William Cook that I wanted," he said
shortly, raising his hat.
The elder woman smiled mechanically as she flicked the
ash from her cigarette.
"Yes," she answered in a deep, quiet voice. "I am
William Cook—at least, that is my trade name."
"Really? Of course. Oh yes."
Culver found himself floundering idiotically, the more


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 19
so because he was conscious of the hardly hidden smile
of amusement at his embarrassment on the red lips of
that taunting girl.
The elder woman raised her deftly pencilled eyebrows
as though she were at a loss to understand her visitor's
behaviour.
"Perhaps I'd better explain," she said. "William Cook
is an adaptation of my late husband's name. I am Mrs.
Wilfred Coke—we pronounce it Cook, you know." She
gave an easy little smile. "And you?"
"Culver—Richard Culver," he answered quickly, feel-
ing a little more at ease now. But he wished the girl
would go. He could not explain his call with her stand-
ing there laughing at him. Involuntarily his eyes went
towards her, and Mrs. Coke seemed to read his meaning.
"Ann, dear, go and tell them that I shan't be long, will
you?" she said in the most natural way; then to Culver:
"Won't you come into the house? It's rather silly to stand
talking here, isn't it?"
m
He was struck by her manner, the competent way in
which she controlled a rather foolish situation.
"Thanks, if I may," he answered, enormously relieved
to see the girl, addressed as Ann, disappearing in the
shrubbery. "I have come on rather a sad mission, I'm
afraid. If you'd prefer it, I'll come back later."
She glanced at him sharply through penetrating eyes
of a steely blue tint: queer eyes, he thought, they seemed
to veil a great secret, and shook her head. It struck
him then that already she suspected something of the
import of his visit. And it flashed into his mind, too, that
her name was familiar. Mrs. Wilfred Coke—he remem-
bered now.


20 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Was your husband the etcher?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes. Did you know him?" There was a suggestion
of apprehension in the sharp way in which she asked
the question.
"No. Oh no. Only his work. I know and admire
that tremendously."
She sighed. "Yes, it's fine work," she agreed.
Little forgotten details were returning vividly to Cul-
ver's mind as he walked the last few paces to the house;
odd scraps of stories he had heard from artist friends
of Wilfred Coke and his end. A brilliant artist unhappily
married, they had said of him. And he had taken to
drink, soaked until his hand failed him. Then he had
had an accident—at least, that was how a generous coro-
ner had described it—gone overboard from a sailing-boat
on a winter afternoon some years ago. But those who
knew him did not agree with the coroner's verdict.
No wonder this woman had looked startled when she
asked if Culver had known her husband, he thought.
She must have had a devil of a life. And this fellow-
Jean mixed up in it, too!
He looked at her as they went up the steps, a hard-
bitten woman with a dry, hard skin skilfully powdered
to disguise the effects of age and weather, like that of
a hunting woman or a champion golfer. But her hair
showed no trace of grey. Severely shingled, it was black
and thick as a youth's. Her forehead was puckered, and
she was evidently thinking hard. He left her to make
the next move.
"You said a sad mission, Mr. Culver?" she queried
at last. "What is it?"
She faced him bravely; he could almost see her bracing
herself for the shock.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 21
"It is rather sad," he answered. They turned into
a vast room looking out across the river, a studio with
canvases littered about, and at one end a motley collec-
tion of old furniture. "I've just come back from St.
Gules "Her eyes lifted quickly. "Did you know
old Jean there—Jean of the Natation?"
She hesitated a fraction of a second before she an-
swered:
"Yes. Yes. Everybody knows him. A funny old fellow.
So surly—but rather a dear."
"He's dead," Culver blurted out.
"Really! Poor old Jean!"
There was no trace of distress in her voice. She spoke
rather as one speaks of a dead terrier. That nettled
Culver; unreasonably he knew, but he had been so much
obsessed by the tragedy of Jean that this indifferent re-
ception of his news hurt him.
"I was with him when he died," he went on delib-
erately, "and I have a letter from him—I assume it's from
him—for William Cook."
Then she did show some trace of feeling. Again it
seemed she braced herself for a shock. She put out
her hand. "Poor old Jean," she repeated. "I'm so sorry.
Somehow—one never thought of Jean dying."
She laughed a nervous, mirthless laughs crumpling
the letter in her hand and gazing uncertainly at the floor.
"If you're not in a dreadful hurry, Mr. Culver," she
said, after a moment, "I wish you would forgive me
while I go and settle my party. I'll be back in a few
minutes. I want you to tell me all about poor Jean.
You were fond of him—I can see that." She gave him a
quiet smile of understanding. "You will wait, won't you?"
And without heeding his answer, she hurried away.


22 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
IV
Of course, it was a ruse: the baldest ruse to make an
opportunity to read the letter alone. Culver understood
that, and appreciated it. But there were many things
he could not understand, chief among them what con-
nection there could be between Jean and Mrs. Coke.
She was too old to be his daughter, almost too young
to be his sister, and wife was ruled out of the question.
She had been anxious, and she had been dissembling
—that, too, was clear—but there was a note in her last
words that made him feel that she had some affection
for the dead man. He felt curious, anxious now to learn
more. If he were satisfied that she had a right to know,
he would tell her of the pathetic details of Jean's last
moments—it might comfort her as it so clearly had com-
forted him.
Culver wandered aimlessly about the big studio. There
was something very masculine about it. Tobacco-ash
was sprinkled about the floor, and on a rickety, old, oak
table, by the far wall, was a decanter of whisky with a
syphon by its side.
The pictures were mostly seascapes, or vivid little
sketches of the purple commons, but there were a few old
canvases on the walls, a Dutch still life, and a charming
little sea piece that might have been a Van de Velde,
though it was in such grimy condition one could hardly
see it.
But the jumble of furniture at the far end interested
him most; piled up anyhow, was an extraordinary collec-
tion of maimed and broken stuff. All of it good. Culver
had an eye for old furniture; there was not a fake in the
lot so far as he could see. Standing in front of this
pathetic medley of ill-used treasures, was an unusually


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 23
fine dower chest: Flemish he placed it, a huge thing of
massive timbers a couple of inches thick, bound round
with iron in a glorious design. But the chest had been
most shamefully treated. One end had been smashed
and was crudely repaired with a common deal board,
and the whole thing had been painted a dull bilious yellow,
stained with dirt and age.
He went across to examine it more closely. Mrs.
Coke or somebody was treating the woodwork. From
the lid much of the paint had already been removed,
and the rest was covered with a sticky substance with
a view to removing the remainder. In a moment he
visualised the chest as it would be, properly restored—
a wonderful specimen, fit for a museum.
Something caused him to look up suddenly, and once
more he met those questioning, hazel eyes of the girl
Ann. But there was no mockery in them now, they
looked unnaturally serious.
She was standing outside the open window gazing at
him. She smiled in a friendly way.
"I say, Mr. Culver," she began. "I'm awfully sorry;
I really didn't mean to rag you about Bill."
"Oh, that's all right," he answered a little stiltedly. "I
—I didn't take it as ragging"
"I thought at first you were trying to pull my leg," she
drawled. "I'd have sworn you were Captain Mingay,
Elsa's pal. You're the living image of him, you know."
"^'Elsa? Who's Elsa?" he asked, bewildered.
"Elsa Mayer. Oh, but of course you wouldn't know.
Anyhow, I'm sorry." She smiled again in a way that
hardly carried conviction of penitence, and swung herself
in through the window. "But I really came up to get
some gaspers," she went on, "and for the Lord's sake


24- THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
don't tell Bill; she hates me messing about in her cup-
boards."
Promptly the girl began to ransack an oak corner cup-
board. Culver saw that it was filled with brushes and
bottles and the paraphernalia of a painter. Ann seemed
to have forgotten him for the moment.
"Now, where the devil "she murmured to herself,
groping among a row of tins. Then: "Ah! here they
are."
She extracted a handful of cigarettes and turned to him
with a shamed little chuckle.
"Better have one," she said frankly. "Be an acces-
sory."
Instinctively he took one. Not that he wanted it,
but this girl unsettled him. She was so inconsequent; she
made him feel old and staid and stodgy. He was a little
afraid of her.
She looked round for a match, and hurriedly he pulled
a box from his pocket.
"Thanks," she said. "I'll have to hop back now.
You're coming along later, I suppose?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh, do. Bill's got a most dreadful bunch here. She
may know all about mouldy furniture, but she collects
mouldier people. Do come down; you'll be the only
bright spot."
Her flattering frankness made him laugh naturally for
the first time. She was so entirely devoid of self-con-
sciousness; she treated him as if she had known him all
her life.
"I haven't been asked yet," he said.
"But I've asked you." She looked up at him as if she
were really surprised.
"And I don't even know your name."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 1$
"Ann."
"Yes, but"
"Gray. Ann Gray. But I'm Ann to everybody here,
just as she's Bill. We don't bother about surnames.
Gosh! here she is!" For the moment she was surprised
out of her usual lazy drawl. "Don't you give me away
now," she whispered as she swung out of the window.
He shook his head and turned to the opening door.
Mrs. Coke came in.
"I'm dreadfully sorry to be so long," she said, with a
compelling smile. "You're smoking. I'm glad of that,
but won't you have a whisky-and-soda? You see, I know
what you men like."
It struck him then that there was a bitterness in her
voice born of years of experience with the dead Wilfred
Coke.
"No, thanks very much," he answered.
"Then sit down. I've arranged my people for a time.
Tell me about Jean, now. He wasn't terribly hard up
or anything like that—poor old dear?"
"No, I don't think so."
"I ask because of his letter," she went on with a ring
of sympathy. "You might as well see it; I need make no
secret of it to you, I know. He wrote this."
She put forward a crumpled sheet of paper, thin and
almost transparent. Culver glanced at it, and felt himself
start in surprise. The letter was not in that neat, edu-
cated handwriting of the address, but in sprawling, ill-
formed script, and in French, and illiterate French at that.
Jean had never written this.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 2"]
"Indeed."
"I found it paid better than painting, after my hus-
band died." Her eyes strayed from his face as if she
were recalling unwelcome memories. "I had to do some-
thing to live. Unfortunately one will cling to life"—she
shrugged her shoulders in a cynical way—"and I learned,
when I had to sell most of our own furniture, that there
was money in the game, if you have any knowledge at
all. And so—well, that's my story."
She was recapturing his interest. He felt sorry for her,
despite himself.
"Very clever and plucky of you, Mrs. Coke," he said.
"You really think so? I'm so glad." She had shed
her mood of sadness momentarily and was all smiles.
"I began in quite an amateur way, you know—in Lon-
don, selling to my friends mostly. But I hate London—
don't you? Down here it will be different. I'm going
in for things on a different scale. The really good things,
like that wonderful dower chest."
"I was looking at it," he broke it. "What a fine thing
it is!"
"Oh! So you appreciate nice things too?"
"I love old furniture."
"Well, that's one of my real bargains. That cost me
ten pounds—delivered to this house, and I'm going to
'restore it myself—I'm rather clever at that—and then I
think I'm pretty certain of a purchaser in America. But
why I tell you this, Mr. Culver, is that Jean got that
for me."
"Did he?" Culver was genuinely surprised.
"Yes. It was in a stable near St. Gules. They used
it for keeping corn in. I saw it when I was over there
in June, and I got Jean to buy it for me. We dealers,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 2<)
the same thing in the circumstances—given nothing away,
even lied to hush up a scandal. Or was her story true?
Anyhow, it seemed to him that Jean's secret were better
untold now.
"It was with a few of his papers, and as I was coming
back I thought I'd better deliver it," he answered at
length. "He evidently wanted me to do something with
it, and this was the obvious thing," he went on glibly.
He looked up at her. Her face was like a mask, but
it impressed him that she did not believe him.
"How really nice of you!" she said in a low voice, full
of appreciation. "But I do feel so guilty, having brought
you on such a long journey. You will stay to tea, won't
you? Come down to the lawn; you'll find some quite
amusing people there. I feel I want to know more of
you, Mr. Culver; this is—in a way—such a romantic
meeting."
But Culver would not be persuaded. The whole inci-
dent somehow fretted him. It had turned from tragedy
into pathos. He felt flat and puerile, and anxious to
get away, alone, to reason with himself.
"Some other time—if I may," he said with a conven-
tional smile as he rose to leave.
Mrs. Coke did not press her invitation.
"Please do. Any time," she replied, extending a grace-
ful arm. "I shall never forget how nice you were about
this."
n
A couple of miles along that lonely shingle beach that
runs southward from Oldford towards the mouth of Walm
Harbour, Dick Culver scooped himself a seat in the peb-


30 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
bles and tried to persuade himself that Mrs. Coke's story-
was true.
If Jean Malet had meant anything to her, she could
not have behaved as she had done, he told himself. She
had been a little ill at ease, of course—the circumstances
of his call accounted for that—but her straightforward
explanation held water.
And yet There was always an "and yet" arising
in his mind to oppose every one of his reasons.
The letter! That took a lot of believing. The differ-
ence in the handwriting alone condemned it. And yet
She would have realised that. She need never have
showed him the letter at all.
He worried and fretted at the problem until the sun
began to sink behind him, and his lengthening shadow
told that evening was drawing on. A little breeze blew
in from the sea, chill after the heat of the day, and a pale
moon came up mysteriously out of the quiet water that
lapped in tiny, restless, singing waves against the shingle
shore, in defiance, as it seemed, of the declining sun.
Frowning, he stared out across the grey water. Was
it any business of his, anyhow? he asked himself. He
picked up a stone and threw it viciously at a patch of
floating seaweed. If Mrs. Coke had a secret to keep,
why shouldn't she keep it?
And then the queer, transfigured face of old Jean
came back to him; Jean in his last moments of life.
What had he wanted? What was that promise which
Culver had given so readily and which had brought
the last peace to the dying man? That unsettled him
in a way. After all, he couldn't do any more than he
had done. Let the dead bury its dead.
"Oh, damn the whole business!" he said, getting,
abruptly, to his feet. He was cold, and disappointed.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 31
That was the truth of the matter, he admitted, frankly.
He had looked for some dramatic scene and it had not
come off.
He tramped the weary miles back to the hotel in the
same disgruntled mood. He would clear off the next
morning, he decided; go back to St. Gules, pick up his
luggage, and wander south. Get away from the atmos-
phere of Jean and Mrs. Coke, and romantic surmise.
Forget it.
Dinner was over when he reached the Palace. Culver
ate a half-cold meal in a corner of the big dining-room
and chafed and fretted at the babble of careless talk
and laughter which flooded to his ears from the crowded
lounge. There was a dance at the hotel that night; al-
ready the band had started. And the insistent throbbing
rhythm of the music, which on any other night would
have set his feet itching to dance, merely served to aggra-
vate his irritable mood.
He was out of conceit with himself—out of conceit
with the world. He felt he hated the few late-comers
like himself, who were scattered about the room—a faded-
looking mother with a couple of noisy, self-conscious
flappers who cackled and giggled, a portly, sunburned
man in loud tweeds who talked golf to his bored com-
panion, and a round-faced, amiable, elderly parson in
dark grey flannels at a neighbouring table, who tried
to be friendly, and whom Culver snubbed deliberately
and then felt ashamed of his rudeness.
They all irked him. He left his meal half finished,
forced an apologetic "Good-evening" to the parson as he
went out, and hurried to his room, cursing the throbbing
dance tunes that penetrated even there.
Before a window, wide open to the still, moon-lit night,
Dick Culver went through old Jean's papers once more.


32 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK
He had a foolish idea of putting them all into an enve-
lope and posting them to Mrs. Coke with a brief note
of explanation. Then he decided to destroy them.
He scanned them curiously one by one, these tiny frag-
ments of flotsam, all that remained of the tragic wreck
of a human life. The passport—with its crude photo-
graph of Jean—that faded and creased sheet of news-
paper from a Times of twenty years ago. Why had
Jean kept that? Culver shrugged his shoulders. If he
knew the answer to that question he would probably
know much of the hidden tragedy.
His eyes ran down the page mechanically, and riveted
to one announcement that seemed now to jump out from
the long column of marriage notices.
"Coke-Garland,” it read. "On the 15th inst. at St.
Chad's Church, Chelsea, Wilfred Hansard Coke, elder
son of the late Captain Alban Hansard Coke, R.N., of
Cheltenham, to Maude Wilhelmina Garland.”
"Wilhelmina Garland. Wilhelmina Coke. Bill." He
spoke the words aloud. There could be no doubt about
it—this the woman. So she had lied to him!
Here was a definite connection, twenty years old, be-
tween Jean of the Natation and the woman who called
herself William Cook. And she had pretended, so con-
vincingly, that Jean meant nothing more to her than a
Flemish peasant, whom she had employed to buy an old
chest.
For a few moments Culver was furiously angry. His
instinct was to go straight off, then and there, to The
Pines and face Mrs. Coke; let her know, at any rate,
that he knew she had been lying. But his anger changed
to hard resentment.
If this woman thought she could fool him so easily,
she should find out that she was wrong. He had a prom-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 33
ise to redeem to old Jean and he would redeem it. But
first of all he must have a few more facts at his disposal;
facts which would refute any further attempt at duplicity
on Mrs. Coke's part.
He would go to her, later; when he had found out a
little more about her. There was something for him to
work on now. Garland—her maiden name. Who were
the Garlands? Had Jean's name perchance been Gar-
land?
Then came the memory of that peasant girl, Marie
Schmidt, his niece. Perhaps the old man had married a
peasant—for who could say what reason?—and gone
native, as they put it in the East. Marie Schmidt ought
to be traceable. There should be clues to pick up from
her. Yes, that is what he would do first, go back to St.
Gules as he intended, but not wander south. He would
find Marie Schmidt if possible, and see where she led
him.
Carefully Culver folded up the worn papers, and locked
them away in his bag. His fretful, dark mood of dinner-
time had gone. He was grave, but alert. There was a
task ahead of him which appealed to his imagination.
And two debts to be paid—one to Jean's memory and
the other to "Bill" Coke.
The troubling rhythm of the dance music no longer
irritated; it sounded rather jolly. Culver went to the
door. He would go and watch the dancers for a bit,
and have a drink, and think things out downstairs.
in
Making his way through the crowded, noisy lounge,
Dick Culver suddenly caught sight of Ann Gray.
She saw him at the same moment, and smiled in recog-


34 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
nition. He would have passed on, but she disengaged
herself from a group of laughing companions and called
to him.
"Why aren't you dancing?" she asked in her lazy voice.
He stopped. "I don't know. I'm not changed, for
one thing," he answered, looking at her curiously. She
was really very attractive, so cool and unperturbed in
the midst of this noisy, heated crowd, her brown hair
just a little ruffled, her tanned cheeks so fresh and healthy.
He liked her frock, too, a simple thing of some blue
material that looked to his masculine eye, just right. This
girl knew how to dress, he told himself.
"Well, go and change," she said frankly. She looked
up at him with grave mockery. "Richard Culver's got
the hump to-night, hasn't he?" she demanded provoc-
atively.
She made him feel self-conscious. She was laughing
at him again. But he tried to answer her in her own light
way.
"Not particularly," he said. "Why does Ann make
that serious allegation?"
"Just because "she answered. She was edging
him through the crowd towards the open doors which
led to the verandah facing the sea. "Why didn't you
come to Bill's party this afternoon?" she went on.
He frowned involuntarily. "I couldn't very well," he
said, with a touch of confusion. "I—I had to see Mrs.
Coke on—on business, and"
"But Bill said she asked you, and you were stuffy
about it, and wouldn't come. And I asked you."
He was fretting under this catechism.
"I know you did. But I—I had things to do. I'm
only here for a few hours. I have to get away to-
morrow."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 35
"Where are you going?" she asked innocently.
"Back to St. Gules."
"What a rotten spot! I'd much rather be here."
They had wandered out through the garden to the edge
of the beach, and he was gazing at the sea, all silvery in
the moonlight, wondering why on earth this girl should
take so much interest in him. Was there a motive be-
hind it?
"You're an old friend of Mrs. Coke's, I suppose?" he
asked with sudden irrelevance.
"Bill? Not very. I met her in Town, and when I
found her down here I fell upon her with a shriek. She's
enormous fun."
"I thought you were staying with her," he said.
"Oh, Lord, no! I'm staying here. And a very good
place, too, Richard Culver." ■
"I'm beginning to think it is," he laughed. "Still, I've
got to go away."
A boisterous crowd of young people burst from the door
of the hotel, and somebody called: "Ann. Ann, you out
here?"
"All right, I'm coming," the girl called back.
"You're wanted on the telephone."
"Well, go and tell them to hang on," she answered
carelessly. Then: "Good-bye, Richard Culver, don't be
too dismal," she laughed, and she left him.


CHAPTER IV
i
Dick Culver was back in St. Gules the next night. He
went up to Town and crossed by the afternoon boat to
Ostend. He could not, he felt, hang about Oldford for
the whole of the day, with a chance of meeting Mrs. Coke,
or Ann Gray, even.
For that odd little interview with Ann had disquieted
him. He had come to feel that she was playing a part
on Mrs. Coke's behalf; trying to get something out of
him to tell her; some hint of his suspicions. Culver
rather hated the thought. Ann seemed much too clean
and honest a girl to be playing an underhand game.
It was late when he reached the Grande, on the Plage,
but the hotel was full of life, so like yet so unlike, he
thought, that other hotel eighty odd miles across the
sea. The same moon was streaming down on the silvery
water, the same rhythmic tunes being played by the dance
band. But the people were different, the atmosphere was
different. The gaiety of St. Gules was a professional
gaiety, not spontaneous and jolly as it had been at Old-
ford. The dancing women were hard-eyed and daring,
the men cynical in their less boisterous laughter. For
the first time he agreed with Ann's candid remark-—St,
Gules did seem a rotten hole.
Culver avoided Phil Norman and his party, who were
sitting on the terrasse sipping drinks between dances.
He did not want to have to answer questions, or to be
gay. Norman was a good chap, but not the sort of man
to understand why one should go dashing off to Eng-
land just because a dying waiter asked you to deliver a
letter. But he might know something about Wilfred
36


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 27
Coke's antecedents though. Culver would tackle him,
tactfully, to-morrow.
) He went along to the harbour soon after breakfast.
Madelaine was, as usual, engaged in voluble gossip with
her neighbours. She looked surprised to see Culver, and
came to meet him, still talking over her shoulder to her
companions.
Culver began guilefully. He knew the suspicious type
> of mind with which he had to deal. He suggested that
he had merely come to see that everything was properly
settled, and that he had paid all he owed.
Madelaine's greedy eyes narrowed, and she invited
him indoors—for fear that their conversation might be
overheard by her already curious neighbours. And
'promptly she invented an outstanding loan of ten francs,
which she said she had made to Jean. Culver nodded
acquiescence.
"And that telegram you sent for him?" he queried
casually.
"But, yes. That is so. I had forgotten that, too," the
woman answered quickly.
Culver played with a couple of twenty-five franc notes,
and observed with satisfaction the woman's avaricious
gaze shifting to them.
"Marie Schmidt never came again, I suppose?" he
asked in his laboured French.
"No. No. Not she. The worthless one!" Madelaine
became indignant. "She only came to see if there was
any money to get. That's all."
Culver abandoned Marie Schmidt for the moment.
"Old Jean, he had lived here a long time with you,
Madelaine?" he asked.
"Some months. Perhaps two, perhaps three. He did


38 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
not stay long anywhere. Such a terrible man! Oh!" She
shivered with exaggerated horror.
"Why was that? Didn't pay his bills?" Culver asked.
"It was not that. It was the drink. Sometimes for
hours he would sit in his room drinking cognac. And
he would not be happy, or quarrelsome like the rest
when they drink, but just dumb. And if I go in he would
stare at me so terribly. As if he would kill me. And
never speak. Just glare. Oh, but he must have been a
bad man, that Jean. It was the same everywhere he
lived, he frightened them. They turned him out. I
would have turned him out, but he was ill, and I am a
charitable woman."
"Yes, yes. You have a kind heart, Madelaine," Culver
said with a smile. "But he is gone now, poor Jean, so
we must forget that he was bad."
"Certainly, m'sieur. Poor old man!" She crossed her-
self mechanically.
He encouraged her to talk more of Jean. She had
known him for many years, she said. And he had aged
much in that time. "It was his wicked life," she an-
nounced fiercely, but details of that wicked life Culver
would not extract. It was obviously mere gossip, the
gossip of a people who mistrusted and hated the for-
eigner.
And so Culver led slowly back to Marie Schmidt.
"I think I should like her to know that her uncle was
buried properly," he said, "and that you looked after him
to the end. I'll write to her, Madelaine, if you'll tell me
the address."
The woman looked up suspiciously, then down once
more at those crisp notes with which Culver toyed.
"If I can find it," she said evasively.
Culver looked meaningly at the money.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 39
"You can find it if you try, Madelaine," he said con-
fidently.
She ceased to fence. From a dingy cupboard she
extracted a grimy piece of paper, treasured for some fur-
tive purpose of her own. Culver took it from her.
Roughly scrawled on a sheet of the cheapest paper were
the words: "Marie Schmidt, Rue Jan Hoeck 47, Ant-
werp."
"Thank you, Madelaine," he said. "You will have
no more need for this. Here's fifty francs to pay for
everything."
The woman grabbed the money, smiling. Jean Malet
had proved an uncommonly good bargain for her.
n
The Rue Jan Hoeck at Antwerp is by the docks; a .
narrow, squalid street of ramshackle, tenement houses
interspersed with gaping spaces where the rottenest of
the shabby buildings have either been pulled down or
have fallen of their own decay.
In the empty spaces, the teeming child population of
the slum plays drearily all day, and drab outcasts of the
city find refuge by night.
A gloomy, repulsive street, the Rue Jan Hoeck; and
Dick Culver felt its repulsion as he turned into it in the
heat of that August afternoon. The place was stifling.
Even the lean cats of the street had sought the shade,
and hardly a person was moving along the uneven pave.
Under a tattered awning in front of the dingy estaminet
at the corner, a few rough-looking sailormen and dock
labourers sat over their tepid beer, their shirts flung
open at the chest, and the sweat standing in beads on
their grimy faces.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 41
"Marie Schmidt," Culver repeated. "She lives here.
I wish to see her."
The man shook his head.
"I am sure she does," Culver went on, growing an-
noyed with the stupidity of these people. "I come from
her uncle, Jean Malet of St, Gules."
That name brought expression to the wooden faces.
Instantly they glanced at one another, then with a look
of question back at Culver.
"Jean Malet?" the man queried in an odd tone. "En-
trez." He nodded jerkily towards the inner room, then
turned to the woman and said something in a low voice,
which Culver could not understand. The woman an-
swered in the same unintelligible way, and sat down on
a stool by the door, and the man led the way into the
back room.
It was sparsely furnished, and cleaner than Culver had
expected. An open bottle of wine stood on the table
with a couple of glasses by its side. The man closed
the door.
"You are English?" he asked suddenly in a villainous
accent.
"Yes. I am English."
"Then we talk English, it is better perhaps. You
want to see Marie Schmidt, eh? She is not here."
"Well, where is she? I want to find her," Culver asked.
"Will she be coming here later?"
"Perhaps." The man shrugged his shoulders. "What
do you want to see her about? You have a letter, or
something for her?"
"No. I just want to see her—about her uncle, Jean
Malet."
"Jean sent you?"


42 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
The man was sitting on the edge of the table, and he
looked up keenly as he asked the question.
"No. Jean is dead," Culver said calmly. "I was with
him when he died. That's why I want to see Marie; to
tell her."
The fellow poured himself out a glass of wine before
he answered. He seemed uncertain. Suddenly he looked
up with an expressionless face.
"If it is important, it is best to tell me," he said.
"Are you a relation of Marie's?" Culver, said, ignor-
ing the remark.
"No. Oh no. I know her. She comes here sometimes."
"But doesn't she live here?"
"Sometimes."
"Where does she live at other times?"
"I don't know. She comes and goes."
"But hasn't she any relations? Any parents?"
"She never told me."
This was maddening. Culver was sure the man could
tell if he would, but with the bovine suspicion of his class,
he mistrusted the foreigner and the unknown. These
people always saw trouble in anything strange. Culver
decided to try the seldom-failing persuasion.
"Look here," he said, after a moment. "I want to
get away from Antwerp as soon as I can. If you can find
Marie for me I'll pay you for your trouble."
But the fellow did not rise to the bait as eagerly as
Culver had hoped. Once more he shrugged his shoulders
in an irritating manner.
"All right. I'll try," he said doubtfully. "What is your
name?"
"Culver. But she won't know me. Say I'm the English-
man who was with Jean when she came to St. Gules some
days ago." The man's eyes lifted slightly. "Tell her,"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 43
Culver went on, "that she has nothing to be afraid of,
and"—a bright thought had come to him—"that among
Jean's paper was a little money, about a hundred francs,
and as she is the only relation I know of, she ought to
have it. You understand?"
"Yes. I understand." He applied himself to the bottle
once more, and Culver could see that he was puzzling out
something.
"And what's your name?" Culver asked suddenly.
The fellow gulped down his drink. "Peter," he an-
swered. "She will know me."
"Then, Peter, do you think you can get hold of her
to-night?"
"I'll try." There came a cunning, sinister expression
into his dark eyes. "You come back here about ten. Not
before. If I can find Marie, she shall be here."
"Good." Culver felt relieved. "And here's something
to go on with," he added, passing the man a note.
He took it without thanks, and crammed it into his
pocket.
"All right. You come about ten; not before," he re-
peated, getting to his feet. "I find her for you. No use
coming earlier."
in
Somehow this fellow Peter had not rung true, Culver
decided.
He had wandered through the heat, from the noisome
atmosphere of the Rue Jan Hoeck, towards the quays,
hoping to get some breath of air from the wide river.
But though it was cleaner here it was hardly cooler. A
brassy haze was spreading over the sky, and there was


44 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
not a breath of wind. Culver found a seat and sat, gasp-
ing, as he thought things out.
There was something wrong about Peter. The man's
hands, he recalled, were white and soft, not hands to go
with his rough costume and the rougher surroundings in
which he lived. And it was clear that money did not
speak to him as it spoke to most peasants. He was fur-
tive, secretive, and undoubtedly unfriendly to his visitor.
And that accent had been feigned, too. Peter spoke a
deal better English at the end of their interview than
when it began.
But if he could get hold of Marie, that was all that
mattered, though Culver realised that if he were to talk
with Marie Schmidt in the presence of Peter there would
be little chance of extracting any secret from her. Still,
to find her would be a point gained. He must devise
some means of seeing her alone.
A distant roll of thunder told the meaning of the cloudy
sky. The air was heavy and still, and the flags drooped
limply from the neighbouring masts. A great ship nosing
her way up-stream looked shimmering and indistinct in
the thick air.
Yes, Marie could tell, if only she would. She at least
should be able to put him on to the track of discovering
Jean's real identity. She would know names perhaps;
certainly whom he had married. And if she were reticent,
then he must see if money would not open her mouth.
Exhausted by the heat, Culver fell into reverie. It was
so queer to think of any connection between that squalid
slum he had just left and the clean, green peace of The
Pines at Oldford; of any connection between that black-
haired slattern who was still sitting sullenly at the door
when he had left the shop, and dainty Mrs. Wilfred Coke,
with her easy woman of the world manner and her per-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 45
fectly manicured hands. Yet there was a connection:
there could be no doubt of that.
The first heavy drops of rain began to fall. They
roused him. He would have to bolt for it if he were going
to get back to his hotel before the storm broke. With
collar turned up, he started to run, sweating at every pore
in the tropic heat. He reached the hotel just in time, and
stood with a little group of people in the covered entrance
watching the tempest as it swept over the city.
Blue-green stabs of vivid lightning played about the
great cathedral steeple, and the rain came streaming down
in sheets upon the baked cobbles of the deserted streets
until the gulleys filled to overflowing.
But neither storm nor heat showed any sign of abat-
ing, and Culver took refuge in the hotel cafe, and sought
consolation in a long iced drink and his own unsettled
thoughts.
rv
The storm was still rumbling in the distance at ten
o'clock that night. A lurid flash of lightning lit up the
deserted Rue Jan Hoeck as Culver turned into it.
Uninviting as the place had been in broad daylight,
on a pitch-black night it seemed more repulsive than ever.
The rough pave was a mass of murky puddles, and the
torrential rain had brought forth a medley of unsavoury
smells from the sodden earth.
His shoulders hunched against the downpour, Culver
pushed on, worried, rather, lest the storm should have
upset his plans. It might have delayed Marie, or, likely
as not, that idle fellow Peter would not have ventured
out into it.
The street was badly lighted, and Culver found it hard


4-6 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
in the darkness to pick out the house he was seeking.
There was nobody about, he felt he must have overshot
No. 47. He stopped and peered at an adjoining doorway,
but he could discern no number.
He was passing one of those open spaces where once
a house had stood, when a little scuffle in the darkness
caused him, instinctively, to halt.
A hoarse voice called something to him in Flemish, and
he answered in French that he could not understand.
Then, dimly, he made out a figure close by his side, and
an electric torch was turned full into his eyes, dazzling
him and causing him to step back in quick alarm. And
as he stepped back, it was, so far as he could remember,
into a pair of powerful arms which flung round him and
pinioned him, helpless.
He let out one sharp cry for help, before a clammy hand
was clasped roughly over his mouth, and the next mo-
ment sinewy fingers were at his throat, and he fell, strug-
gling and gasping for breath, to the muddy earth.
Those cruel fingers pressed tighter and tighter, and
Culver felt his head swimming. Though he fought on,
he knew that his efforts were futile. His consciousness
was going quickly. His ears were singing and his eyes
seemed as though they would burst from their sockets.
Then a great blackness came over everything.
It seemed an age afterwards that a tiny voice, far, far
away, was speaking his name. It seemed that he lay
somewhere, in a strange place dreaming. People were
bothering him, trying to wake him, and he wished they
would leave him alone. He tried to tell them to stop,
and the effort of speech brought him back once more to
consciousness. But for the moment he could not quite
recall things.
He was in the dark, sitting in the mud, his shoulders


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 47
supported by unknown hands, and a strange voice was
saying: "That's better. You'll do now. Take it easy,
old man."
An excited torrent of French followed, a light was
flashed at him again, and he was aware, dully, that there
were men in uniform at his side. For a moment or two,
groping mentally to remember what had happened, he
thought he was back in the trenches.
"It's all right. Quite all right," he said stupidly. "I'm
not hurt, it's only"
"Take it easy," that calm, emotionless English voice
came from behind him. Then it broke into French.
"My friend will be all right in a moment," it went on.
"We had better take him back to the hotel."
Dick Culver turned towards the speaker. He was fast
recovering his wits and his memory. He could recall
the attack now, clearly, but who this Englishman could
be, who knew his name, and knew his hotel, he could not
imagine.
"I'm all right now," he said, staggering to his feet.
"Have I been here long? Some blackguards went for
me—out of the dark. I don't remember any more."
The gendarmes, as he discovered the uniformed men
to be, pressed about him, talking volubly. In the rays
of their lamps, Culver saw the unknown Englishman to
be a tall, Iean-visaged man, with an expressionless face
and a big calabash pipe in his straight mouth. He ap-
peared completely unperturbed by the situation.
"You speak these chaps' lingo?" he asked laconically,
removing his pipe and cramming down the ashes with
his forefinger.
"A bit," Culver answered, still dazed.
"I wouldn't if I were you. Not till you've thought
about it a bit more." The stranger struck a match and


48 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
relit his pipe, puffing at it deliberately. "They make a hell
of a fuss over nothing, these foreign bobbies," he went
on coolly. "You leave it to me."
"But—but "Culver protested. "Who are you?
Why "He swayed, and the stranger caught him.
He was still feeling horribly sick and faint.
The man's queer, impassive voice came to him dimly
from a great distance.
"Franklin Parry," he said. "I'm staying in your hotel.
Leave it to me."
Culver was glad enough, then, to leave it to this strange
man who had appeared, so fortunately, at his side. His
head was swimming again. He was just conscious of
being helped through a crowd of gaping, furtive-eyed
men and women, who had been drawn like vultures to
the scene; of an interminable wait, with the buzzing of
voices all about him, and of being lifted into a cab. After
that, but for a dreadful pain in his throat, there was
no clear memory for some time.
He knew that he answered questions mechanically;
there was a vague impression of a doctor, but real con-
sciousness only came to him again the next morning when
he woke, in bed at the hotel, to find the stranger, Frank-
lin Parry, at his side, looking down at him with mild
amusement in his cynical eyes, and saying cheerfully:
"Well, old man, I hope you're all right now. You
gave me a bit of a fright last night; I thought you were
really bad."
v
Culver roused himself and blinked sleepily at his
visitor.
"What the devil did happen last night?" he asked. "I've
only the haziest idea after those swine went -for me."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 49
Parry was fingering his pipe. He gazed thoughtfully
at its charred bowl. He was an older man than Culver,
but he looked hard as nails, a powerful man without an
ounce of superfluous flesh. His lean face was sunburnt
to that sallow tint that comes of years in the tropics.
"I don't know what happened before," he said slowly.
"I chanced to hear a yell—in good, full-blooded English
—he gave a faint smile—"and I went to see what the
trouble was. Your language, old man, indicated that
there was some trouble."
Culver grinned.
"I don't remember that," he said.
Parry began to load his pipe.
"It wasn't exactly drawing-room chat," he commented
dryly. "Anyhow, there were a couple of blighters on to
you. I hit one, it felt a good hit, and they scuttled. Then
those chattering bobbies came up, and—well, we got you
back here after a bit. Mind smoke?"
"No. Go ahead- But I say, I'm awfully grateful to
you -"
Parry interrupted, with a grim smile.
"No need to be grateful, I've been in too many scraps
myself. I wouldn't have butted in but for your fruity
language." He puffed solemnly at the huge pipe.
"But—how did you know who I was?" Culver asked,
in a bemused voice.
"I'm staying here. I was standing in the porch yes-
terday when you bolted in out of the rain. I got your
name because I knew a Dick Culver out in the Congo
once. I saw the name in the book and thought it might
be him."
"No. I don't recall any of my crowd out there," Culver
said. "Where'd he come from, Hampshire?"


JO THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Parry smiled enigmatically.
"Poor old Dick never talked about his family. I don't
think he was a credit to them. But look here, we've got
to tell the same lie. Those damned bobbies will be round
here soon, and I pitched them any sort of tale last night.
To save trouble. You remember anything?"
"Practically nothing. You told me your name and
advised me not to talk for a bit."
"Always good advice in a police row. It's so hard to
change your mind afterwards."
"But I don't quite understand."
Parry shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know what you were doing in that neigh-
bourhood last night," he said. "It hasn't got altogether
a savoury name in Antwerp—that's why the bobbies go
in twos. And I don't want to know. That's your busi-
ness." He looked Culver straight in the face. There
was a queer smile in the steady, bleached eyes. "But
my experience is that these foreign police are more trouble
than they're worth.
"Now take last night's business. You can't do any-
thing. The blighters who went for you are gone. Unless
you suspect anybody, the police will never find them.
But, by Gad! old man, if they start they'll keep you
messing about answering questions, trying to identify
things by the score, and filling in forms, and the Lord
knows what, till you're sick of it. I remember in Vigo
some years ago, a chap came for me with a knife, and
those infernal police kept me hanging about in that foul
spot for five weeks. I'd drop it if I were you."
Franklin Parry spoke impressively, almost in a mono-
tone, punctuating each sentence with a puff of smoke, like
a man recounting some adventure. But the sound, com-
mon sense of his advice appealed to Culver. It was no


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 51
good getting entangled with the authorities for no real
purpose. If they started investigations heaven alone knew
where they might lead to. It might drag the whole story
of old Jean into an unwelcome publicity.
"Yes," he said, after a moment. "Perhaps you're
right, Parry. I suppose the men were just out to rob
me. I don't suspect anybody
He stopped suddenly as the thought flashed into his
mind for the first time. Did he suspect anybody? That
fellow Peter? He knew he would be coming along at
that hour with money on him.
"No. No. I don't suspect anybody," he finished hur-
riedly.
Parry seemed unaware of his hesitation.
"Then drop it," he said shortly. "Tell them you can't
remember anything—and stick to it."
"I will," Culver agreed.
Parry appeared relieved. He sat on talking for some
time. He attracted Culver. His hard, cynical manner
appeared to cloak a more human nature and a keen
sense of humour. And Culver was thoroughly conscious
that, but for this man's opportune appearance last night,
things might have gone badly for him.
Franklin Parry was a rubber merchant, he said, and
was just back from the Belgian Congo on a year's holi-
day. He had, in fact, only arrived in Antwerp on the
previous day, and was hesitating whether to go to Paris
or straight on to London.
And the tale he had told the police Culver heard elab-
orated an hour later when a fussy, little, bearded, plain-
clothes man arrived, with a big attache-case full of papers
and an air of great importance.
Culver, still in bed at Parry's suggestion, professed
a very slight knowledge of French. Parry acted as inter-


52 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
preter from time to time. Culver, he said, was an hotel
acquaintance, and the two had gone out together for a
walk after a very good dinner. He stressed the excellence
of the hotel dinner and forced a watery smile from the
bearded policeman.
M. Culver wanted to see the dock district, and they had
wandered that way, and although M. Parry had warned
him of the danger of that rough neighbourhood, M. Cul-
ver, out of curiosity, had insisted upon venturing down
the Rue Jan Hoeck. Parry, trying to dissuade him, had
lagged behind until, hearing his companion's call for help,
he had rushed forward to his aid. The rest doubtless the
efficient and gallant gendarmes had reported.
They satisfied the little policeman that this was their
story, and, vastly amused, Culver heartily agreed with
the suggestion that really he, or rather the excellent din-
ner, was entirely to blame. The policeman grinned sym-
pathetically and departed, having made copious notes.
Parry saw him off and returned to Culver's room.
'That's that," he said. "I don't think the little chap
was sorry. It would have been a hopeless job. Well,
good-bye, old man. Glad it's no worse. I think I shall
clear off to Paris at noon."
Culver jumped from the bed.
"No, I'm damned if you do," he said gratefully. "You've
got me out of a deuce of a mess, and you don't go till
we've had that giddy meal you described so convincingly.
You'll lunch with me. Where's the best place in Ant-
werp?"
Parry's smile was one of real pleasure.
"All right. So long as we don't play the sequel again,"
he answered.


CHAPTER V
i
The lunch was a great success. Franklin Parry improved
on acquaintance. He had knocked about all over the
world, and he was full of stories of odd experiences in
the unswept corners of the earth.
But there was a strange streak of shyness in the man;
he was lonely, and, though he welcomed Culver's com-
panionship, he seemed loath to force his company upon
him. It was this unsuspected reticence that gave him
his brusque, cynical manner, Culver decided.
And Dick Culver was feeling fit again, too. There were
some ugly bruises round his throat, which he had noticed
when he was shaving, and the throat still felt sore from
the grip of those cruel fingers, but otherwise he was
as cheery as ever he had been.
Parry spoke of his vague plans. He wanted to get
some golf and a bit of fox-hunting later in the year. But
he rather funked going home, he said. Things had
changed so much, and somehow he didn't seem to fit in
with his few relatives and old acquaintances in England.
"They think I'm a barbarian, and I think they're self-
satisfied snobs," he said with a touch of bitterness. "It
would be all right if we didn't tell one another what we
thought, but we do."
Culver laughed. He could sympathise with his com-
panion's feelings. He, too, somehow, had never fitted in,
easily, with conventional life; he, too, was a lonely
man.
He pondered a problem which had been flitting about
his mind ever since the morning. Last night's mishap
had badly upset his plans. It might have lost him the
53


54 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
chance of finding Marie Schmidt. Unless—unless Peter
really had had something to do with that attack.
Anyhow, he was going back to the shop to see. And
it would be uncommonly useful to have a companion with
him this time, and what better companion than Parry?
He needn't tell him too much; for that matter, he felt
he need tell him nothing. But some explanation was
due to him.
Culver leaned across the table with a guilty sort of
smile.
"Look here, Parry," he said, "I want to tell you some-
thing about last night's affair."
Franklin Parry looked up with mild interest.
"Well?" he said laconically. "I don't want to know
unless you want to tell me."
"But I do, I want your help."
Parry sipped his wine, and his queer, light eyes lifted
slowly to Culver's face. They seemed to be appraising
him.
"That's another story," he said in his expressionless
way. "I won't promise till I hear what it is."
Culver weighed his words carefully. He wanted to tell
enough but not too much.
"I had an appointment at a house in fhaft street," he
said frankly. *
"Yes." Parry toyed with his glass, his eyes fixed on the
table. "I imagined you weren't there for a walk."
"I was going to see a girl, the niece of an old waiter
chap I knew at St. Gules. He died, and, well, sort of
left me to settle up his affairs. There was—er—some
money, and I wanted to give it to her," Culver explained
rather hurriedly.
"Much?" Parry queried with unexpected directness.
Culver floundered.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 55
"No, no—that is, about a hundred francs," he answered.
"Why didn't you post it? It would have saved you
trouble," Parry said in a bored way.
Culver tried to make his story more plausible.
"Well, you see, I wanted to talk to the girl; tell her
about her uncle and that sort of thing. Besides I wasn't
quite sure of the address."
He felt peculiarly stupid, as if his lie was already dis-
covered, but Franklin Parry showed no sign of doubt—
hardly of interest. Culver went on and related the story
of his afternoon visit to the shop. Parry grinned as he
finished.
"Looks as if your pal Peter thought he might as well
have the money for himself," he said.
Culver nodded. "I had the same idea too," he agreed.
"Well, where do I come in?" Parry asked.
"I want to go back to the shop. Part curiosity, but
mostly to see if I can find this girl. I must get hold of
her if I can."
Parry lit a cigar. "Now think a minute," he said. "If
you go back to that shop and find your old friend Peter
with a Lord Almighty welt on the jaw—I hit someone
mighty hard last night, I tell you—what are you going
to do about it? Don't forget we've told one tale to the
police. We can't go back on that."
The thought had not occurred to Culver.
"That's true," he said. "I suppose I can do nothing."
"Well, get that into your head. Now, this girl; who'd
you say she was?"
Culver told him again, with a little more detail, and
Parry listened very attentively.
"All right," he said at last, "I'll come with you. But
for the Lord's sake don't go and get into more trouble."


56 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
II
They finished their lunch in a leisurely manner, then
strolled off towards the docks. Franklin Parry displayed
no further curiosity in the queer story Culver had told
him. That was so characteristic of the man—his ex-
traordinary lack of curiosity.
It was a dull day, with a cool breeze after the storm,
and the Rue Jan Hoeck looked as forbidding as ever
when they turned into it. Some ragged children were
playing on the vacant land where Culver had been at-
tacked. They gaped at the strangers as they passed.
Just before they reached No. 47, Parry said:
"Want me to come in with you?"
Culver thought quickly. If Marie was there, perhaps
it would be better not.
"No, I'll go alone," he answered. "It might scare
them if two of us turned up. I'll sing out if I want you
again." He laughed nervously.
Then they came to the shop. The door was shut and
padlocked. Through the grimy window Culver saw with
amazement that the place had been cleared. All the
welter of rubbish had gone, and bare dirty boards showed
indistinctly through the dull panes.
"Well, I'm damned! What do you make of this,
Parry?" he asked, astounded, and almost doubting his
own eyes.
Franklin Parry's face betrayed no feeling. He blew a
thick cloud of smoke.
"Saves a lot of trouble, old man," he answered. "I'd
forget sweet Marie if I were you. Don't be too senti-
mental; it doesn't pay."
Just for a moment a ghost of a smile flickered at the
corners of the straight mouth, and Franklin Parry looked


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 57
as if he were enjoying a secret joke. Culver noticed it,
and it made him feel foolish.
"I give you my word this place was occupied yester-
day," he protested.
"I don't doubt it. The only thing that matters is that
it isn't now."
Culver stared blankly at the grimy windows. He was
savage, not only at having come on a fool's errand, but
at the realisation that his last chance of finding Marie
Schmidt had gone.
A little group of curious neighbours was beginning to
collect. They seeped out of the sordid houses and stood
at a little distance, staring suspiciously and gabbling
derisively.
A slatternly woman, with flaming red hair, yelled some-
thing in Flemish across the street, and Culver replied
in his indifferent French with a question as to whether
she knew where Peter had gone. But she only laughed at
him and broke into a stream of apparent banter.
Culver felt more and more embarrassed. He hated
being the centre of this crowd's jeering curiosity. He
glanced at his companion. Parry was pulling stolidly at
his pipe, as if unaware of the grinning people.
Culver said suddenly: "Let's get out of this."
They had reached the end of the slum and had turned
into the main road before Parry commented in the most
matter-of-fact voice:
"The lady with the red hair didn't think much of your
pals, old man."
"What! Do you understand that infernal jargon?"
Culver asked quickly.
"Yes, a bit. Got some of 'em working for me out in
the Congo."
"Well, what did she say?"


58 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Parry gave one of his solemn smiles.
"Put politely," he said, "she described us as qualified
policemen who always arrived after the birds had flown.
And the birds, meaning your pals, she suggested had
beaten us again, and always would. They cleared off
about six last night, it seems, and the Rue Jan Hoeck
has been enjoying the joke ever since."


CHAPTER VI
I
Culver drove up to his rooms in Bloomsbury as St.
Pancras Church clock was striking nine the next morning.
Almost to the very moment that the Antwerp boat
moored at Parkstone Quay he had been undecided
whether to go back to Oldford or whether to go straight
to Town. His feelings were for the former, but the broad
streak of common sense in his nature told him that he
would gain little by seeing Mrs. Coke again until he
knew more about her. And he knew nothing more.
But he might pick up something among the artist
crowd in London. And he was fully determined to con-
tinue with his quest. His complete defeat at Antwerp had
only made him stubborn. Mrs. Coke's contemptuous
behaviour, as it seemed to him, rankled. He was going
to show her that he was not quite such a gullible fool as
she thought him, and until he had satisfied himself that
there was nothing more he could do to carry out his
vague, uncomprehended promise to Jean, he was not going
to rest.
Franklin Parry had seen him off, and Culver found
that he parted with that strange man with considerable
regret. Almost, he wished he had been more candid with
him—told him the story of Jean's letter. The man in-
spired confidence with his cynical, unperturbable manner.
And it was always easier to confide in a stranger, par-
ticularly a man like Parry, who asked so few questions.
Culver had pondered this a good deal on the journey.
The two men had arranged to meet when Parry came to
England, as he said he was coming, within a week or
ten days. Culver rather wished he had persuaded him
to come now. He had a feeling that he could have done
59


60 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
so, but Parry was so queer, so shy almost, afraid of forc-
ing his company unwanted; and Culver had been con-
siderably rattled by the extraordinary turn events had
taken, and he had wanted to get away alone, to recover
his sense of values.
He decided to drop a line to Parry at his London bank
that day, and urge him to come over. He might even
suggest a week's golf somewhere; Oldford, perhaps.
That mightn't be a bad scheme.
Culver found his room cheerless and enveloped in dust
sheets. The retired butler and his wife, who kept the
house, were not expecting him, and were a little upset to
be caught unprepared. Culver placated them.
"I shall only be in town for a day or two at the most,"
he said. "Just fix the bedroom; that's all I want. I'll
feed at the club."
But his intimate, little club was closed for its annual
cleaning, and he found himself a guest at the Literary
Union, a huge caravanserai of a place in which he knew
hardly anybody, where strange servants regarded him
with seeming indifference. And all the men he had hoped
to see, from whom he might extract some gossip about
Wilfred Coke's early life—and his wife's—were out of
town.
Culver hung about the library of the club till after
tea-time.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to get hold of one or two men
on the telephone, and as fruitlessly to turn up Wilfred
Coke in old reference books. Feeling thoroughly dis-
gruntled, he determined, towards six o'clock, to try the
Palmerston, in Chelsea, where he was pretty sure to find
some of the shiftless, painting crowd, drinking and gossip-
ing in the bar.
To the uninitiate the Palmerston is. as unlike a Bohe-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 61
mian resort as it well could be. "The Pam" the artists
call it, a rather dingy public-house, a gin palace of the
nineties, that has not changed its appearance since.
Culver jumped from a bus in the King's Road and made
his way back to the Pam's saloon bar. The big room at
the back was stuffy arid rank with stale smoke. Job
Doran, the R.A., was perched on a high stool by the
bar, sipping a long gin and soda, and buying drinks for
the little court of admirers which clustered about him.
He nodded to Culver as he came in, and went on with
a dissertation on wireless. Culver bought himself a drink
and took it to one of the tables by the window.
Close by, two or three models sat languidly before
glasses of stout, their eyes fixed on the great man. A few
tradesmen on the far side were arguing animatedly about
Chelsea's football prospects for the coming season, and
an airless heat pervaded everything.
Presently Culver became conscious that one of the
girls was staring hard at him. He looked up, curiously,
and recognised her as Doreen, a model who had been a
great beauty in her time, a statuesque creature, with a
dead white skin and raven hair. She smiled.
"Haven't seen you for a long time. You come back
again, Mr. Culver?" she said hopefully.
Culver shook his head.
"No. Only just to look round; and see if I can find
any old pals, beside you, Doreen. Have a drink?"
She left her companions and came to sit beside him.
"Thank you, Mr. Culver. May I have a Quinness?"
He fetched it for her.
"And how are things, Doreen?" he asked cheerily. "Any
of the old crowd still alive?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered. "Let me see. You


62 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
used to work in Mr. Knowles' place. He's dead, you
know."
"Yes, poor chap."
Knowles was an elderly man, with whom Culver had
shared a studio during his brief adventure into art. And,
it occurred to him, Knowles had known Wilfred Coke.
"Yes," he went on. "Poor old Dick Knowles. And
you remember Wilfred Coke, I suppose, Doreen?"
"I should think I do," she said, her big eyes opening
wide. "There was a nice man, if you like. But what a
wife!"
Culver tried to appear unconcerned. In a girl of Dor-
een's type, any obvious interest would arouse suspicion.
"I don't think I met her. She was nice, too was she?"
he commented casually, pulling out a case and idly tap-
ping a cigarette on the table.
"Nice! Oh, my God! Here, you remember what hap-
pened to poor Mr. Coke, don't you?"
"He was drowned. It was awfully sad."
"Drowned! And why? She drove him to it. She
led him a hell of a life, that woman."
"Come, come, Doreen. You musn't say things like
that." Culver was shocked at the venom in the woman's
voice.
"All right. I know, that's all." She turned, with mild
offence, to her drink.
"What, was she jealous?" Culver asked, with an uneasy
laugh.
"Jealous—no. She didn't care what he did so long as
she got his money. It was money, money, all the time.
God knows what she did with it. She bled him white,
Mr. Culver." Doreen leaned forward confidentially.
"And to look at her you'd never guess what she was like,
kind of quiet, easy-going she seemed. But she was bad,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 63
real bad. Not the ordinary, but rotten. Look what hap-
pened when poor Mr. Coke got ill."
"What happened?"
"Oh, she left him, then. Wasn't any more good to
her. Started an antique shop, if you please. And every-
one used to say, 'Poor Mrs. Coke, wasn't it brave of
her.'" The girl sneered.
"Doreen, who was she?" Culver said, feigning a mild
interest.
"I don't know. They'd been married for years. Bill,
they used to call her. She was a painter—not bad, land-
scapes, you know."
"But Mr. Coke must have been a little—well—dif-
ficult at times," he said, instinctively driven to defend
Mrs. Coke.
"Drink, you mean," Doreen retorted frankly. "That
was all her fault. When I first used to sit for him, he
was all right. If you ask me, he did it deliberately—to
kill himself. And not the first, either."
Culver was really perturbed. He discounted much of
what the model said. These women developed senti-
mental admirations for the painters for whom they sat,
and wives were never too popular with them. But there
was something behind this outburst of Doreen's, and
somehow he felt shabby, gossiping in this way about a
dead man and a living woman.
Mrs. Coke, as he remembered her, calm and gracious,
fitted ill with this lurid story of avarice and cruelty. And
yet, his brain working quickly, he recalled another incon-
sistency in Mrs. Coke's story. Her suggestion of pov-
erty at her husband's death: of need to sell their furni-
ture. Either that was a lie, or Doreen's statement was.
And he thought of the girl's sneer at those who had said


64 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
how brave it was of Mrs. Coke to take to business. He
had made much the same remark.
"I suppose Mr. Coke was pretty hard up before the
end?" he asked.
"He was, yes. She'd taken it all from him. But not
her. Came down here to the funeral in a great big car
and furs."
"Oh, well," Culver put in hurriedly. "Let's hope it
wasn't as bad as you think." He was disgusted, in a
way, with the whole story. He almost wished he had
never heard it. In his mind the two men, Jean of the
Natation and Wilfred Coke, associated themselves. Two
broken men—both connected with the same woman.
He turned the conversation to more trivial matters, and
presently left the Palmerston, a fit of deep depression
upon him, and a sense of the futility of the self-appointed
task in which he had engaged.
ii
Culver went down to Oldford the next morning.
Through many worrying hours on the previous evening,
he had come to a decision. He was not going to fret
'himself with this business much longer.
It was only making trouble for himself. Better drop
it, as Franklin Parry had been so fond of saying. But
before he dropped it he was going to make one final,
direct appeal to Mrs. Coke. If she were that hard, cal-
lous woman that Doreen had depicted, then a frank and
unsentimental attack would be more likely to succeed.
As he had schemed it out, he would go to her, quite
blandly, and throw the situation at her. He would say:
"I have reason to believe that you know a good deal


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 6$
more about Jean than you told me. And I know more
about him than I told you. If you don't intend to trust
me, don't; but I want to know who his relations may
be in this country. I have something to tell them when
I am satisfied that they are the proper persons to hear it."
That was the sort of thing. Chucked straight at her
she might give herself away; or, better still, meet candour
with candour. He could do no more. If this failed, well,
he had tried to keep faith with Jean, and would have
kept faith with himself.
And then he would forget the whole affair; wire Parry,
perhaps—he had a hankering for that man's company—
and suggest a trip to Scotland to see if they could find
some fishing and golf there. The Continent had, for the
time being, ceased to attract him; it brought back too
many memories of St. Gules and Antwerp.
The Palace Hotel at Oldford could not give him a room
and, not altogether unwilling, he sought a humbler place.
That disturbing girl, Ann Gray, would be at the Palace,
and just then he did not feel equal to facing her. She
had something to do with Mrs. Coke's secret he was
convinced, and now he was anxious to be done with sub-
terfuge and tortuous ways.
Yet Ann was one of the first people he met that after-
noon when he turned into the long, main street from the
old-fashioned Blue Boar, where he was staying.
Ann was in a rakish two-seater car, driving skilfully
through the crowded street. She crammed on her four-
wheel brakes as she caught sight of him, and stopped dead
by his side.
"Hallo, Richard Culver," she drawled. "You come
back again, or haven't you been away?"
He tried to laugh naturally.


66 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Back again for a bit," he said.
"Been to St. Gules already?"
He nodded, then with an effort:
"And found it as you said, a rotten hole," he laughed.
"So you've come back to stay?" she persisted, looking
at him with curious interest.
"No. Not for long" He met her big, hazel eyes quite
steadily, wondering how much she knew, and suddenly
conscious that he wished she were not a friend of Mrs.
Coke's.
His even gaze seemed to disturb her. She dropped her
eyes in mild confusion.
"You must be fond of travelling," she commented,
then looked up with the old mockery in her smile. "And
where is restless Richard Culver off to this time?" she
demanded.
"Scotland, I think," he said blandly. Her taunting,
lazy voice had roused him. He did not want her to think
him a complete fool, and if she were asking for a purpose,
Scotland was as good as any other place to tell her.
She made no comment on his reply, but asked abruptly:
"You going to see Bill?"
He was not ready with a denial.
"I—er—I was, yes," he faltered.
"Jump in then," she said, throwing open the door.
"I'm going up there, I'll take you!"
He could hardly refuse, though instantly he realised
his mistake. He wanted to find Mrs. Coke alone, and
now it seemed that he was going to be let in for another
party.
"If she's got people there again I don't think I'll come
after all," he protested lamely. "I want to see her on
business, and I'd better wait."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 67
"Oh, come on," Ann insisted. "There'll be nobody
there—not even me. I'm only going to collect Elsa.
We're going out to Flackston to tennis at the rectory. Bill
won't come, she's got the glooms. She gets like that
sometimes, all jumps and headaches and aspirin."
He was in the car now, almost against his will, and
Ann had started off nearly as violently as she had stopped.
"Then I certainly don't think she'll want to see me,"
Culver said.
"Depends what you want to see her about," Ann re-
plied, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "She's always
well enough to do her business. She's got to be, poor
dear. Bill works hard, you know."
She turned towards him for a moment, as if to em-
phasise her words.
"I'm sure of it," he said. "Still, my visit can wait if
she's really seedy."
"We'll ask Elsa," Ann answered curtly.
They slowed as they came to the gate of The Pines,
and Ann honked loudly on the horn.
"I'm not going in," she said, "it's a beastly place to
turn. This will fetch Elsa." She hooted again in a delib-
erate way. "My signal," she laughed.
He had descended, and stood by the car still uncertain
whether to go into the house or not. The opportunity
seemed a good one, yet if Mrs. Coke were really indis-
posed she would not be in the best mood to receive his
attack. To prevent Ann from returning to that disquiet-
ing, personal mood of hers, he was talking mechanically
about the car.
Then a woman appeared strolling slowly down the
drive, swinging her racket and puffing at a cigarette.
"Oh, Elsa," Ann called. "How's Bill? I collected


68 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Mr. Culver in the High Street; he wants to see her if
she isn't too depressed."
This Elsa, of whom Culver had heard so much, hesi-
tated for a second as she caught sight of him, surprised,
obviously, to find Ann with a stranger.
"Oh—er—Bill," she began a little nervously. "She's
rather poorish. She's been lying down since lunch."
. "Then I won't go in," Culver said definitely.
He found himself staring at Elsa in a curious manner.
She was dark and pretty; a woman of about thirty, he
judged. There was something opulent about the simplic-
ity of her dress; it looked so particularly smart, from
the dainty white shoes, to the daring little hat pulled
down over her black hair. And the woman's face was
typical, too, but of what he could not quite decide.
Ann broke in: "But you don't know one another, do
you? Richard Culver, this is Bill's pal Elsa, Elsa Mayer."
"How do you do?" he said conventionally. "I'm sorry
about Mrs. Coke. I won't bother her to-day. She was
going to show me her furniture some time, but I'll wait
till to-morrow."
Elsa smiled, a little nervously, he thought, and again
he searched his memory to recall who it was that she
suggested. It was almost as if he had met her before
somewhere.
But she answered naturally enough, and he helped
her into the car. Ann turned to wave good-bye, and
Elsa Mayer looked over her shoulder with a formal little
smile, and at that moment it came to him, flashed into
his brain with staggering certainty.
He knew now where he had seen this woman before,
and, knowing, he felt dazed. It had been in the fishing
town at St. Gules on the morning Jean had died. The
whole scene rose clearly in his mind, Madelaine, standing


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 69
at her door uttering her acid phrases, and a little way off,
angry, startled and fearful, the peasant girl.
The same resentful look of alarm had come over Elsa's
face for a second when she had first seen him standing
by Ann's car. He was sure of it. Elsa Mayer and Marie
Schmidt were one and the same person.
And more than that; Elsa had recognised him.
hi
Far up the road, Ann's two-seater was disappearing in
a cloud of dust that whitened the bordering hedges.
Culver gazed stupidly after it, then turned to the house,
which seemed so peacefully asleep in its mantle of shrubs
under the summer sun.
It was very quiet in the lane, a lazy quietness, broken
only by the humming of insects. Culver walked slowly
on in the wake of the now vanished car. He found a
gate a hundred yards or so further along and climbed it,
wandering across a sun-baked field, where cattle sought
the shade of the hedges, until he came to the marsh land
by the edge of the river.
Away to the left, the tiled roof of The Pines showed
mellow in the strong light. He could see a patch of
creeper-covered wall and a wide open window, and that
window attracted him as if through it he were able to
enter, and wrench from the house some of the secrets that
it must hold.
And he meant to wrench from it its secrets now. This
meeting with Elsa had given a completely new turn to his
ideas—an ugly turn.
Elsa knew him, and was plainly alarmed; probably
knew of his journey to Antwerp, possibly of the attack
made upon him in the darkness of that miserable slum.


70 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Probably Mrs. Coke knew about it, too; and the girl
Ann. They were all in it—whatever it was—he was sure.
And it must be something pretty desperate, too, some
secret of more than a family scandal if what he surmised
were correct. But what was to be done? He could hardly
go to Mrs. Coke now, and tackle her as he had intended.
Nor could he very well accuse Elsa Mayer of being Marie
Schmidt and party to a murderous attack made upon
him.
For, after all, he had no proof. It was mere conjecture
—Franklin Parry's conjecture as well as his own, it was
true—but though Elsa be Marie, there was nothing to
show that she had been in the Rue Jan Hoeck that night.
Culver felt dazed. He could not force his thoughts into
a definite channel. The whole circumstances were out-
rageously absurd, and yet undeniably true. Who was
this Elsa, this dark-eyed, conventional, but rather foreign-
looking woman? Could she have been Jean's niece? If
so, where did Peter come in? And what was Elsa doing
disguised as Marie Schmidt? And Ann Gray?
Culver went over and over again the whole series of
events of the past few days, and found himself staring at
the ebbing tide baffled and angry.
He wanted another point of view on the problem, some-
one with whom to discuss it frankly, and at once his
thoughts went to Franklin Parry, with his queer, cynical
common sense. Parry was undoubtedly the man to ad-
vise him. He would wire Parry; go over to France and
see him if needs be. If he could only get Parry interested
in the problem, there would be a chance to elucidate some
of its mysteries.
Culver knocked out his pipe and strolled thoughtfully
back to the lane. He would wire to Parry's bank and
hope that they would forward the message.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 71
rv
A country motor omnibus on the point of starting, as he
came out of the post-office, decided Culver, on the spur
of the moment, to seek counsel in the solitude of one of
the vast, heath-clad commons inland from the town.
He craved solitude. Oldford, with its careless crowds
and merriment, jarred on his nerves. Half an hour later
he descended from the bus at the Bidely cross-roads and
found himself in a glorious waste of heather and gorse and
bracken, with little else but a wayside cottage and a distant
farm-house in a clump of trees in view.
He took a sandy track that led diagonally across the
sweet-scented heath and walked on, absorbed in his
thoughts for some time. Presently a squat, flint tower of
an ancient church appeared in the distance. There were
no farms about, only a few trees, through which what
was evidently the parsonage showed, and the little church
close at hand, in the midst of a sea of purple and green
and gold.
Culver made his way towards it. It looked almost un-
real, this little, deserted building that seemed to have
been dropped by mistake in the middle of a moor. It was
to the church, clearly, that the track he had been follow-
ing led, and it ended at a gate in a lichen-covered, flint
wall that enclosed an overgrown churchyard.
There was nobody about; no sound of life even from the
adjoining parsonage. The place was as lonely as the
graves, half-hidden in the rank grass. Culver tried the
south door, but it was locked. From some yellowed
notices stuck in the porch he discovered that this was
Bidely Church, and he wondered where Bidely village
might be.
It was a queer little building, with lancet windows, a


72 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
couple of hundred years older than its upstanding tower.
Culver peered through one of the windows. There were
repairs of some sort going on inside. But it appeared to
be a curiously untouched church, with old, high, box pews
and a three-decker pulpit.
Culver loved old churches, and this was a rare example.
He tried the sanctuary door without success, then turned
towards the parsonage to see if he could get the key there.
The house was, in its way, as interesting a building as
the church. It was of red brick, built in late Stuart times,
a long, narrow, L-shaped house, but one room deep in the
longer wing. The front door stood wide open, showing a
white-panelled hall. Culver could see through the glass-
paned door, on the other side of the hall, into the garden
beyond.
Nobody answered his first knock, and he tried again.
After a few moments an elderly parson appeared from
the garden. He was panting a little as he came in, and he
mopped a moist brow.
I'm sorry to disturb you," Culver began, "but I
wondered if I might have the key to your church."
"Why, certainly," the parson answered. "But not my
church, sir, unfortunately. I am but a stranger here,
not even a locum. I am merely the temporary tenant of
the rectory in Mr. Britain's absence."
Culver smiled. The man was so genially pedantic.
"Now let me see," the parson went on, fussing like an
agitated old maid, his round face puckered like a child's
in thought. "The key, now, the key; where did Ellis put
that key? Ah! Here it is." He produced an enormous
weapon of iron from a hook by the door. "Now, sir, if
you are a student of old churches you shall see a little
gem."
Culver followed him down the drive, and as the parson


74 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Culver went nearer, fascinated by the depth of colour,
and interested to discern the crude design of little panels
the rich border enclosed. What the parson had said was
true; it seemed impossible to believe this work had been
finished seven hundred years ago.
The old man led him to the sanctuary.
"This," he explained, "is more modern. By a couple of
centuries." He laughed at his small joke. "But, alas!
that dreadful worm has got into the roof. Mr. Britain is
having it treated in his absence."
He prosed on for some time, amusing rather than bor-
ing Culver, for his mind was diverted from the worries
which had filled it that afternoon. And then the old man
insisted that he come back and have tea: "Or something
a little stronger, if you like," he added, with a smile.
They sat for some time under a great copper beech on
the lawn. It was cool and restful there, and though Culver
missed much of what his garrulous, kindly host said, the
old parson didn't seem to be aware of it.
He was the Reverend Clement Foster, he said, and for
years he had been a schoolmaster.
"I am afraid I am a very unworthy priest," he mused
sadly. "I have had no cure for many years."
Culver felt awkward.
"But I expect you've had your share of work, sir," he
said.
"Yes. Yes," the old man agreed.
In the course of their talk it transpired that Clement
Foster had taken the rectory for six weeks. He had
been ordered a complete rest. "My heart is not so young
as it used to be," he said, tapping his portly chest. He
was looked after by a woman from a cottage some half a
mile away.
"But Mr. Britain very kindly left his man here. Ellis,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 75
a nice young fellow. Quite a Crichton. Drives a car, does
the garden, and acts as verger. Ellis shall drive you
back, Mr. Culver; he has to go into Oldford this evening."
Then the parson pleased Culver by recalling one of his
books and commenting on it with a detail that proved he
had read it. And altogether Culver spent a very happy
couple of hours at Bidely, and he was quite sincere when,
as the parson stood by the car bidding him "Good-bye,"
he accepted his invitation to lunch one day soon.
"I find it very charming, but just a little lonely here,"
he said. "I seldom have company, except on Sundays
when the curate from Flackston is here for duty."
A prosy, but not a bad old bird, Culver summed him up
on the drive home. He liked the good things of life, and
seemed to have the means to enjoy them.
Ellis brought the car up smartly to the Blue Boar. He
was a lout of a fellow, but a good driver, and he grinned
like a schoolboy at the half-crown Culver gave him as he
thanked him.
"Hope we'll see you at Bidely again, sir," he said cheer-
fully.
"I hope so," Culver answered, as he went into the
hotel.
The girl in the office called to him as he went by. "Tele-
gram for you, Mr. Culver," she said.
Culver tore open the flimsy envelope.
"Good man. Coming down to-night. Parry," he read.
v
Franklin Parry arrived by the last train. Culver was
on the platform, and he felt really relieved to see Parry's
slow smile as he descended from a first-class compart-
ment.


y6 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
He looked sprucer, Culver thought. He was wearing a
new overcoat and a new grey felt hat, but the inevitable
calabash pipe was between his teeth.
"Hallo, old man," he said. "I was damned glad to get
your wire."
"I'm glad you got it," Culver replied heartily. "I
thought you were still abroad."
Parry shook his head. *
"Came over last night," he said. "One day in Paris
was enough for me. I'd hoped to find you still in Town.
But this is better. By Jove! this is good air—this is what
I want."
Culver turned to the porter who had collected a couple
of suitcases and a bag of golf-clubs.
"Shove 'em on a cab," he said. "The Blue Boar. I've
booked a room for you there, Parry."
As they drove down the hill to the town, Franklin
Parry outlined his wanderings in the past two days, and
never once referred to Culver's carefully worded tele-
gram. He spoke as though he had come down merely to
play golf and enjoy a holiday, and it was Culver himself
who had first to open the subject of the real reason for
which he had sent the wire.
That was when they had found a deserted corner in the
old-fashioned smoking-room, and Parry had ordered:
"Two whisky sodas—big ones."
Culver took a pull at his drink.
"Well, things have developed," he said tersely. Parry
nodded.
"So I judged," he answered, with no trace of curiosity.
Then, with a queer smile: "Nobody's been going for you
again down here, I hope."
"Oh, Lord, no. But you remember the girl I spoke of,
Marie Schmidt?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 77
"Yes."
"Well, I met her this afternoon, here in Oldford."
For the first time Culver saw Franklin Parry roused
from his imperturbable manner. His loose-knit frame
seemed to stiffen, and he pulled his pipe from his mouth
with a jerky movement.
"You met her here? Where?" he asked sharply.
Culver grinned. "I thought you'd be surprised," he
said. "Yes, I met her and was introduced to her"
"As Marie Schmidt?"
"No, as Elsa Mayer. A peculiarly well-dressed young
woman, who is staying with an artist's widow, a Mrs.
Coke, who has a house here."
Parry had reverted to his normal calm, and was puffing
steadily at his pipe. But his eyes were keen, beneath the
part-closed lids, as he gazed through the smoke.
"Quite sure it wasn't really Elsa Mayer?" he asked
quietly. "I wouldn't jump too quickly, if I were you.
Think, Culver, think. People can be devilish like one
another without being the same."
"I have thought—a good deal," Culver said earnestly.
"There is a chance, I grant you, that I'm mistaken. But
I don't think I am. No, Parry, I'm sure," he went on,
with an emphatic nod. "Not only the eyes, but the ex-
pression in them. It was the same. And she recognised
me, too. That settled it. She started when she caught
sight of me."
But Parry would not be convinced.
"This sounds damned queer," he said, with a half smile.
"Did you give her the hundred francs?"
Culver flushed. He had felt that lame story he had
told in Antwerp had not carried conviction.
"Look here, Parry," he began. "There's a bit more
behind it than I told you"


78 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Not really!" Parry commented dryly.
"A good deal more," Culver went on. "There's an
extraordinary mystery about it all, and I'm going to get
to the bottom of it. And I want your advice and help, if
you'll give it."
Parry prodded at his pipe with a match-stalk. He was
growing more serious.
"You do look for trouble, old man," he said. His tone
suggested that he wished his companion had not made this
request.
"I don't care if it's trouble or not, I'm going to look into
this business as far as I can see," Culver retorted, a little
heatedly.
"All right. What do you want me to do?"
"Listen first of all, and tell me what you make of it,"
Culver said. "The story starts about ten days ago."
And he told that story frankly, save for the details of
Jean's last words.
That he still held a sacred trust. It could not affect the
present circumstances, so far as he could see. So long
as Parry knew that Jean was an Englishman, it would be
sufficient.
Franklin Parry listened to every word intently. He
had laid aside his pipe and was leaning forward, his
sallow face expressionless as a mask, save for the eyes.
They hardly moved from Culver's worried face; they
seemed to be registering every shade of expression, and
questioning all the time.
"That's the position, Parry," Culver said, as he finished.
"I'm certain of the girl. But what's behind it? Will you
help?"
Parry picked up his glass and gulped the remainder of
his drink.
"It's certainly queer. But what's the odds? Is it worth


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 79
while butting in?" he asked, after a moment's pause.
"It can't do you any good, and it may lead to a packet of
trouble."
He spoke patiently, as though he were reasoning with a
headstrong child. And this tone irritated Culver.
"I'm going on with it, anyhow," he said stubbornly.
"I give you my word on that—trouble or no. But I've
no right to drag you into it, I can see that. Let's forget
it, shall we?"
Parry looked hurt.
"No. No, old man," he answered slowly. "I'm not
going to quit, if that's how you feel about it. I'll help—
as far as I can."


CHAPTER VII
I
They played a round of golf the next morning. That was
Parry's suggestion.
"It's no good rushing things," he advised. "If there's
anything in what you say, your friend Bill Coke is watch-
ing you like a cat. No need to advertise the fact that
you're watching her. You and I are down here for golf.
She's got to get that into her mind."
They caught a glimpse of Ann Gray towards the end
of the round. Ann was just starting out with a fair-
haired youth whom Culver recalled as one of her com-
panions at the dance at the Palace. He drew Parry's at-
tention to her.
"Look. That's the other girl I was telling you about,"
he said.
"What, Marie?"
"No. No. Ann Gray. The cheery one I can't place."
Parry gazed curiously across the course at Ann, who
was taking a brassy shot from a difficult lie.
"And you think she's in it, too?" he queried, after a
moment.
"I hope not. But it's certainly fishy," Culver answered.
Parry chipped his ball on to the green. "Know any-
thing about her?" he asked laconically.
"Nothing more than I told you."
"Well, we shall see," Parry commented, with in-
difference.
It was this apparent indifference that rather nettled
Dick Culver. It was not that he doubted his sincerity, but
he could not help feeling that Parry discredited the whole
story. He so seldom referred to it.
When they returned to the Blue Boar for lunch, there
80


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 81
was a letter waiting for Culver. Mrs. Coke had written
a graceful little note, as though to an intimate friend, say-
ing how sorry she was not to have seen him, and begging
him to come in to tea that afternoon.
He passed it to Parry.
"She's made the first move," he said.
Parry scanned it superficially.
"You'll go, of course?" he asked.
"Yes. I want to see what she's after."
"Got your lie ready?" Parry asked tersely.
"Lie? What do you mean?"
"To tell her why you're back, and what I'm doing with
you. We've been seen, you bet."
"Damn it! I'd forgotten that," Culver admitted rue-
fully.
Franklin Parry grinned.
"You're a poor sleuth, old man," he said. "That's the
first thing she'll want to know." He frowned. "I don't
suppose it matters," he added, after a moment's thought.
"Put me down as an old pal just back from the Congo.
Golf mad. And you brought me down here for a week or
two. And if you can insinuate that the lady's charm had
something to do with your choice of place, at forty and
more, she's apt to swallow it. Flatter her. Middle-aged
widows like a bit of attention—at least, that's my ex-
perience."
u
It struck Dick Culver at first that Parry's suggestion
was rather a feeble one, but he could think of none better.
And certainly, if he were to find out anything from Mrs.
Coke, he would have to be on friendly terms with her.
Perhaps Parry wasn't such a fool after all. And any-


82 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
thing was better than arousing suspicion or hostility in
Bill Coke.
Parry had gone back to the golf-course. Golf mad was
not altogether a wrong description of him, Culver thought,
for the game appeared to occupy his mind far more than
the mystery at The Pines.
Culver arrived at the house just before four. Elsa
Mayer came to the door, and she greeted him with the
most friendly of smiles. There was not the least trace
of yesterday's stiffness or embarrassment in her manner.
"Bill won't be long," she said. "She's got a customer,
and she said I was to look after you till she came. We're
going to have tea in the garden. Shall we go out now?"
He agreed, feeling that it was he who was ill at ease,
and he fought hard to appear natural.
Elsa made it easy for him; she talked in quick, jerky
little bursts that often finished in a fascinating laugh. He
found it almost impossible to believe that this was the
sullen-eyed woman he had seen at St. Gules: yet his
conviction was unshaken. She had made such a vivid
impression upon him at the time, she, Jean's niece, stand-
ing dumb under the vituperative tirade of Madelaine.
They found some chairs under a cedar-tree by the side
of the tennis lawn.
"Bill was so glad to hear you were back," Elsa said,
settling herself with a cigarette. "Are you going to stay
for some time?"
But for Parry's warning, the question which came so
naturally, would have seemed the most obvious one, but
now Culver felt that there was design behind it.
"A week or two," he said. He began to elaborate.
"Frankly, I'm not awfully fond of English seaside places.
But I've got an old pal unexpectedly back from Africa,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 83
and he's mad on golf. So I thought we might as well come
here as anywhere."
"Oh yes. Bill was saying you were at St. Gules."
There was an indefinable something about the way she
pronounced the word that struck Culver's ear. Was she
a foreigner?
"A place I'm very fond of," he said easily.
"And Bill told me how kind you were to that old waiter.
I do think that was nice of you." Her deep voice rang
with sympathy.
Culver hoped to heaven he was not betraying his sur-
prise.
"Old Jean? Did you know him?" he asked as casually
as he could.
Elsa puckered her forehead.
"I think so," she said, flicking some ash on to the grass.
"Bill was trying to recall him to me yesterday. He was
at that cafe where you had drinks after bathing, a surly
old man"
"That's the fellow," Culver broke in. "You know St.
Gules well, I suppose?"
He looked up at her innocentiy, anxious to see if there
were any trace of expression on her face that might be-
tray her. But she met his eyes with a smile as innocent.
"I was there with Bill last June for a week. That's the
only time. And I hated it. Bill would bathe, and I
caught a cold. That makes you hate a place so, don't
you think?" Her voice ran off into that queer little laugh.
Culver had to laugh, too. There was something attrac-
tive about Elsa Mayer. That beneath this veneer of
light inconsequence she was hard and secretive, he knew.
But the veneer was very effective, it compelled response.
"I suppose one does. Colds are depressing things."


84 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Oh! They make my nose red. They make me look
almost ugly."
Again she laughed in that odd way of hers. Ann had
that same provocative habit, too, he recalled. But Ann
was essentially English; the foreigner in this woman was
undoubtedly very close to the surface. Her last remark,
for example; it asked for a compliment.
He paid it.
"Until I've seen you with a cold, I won't believe it,"
he said.
Elsa leaned forward and smiled into his face.
"You nice man. I'll never let you see me with a cold.
And Bill said you were serious."
"So I am," he protested gallantly. "Never more seri-
ous, Miss"
"Oh, Elsa. We're all Christian names here—to people
we like."
"So Ann told me."
"She's a harum-scarum child. Bill adores her, but she
nearly drives her frantic at times. Bill works, you know.
Ann can't understand being forced to work. That's the
best of being rich."
Culver's curiosity was aroused. He had wondered a
good deal about Ann.
"Does she live here?" he asked.
Elsa looked surprised.
"Don't you know?" she demanded. "Ann's an heiress.
Her father is Sir Theo Gray—the shipping people, you
know. She's an only child, and he's worth a million.
And he's a conscientious Presbyterian and—I'm afraid
Ann isn't," she finished with a quick little lift of the eye-
brows that suggested an approving disapproval.
Culver was frankly surprised. He knew of Sir Theo


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 85
Gray and his shipping, well. And that made it all the
harder to place Ann.
"Then what's she doing here?" he asked blankly.
Elsa shrugged her shoulders.
"Ann's a modern. She can't stand the family. Too
many prayer meetings." Elsa's laugh rose to a mocking
trill. "She's a real dear, you know, but she must lead her
father a devil of a life."
"How?" He was more perplexed than ever.
"She does such silly things. Every time her father
smacks her she says she's going to earn her own living.
She went as a cook for a month—with some people Bill
knew in Town. Bill says she was a good cook, too, but, of
course, she got fed up. Then she went as a chauffeur,
until she crashed an old dowager's car. But that was
funny. She told the old dear she'd buy her a new one
just after the smash. Now she wants to go into partner- v
ship with Bill."
Culver was intensely interested. Ann was presented in
quite a new light.
"What a wild young woman!" he laughed.
He got up to light a match for Elsa, who was just fixing
a new cigarette into her holder, and, as he dropped back
into his chair, there was an ominous growl behind him.
"What was that?" he asked, turning quickly.
A suspicious-looking Alsatian had appeared as if from
the lawn itself. It was standing a few yards away re-
garding Culver through mysterious, hostile, yellow eyes.
Elsa called out petulantly: "Come, Dirk!" then:
"That means Bill's finished with her customer. This is
Bill's latest pet. Dirk, speak to the gentleman, he's a
friend. Mustn't bite him!"
The big dog lay down at her feet, but showed no sign
of friendship.


86 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"By Jove! He looks a man-eater," Culver said. "Dirk,
old man. Come, boy!"
But Dirk seemed to reserve judgment, and at that
moment Mrs. Coke come slowly on to the lawn.
"Who's calling my darling a man-eater?" she asked
lightly. "Mr. Culver, I thought better of you. Dirk,
dear, take charge."
She pulled her tight-fitting hat from her head and
threw it wearily on to the grass. The dog rose solemnly,
and sat down with the jade-green felt between its paws.
"Now he'll eat you if you try to take it away from him,"
she laughed, dropping into a chair. "Mr. Culver, I'm
sick of you, I've been hearing your praises sung for the
last ten minutes. You must have a wonderful way with
you."
"My praises? Who's been saying this?" Culver asked,
in frank surprise.
"Mr. Foster. The funny old parson who's taken Bidely
Rectory. We were in the shop and saw you come in.
But, of course, you haven't seen the shop yet, have you?"
"I—I don't think so."
"Well, you shall, after tea. I'm positively exhausted.
Elsa, dear, do go and tell Ada to hurry."
Elsa nodded, "All right," and wandered off towards the
house. Culver turned to Mrs. Coke and demanded more
information about the parson.
"Oh, don't make me say it all over again," she laughed.
"He's rather a dear, but gossipy!" She made a weary
gesture. "I couldn't stop the man."
"But what did he say?" Culver persisted.
"Oh, that you were most intelligent and charming and
sympathetic, and understood old churches and appreciated
them. And most young men didn't, and what a pity it
was. And then that you were charming again, and did I


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 87
know you—when you were walking out into my own
garden with my own friend. Is that enough?" she rattled
off quickly. "But how he tired me!"
She put her head back and closed her eyes as if she
really meant it
"What a queer old bird," Culver commented, not quite
sure how much of this was jest. "Do you see much of
him—I hope not, for your sake."
Bill opened her eyes slowly, with a mischievous smile.
"I don't mind, really," she said. "He looks like being
a good customer. This is the second time he's been, and
I've sold him something each time. We met him at the
Frazers'—the Flackston rector, you know. Mr. Frazer
is looking after Bidely while Mr. Britain's away—or rather
his curate is."
A growl from the Alsatian told of the coming of tea,
and Elsa reappeared escorting an elderly maidservant
with a big silver tray.
in
As tea went on, Culver had to admit himself baffled.
These two women, Bill and Elsa, chattered away in the
easiest manner in the world.
They took him and his presence in Oldford for granted,
and they treated him like an old friend. He found it as
absurd to think of Mrs. Coke as the hard, pitiless woman
Doreen had depicted, as he did to realise that Elsa Mayer
had been standing in the fishing town of St. Gules in
peasant dress, and that she was an acquaintance of that
fellow Peter, whom he was pretty certain had tried to kill
him.
The position was cra2y, delirious. The women were
consummate actresses, or he was entirely wrong. They


88 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
talked of conventional things, knew conventional people;
what part could they possibly have in the life of that
sordid shop in the Rue Jan Hoeck? And yet, despite it
all, he had a sense that they were playing with him, wait-
ing for him to blunder. And he set a guard upon his
tongue that made him dull at times, and unresponsive.
They lingered over tea, smoking and talking trivialities
until Elsa broke up the party. She glanced at a little,
diamond-studded wrist-watch and jumped to her feet.
"Good Lord, Bill! I'd better go and finish packing!"
she exclaimed.
Mrs. Coke was unperturbed.
"Elsa always takes hours to pack," she said to Culver;
"she's been at it on and off since breakfast. Go along,
dear; you've only got another two hours."
Elsa made a grimace at Culver, and Mrs. Coke rose
lazily.
"Mr. Culver and I will go and look at the shop," she
went on. "Don't be afraid, Mr. Culver; I won't make
'you buy unless you want to."
They drifted back to the house, the disapproving
Alsatian at his mistress's heels, and Elsa disappeared up-
stairs. Mrs. Coke led Culver through a simply furnished
dining-room to what had been a more recently built
billiard-room, beyond.
"Here's the shop," she said gaily. "What do you think
- of it? Every mortal thing in it is for sale."
"By Jove, this is fine!" he exclaimed in genuine admira-
tion.
The place was like the most comfortable of halls.
There were a few old rugs spread upon the shining parquet
floor, a few old pictures hanging from the white walls, a
few pieces of rare china and glass in a delightful Queen
Anne cabinet, and, dotted tastefully about, tables and


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 89
chairs, and an oak chest or two, and there were fresh
flowers everywhere. The room looked lived in, and the
subtlety of its arrangement was in the absence of over-
crowding.
Culver commented on this, and Mrs. Coke smiled ap-
preciatively.
"You're quite right," she said. "There's lots more in
the hospital—you know, the studio—but I set the trap
with a note of simplicity. It pays. I get all sorts of
funny people here. They like coming to a house. I
generally ask them to lunch or tea; they like that, too.
I'd have asked the dear old bore this afternoon, but I
didn't quite feel equal to more of your praises.
Culver was wandering round the room, lost in admira-
tion.
"And you've all that lovely stuff in the studio too," he
said.
"Yes. I'm repairing most of that."
"That ripping chest," he went on enthusiastically.
"Where are you going to put that?"
She thought for a moment.
"Oh, the one poor old Jean got for me, you mean. I'm
having an awful time with that. It simply won't clean
properly. But that won't come here; that goes straight to
America, I hope. Poor Jean, I suppose you never heard
any more about him?"
Culver looked round sharply. Mrs. Coke was toying
with a vase of flowers, arranging them in a different way.
"No," he answered. "I don't suppose I ever shall. I
went back to St. Gules, you know, just to settle up his
affairs." He eyed her keenly.
She had taken a recalcitrant rose from the vase and
was twisting its stem.
"Yes. Ann said you'd gone back." She looked up


90 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
with a sudden smile. "I was afraid I wasn't going to
see you again."
He was suspicious, and ready for her this time.
"But you'd invited me to come and see your—your
wonderful possessions," he retorted in a lower, more in-
timate way. "I came back as soon as I could, you see.
And I hope you'll let me come again. I'm staying in
Oldford for a while."
"Why, of course." Her pencilled eyebrows raised
slowly. She was not displeased, he thought. "Nice people
are always welcome here; they are as rare as—as old
dower chests."
"And come through the same source," he put in quickly.
She seemed a little confused.
"But won't go the same way, I hope," she smiled. "You
musn't go to America just yet. Come and look at the
chest and tell me how you think I'm getting on with it."
Her mood puzzled him. Until he left she talked almost
at random, in a nervous, jerky manner unlike her usual
calm. But she walked with him to the gate and left him
with a smiling insistence that he must come again soon, to
tennis, and bring "the golf man from Africa," for Culver
had deliberately explained Franklin Parry.
He looked back at the end in the lane. Mrs. Coke was
still leaning idly on her gate, her long cigarette holder in
her mouth. She waved to him and turned, and he walked
on more intrigued than ever he had been.
But Bill Coke hurried back to the house and up to
Elsa Mayer's room.
Elsa snapped out, "Well?" as the door closed. Bill
Coke dropped into a chair, frowning. "For God's sake,
Bill, what do you make of him?" Elsa continued irritably.
"Does he know me or doesn't he?"
Bill Coke's steel-blue eyes narrowed.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 91
"No. I don't think so," she said after a moment. "I
think he's a fool, but a very dangerous fool. The worst
kind—the sentimental. What did you get out of him?"
Elsa pushed a half-packed suitcase from the edge of
the bed and sat down.
"Very little," she answered. "I don't think he is such
a fool. I was afraid to test him. I didn't like the way
he introduced Jean. It was too well done. Bill, how much
does that man know?"
Mrs. Coke gave a hard, involuntary little sigh.
"I wish I knew," she said with curious emphasis. "And
I wish to goodness he'd never come here; he's going to be
the most awful nuisance."
"You mean about Carl?"
Mrs. Coke nodded.
"Yes. And the whole business. Elsa, we've got to get
rid of him somehow—I don't know how." Her face was
lined and intent, and she tapped the carpet nervously
with her shoe.
Elsa Mayer, too, looked worried.
"You're quite sure he isn't a fraud?" she asked. She
stressed the "quite."
"Oh yes. As far as that goes, I'm quite sure. We've
made full inquiries."
"Then why is he hanging about?"
"Oh, don't keep asking that silly question," Mrs. Coke
broke out impatiently. "How do I know? I've told you
the man's a fool; he'd be easier to deal with if he weren't."
"Well, I don't like it," Elsa returned pettishly. "I be-
lieve he knows me. There's something about him. And
why did he go to Antwerp?"
"It's a pity he ever left it," Bill snapped out, with a
vindictive scowl.
Elsa winced.


92 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"If they hadn't lost their heads there it would have been
all right," she said defensively. "I could have dealt
with him—then."
"But you weren't there, and he's here, and likely to
stick here. He's got some fool of a colonial with him
who's golf mad. I must see if Ann can find out what
their plans are."
"Yes. Ann might. If she doesn't fall in love with
him. She's going to be useful."
"You bet she is," Mrs. Coke said, with a mirthless smile.
"But I don't see how she can help before Carl comes.
He may be here at any time now."
"I've tried to stop him. I sent a wire this afternoon—
before I came out to the lawn."
Elsa's eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"Then what about the chest?" she asked.
"You'll have to see to that. That's the infernal nui-
sance of the whole thing. It means more of this damnable
delay."
She rose suddenly and walked across to the window,
and there was nothing of the charming, amusing Mrs.
Coke about her now. She looked almost wild as she
frowned at the garden, biting her lip, her thin, sensitive
hands fidgeting with her bag.
"I wish to God people would leave well enough alone!"
she exclaimed peevishly. She turned. "We've got work
to do," she went on. "Come on. The car won't be here
till half-past seven."
Elsa took a gay overall from the wardrobe and fastened
it about her, then followed Bill Coke downstairs to the
studio.


CHAPTER VIII
i
A friendly "Good-afternoon, sir" from Ellis made Culver
aware, as he turned into the Blue Boar, that the Rev.
Clement Foster's car was waiting outside.
He looked up, surprised out of his thoughts.
"Ah! Afternoon, Ellis," he said. "Mr. Foster here?"
"Yes, sir; he's waiting to see you," the man answered
in a pleasant country accent.
Culver hurried on. The parson and Franklin Parry
were in the smoking-room, a belated tea-tray before
them. The Reverend Clement was talking with animation,
punctuating his remarks with a characteristic gesture of
the hand, his fingers outspread as though he were trying
to grasp the subject of which he spoke.
Parry was slouching back in his chair, listening im-
passively and puffing, with his usual persistence, at his
pipe. He motioned to Culver with a backward nod of
the head, and the parson turned, his rubicund face smiling
as he blinked at the newcomer.
"An unexpected pleasure," Culver began courteously.
"The pleasure is mine," the parson answered in his
smooth voice. "I have met your good friend—Perry, is
it?" He glanced at Franklin Parry inquiringly. "Parry.
Parry. Yes, yes," he continued at Parry's laconic cor-
rection. "And we've been swapping yarns, I think they
call it. I know something of the West Coast; I did a short
spell of missionary work there, but the climate proved too
much."
"Really!" Culver commented, for want of a more in-
telligent reply.
"I'm afraid I've shocked Mr. Foster with my views on
niggers," Parry said, with his slow smile.
93


94 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Not shocked," the old man said in a hurt way; "in-
terested. I can understand how trying the life must be.
I found it so myself, I fear. But to pleasanter things.
Mr. Culver, I looked in to see if you would redeem your
promise to-morrow and take lunch with me. And now, of
course, I include Mr.—er—Parry, if he would be so
kind." He beamed.
Parry lifted himself up on his elbows.
"I've accepted already," he said.
"Of course," Culver put in quickly. "I should be de-
lighted, Mr. Foster."
"How nice! How very nice!" The parson smiled. "A
great treat for a lonely man. Now, when shall I send
the car for you?"
He seemed pathetically pleased, and stayed on talking
for some little time. He had come into Oldford to do an
afternoon's shopping, he said. "Seeking some of the
creature comforts, you know," he explained, with a de-
precatory smile, "and I met an admirer of yours, Mr.
Culver."
"I heard you'd been saying very nice things about
me," Culver answered, a little embarrassed.
"So you know," the parson laughed. "What a very
charming woman. We're talking of Mrs. Coke, Mr.
Parry; I don't know if you've met her. But dan-
gerous," he went on; "a menace to one's pocket, I assure
you. What did she make you buy, Mr. Culver?"
Again Culver found himself confused. He didn't quite
know how to answer. He hedged, with an inconsequent
laugh.
"I escaped this time," he said. "I was taken through
the shop—shown the bait, as it were. But she has some
very beautiful things."
"Very beautiful," the old man said gravely. "A very


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 95
clever woman Mrs. Coke, though I sometimes wonder
if she doesn't over-repair her treasures. They are so
perfect."
Again the hands went up, with the outstretched fingers
groping in the air.
"You don't mean she fakes?" Culver asked in amaze-
ment.
"Oh, dear me, no. Not for a moment. Don't, please
don't take that impression. What I mean is that with her
great knowledge, her great artistry, she may be tempted
at times, unintentionally, to do too much. To gild the
lily. I tell her so. And she replies by making me buy
something I had no intention of buying." He chuckled
softly, like a naughty schoolboy.
But the seed was sown in Culver's ready mind, though
he answered with a grin: "A most apt revenge, too, sir."
There was something very unusual about Bill Coke's
business. That scrapheap of fine old furniture in the
studio, and those very perfect specimens in the shop, as
she called it. Furniture faking was a paying job. Had
the old man deliberately been giving him a tip?
Parry drawled: "I must meet this fascinating young
woman, Mr. Foster—even if I have to buy something."
The old man chuckled again.
"You tell her she's a young woman, and you'll be
liked, Mr. Parry. Mrs. Coke is at an age when that
would be very welcome hearing. But she has charm, un-
deniable charm." He drew an old-fashioned gold hunter
from his ample waistcoat. "Dear, dear," he said, "but I
must be going. Till to-morrow, then. Let us hope St.
Nicholas at Bidely will charm your friend as it charmed
you, Mr. Culver."
Culver went with him to the car and came back to
Parry, who was just ordering a whisky-and-soda.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 97
Parry went off at random to Culver's story of his visit
to The Pines.
"So you drew blank, did you?" he asked. "Where
was the other girl—the kid—Ann something. They didn't
parade her?"
"No, they hardly mentioned her except to tell me who
she was. I told you, you remember."
"Yes. Funny business; that. Sort of young woman
who's likely to get into trouble, I should say."
Culver became more serious.
"I can see her being attracted by Mrs. Coke," he said,
"but I don't like the idea of her palling up with that
woman Elsa—Marie otherwise. She's a bad egg, that
woman. Clever as you make 'em, too."
They discussed Elsa and Mrs. Coke for some time, but
Parry would never keep to the point for more than a few
moments. He was inclined to repeat himself, and ask
questions about details he already knew. And though
wine did not easily affect Culver, he was feeling his din-
ner, and not very anxious to be too serious.
He was vaguely hopeful and just as glad when Parry
dropped the subject.
They had a cognac with their coffee in the smoking-
room, and Parry suggested a walk. But he did not get
far. Less than a hundred yards from the hotel he
stopped.
"Old man," he said a little thickly, "I'm afraid I've
overstepped the mark. What with the air and the dinner,
I think I'll be wiser to seek my little cot." He laughed
stupidly.
Culver had been expecting this, and he was worried.
"Right you are," he agreed quickly; "you know best.
I'll come back with you."
Parry became really truculent.


98 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"You will not," he said.
"Just to the door," Culver urged.
"Not to the door; not a yard towards the door. I
know how to look after myself. Go for your walk. You
need it. Get on, my boy. I'm going back."
Dick Culver knew enough not to insist, though unob-
trusively he watched his companion until he was safely
into the hotel. Then he set out for the sea front. He
had dined well, he admitted; a little too well. An hour's
hard walk would do him all the good in the world. Funny
chap, Parry, he mused. He hoped this wasn't a real fail-
ing of his. He must be more careful in future; check
him if he could.
But Franklin Parry at about that moment was talking
to the night porter at the Blue Boar. There was no trace
of his good dinner about him, his speech was clear, and
his manner alert.
"There'll be a trunk call coming through for me in a
few minutes," he said definitely. "I'll be in that corner.
Let me know at once."


CHAPTER IX
i
Oldford is on a branch line. To save the change at
Eckenham Junction, Ann drove Elsa the ten miles direct
to that station.
She drove at a breakneck speed, cheerily ignoring her
companion's many pleas to be more careful.
"My dear, I'm always safest over forty, and I can pull
her up in a second—see," she retorted.
She crammed on her brakes and brought the car up
with a suddenness that drew a scream of alarm from Elsa
Mayer. But the next moment they were rushing on
again across the open heath roads, Ann thoroughly enjoy-
ing the joke, and Elsa pale, and distinctly nervous.
Ann did not trouble to get out at the station.
"You'll be all right now, won't you?" she announced,
rather than demanded. "You've got plenty of time."
Elsa glanced at the clock.
"Quite enough," she said with an odd smile.
"Then I'll crawl off; I want to be back before dark.
Good luck, Elsa, I'll hear through Bill how you get on,"
and almost before the porter had unstrapped the luggage
from the carrier Ann was off again.
Elsa was going to Town, then on to Devon, to spend
a few weeks with friends, so Oldford had been told. But
her luggage was only labelled to Ipswich, and there she
left the London train.
She had the best part of an hour to wait before the
through train from the North to Harwich arrived. Elsa
spent the time restlessly wandering about the far end of
the platform, and she gave a sigh of relief when at last
she was seated in a compartment near the engine.
Elsa Mayer in travelling costume was not the smart
99


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK IOI
made inquiries. It's only through that letter of Jean's.
Of course that fool would die just now—and drag the
man into it." Elsa's face darkened.
"But what was it all about, the letter? Was he mad?
Did he tell anything?" Carl Mingay looked up quickly.
"I don't understand"
"Nor do I," Elsa said with a sullen frown. "Bill's a
damned sight too secretive. She doesn't tell too much."
A line of trucks creaked slowly along the quay behind
them, and stopped with a succession of harsh crashes
as each wagon slammed into the buffers of the next. A
yard or so away a clattering crane emitted clouds of
steam, dazzling white in the fierce electric light, as its chain
clanked up and down with luggage for the outgoing boat.
Mingay turned up the collar of his coat; the breeze off
the water was cool.
"But what was the letter about?" he persisted.
"Bill said to say that he was ill, and couldn't do any
more jobs," Elsa answered with a sceptical sniff. "But I
never saw the letter. She made me fake up some silly
note in a hurry to show Culver. She was scared, Carl;
I've never seen her lose her nerve before. You don't
think Jean would have gone back on us?"
"Jean? No. The drunken beast! He'd too much to
lose. But it's queer, Elsa, damned queer. You know
Culver had an accident in Antwerp, don't you?" Mingay
looked up again in that sharp, furtive manner.
Elsa's head swung round, and she stared at him re-
sentfully.
"Bill said something about it. Had you got anything
to do with that, Carl?"
He laughed callously.
"I? Good Lord, no. What makes you think that? It


102 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
was some dockside roughs, I suppose, but it might have
saved a lot of trouble if"
Elsa turned on him like a fury.
"Look here, Carl, none of that," she said. Her voice
was low, and husky. "If I thought you had anything
to do with it, by God! I'd get out tomorrow."
"Well, I didn't, so don't get excited," he said curtly.
"Come on, we'd better walk."
They ambled slowly back towards the station, where
porters were already lining up in readiness for the Lon-
don train. And as they paraded slowly up and down
the platform, as if waiting for friends, they talked ear-
nestly.
Elsa was insistent that Carl should not go to Oldford.
"Bill will be wild if you do," she said. "She wired
you to-day not to."
But he only laughed in a superior self-confident manner.
"That's all very fine," he retorted, "but I want to know
a bit more about Culver and the letter. Bill doesn't put
me off that way. And besides, I've got something else
for her. Bill isn't almighty though she thinks she is.
Don't you worry, Elsa, I'm as fond of my own skin as
anybody."
The boat train came slowly in, and the platform leapt
to life as the passengers streamed out of the carriages.
In the bustle, with the slightest of nods to Mingay, Elsa
drifted away towards the boat. They parted as they had
met. But Carl Mingay strolled slowly to the hotel and
made his way to the office.
To the porter on duty he said with a friendly nod:
"I shall have to get away early to-morrow; better call
me at six sharp. And I want to make another trunk call
to Oldford—my friend hasn't arrived."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK IO3
II
Captain Carl Mingay was a good-looking man in a
theatrical way. His dark hair was sleek and carefully
brushed. When he smiled he showed two rows of very
white teeth, and, as if conscious of this, his smile was
rather forced. Indeed, his whole manner was one of
professional good humour which passed well enough.
Few people ever noticed that his dark eyes seldom smiled.
They appeared to display a certain sullen watchfulness.
He tipped well, and servants liked him, for he was ever
ready to turn any subject into a joke, however trivial
that joke might be. And the porter at Oldford Station,
who came to open the carriage door for him, sensed his
man, and hurried to call a cab, although there was no
luggage for him to carry. He knew he would get his tip.
Mingay had chosen the luncheon hour to arrive at
Oldford. He drove straight to The Pines, and sent in a
card to Mrs. Coke, which read: "Captain Carl Mingay,"
and at the bottom in Gothic lettering, "Mingay and
Burns. Fine Art Dealers. London and Paris."
Bill was sitting over a dish of scrambled eggs in the
studio when the card was brought to her. She glanced at
it and her lips tightened.
"Take him up to the office," she said to the elderly
maid, "I'll be there shortly."
Mrs. Coke's office was on the first floor, a little room
designed as a dressing-room. It was a business-like place,
with a filing cabinet and a big roll-top desk littered with
papers. Mingay was gazing from the window when she
entered. He turned with his mechanical smile, and
laughed:
"Hallo, Bill, I've come after all, you see."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 10$
a sly insincerity in his voice. "But what I want to know
is, why did Jean send him?"
Mrs. Coke pushed back her chair an inch or two and
drummed on the table, then she broke into a hard laugh.
"The poor imbecile must have been drinking for days, I
should think," she answered. "He wrote me a madman's
letter—he had delusions. He said people were after him,
and he wasn't going to do any more jobs. He said it
was all our fault that he was ill. Oh, mad as a hatter!"
She dismissed the subject with a bored gesture, and
went on quickly: "Since you are here, what about the
stuff?"
He eyed her keenly as if debating whether or not to
drop the question of Jean. Then, making his decision, the
set smile reappeared on his face.
"That's all right, Bill," he answered. "It's going to
Ipswich for the carrier to collect as usual. That's the last
of that stunt, isn't it?"
She nodded, and the lines in her face relaxed.
"I suppose you know when you're going to get your
money back," he went on with a grin, "but I'd rather
stick to the old lines myself. What do you think of this,
Bill?"
His hand slid into a hip pocket, and he pulled out a
package which he undid casually. Bill was alert and ap-
praising as he removed the paper, and her strange eyes
lighted with real admiration as they fell upon a perfect,
eighteenth century miniature set in a jewelled frame.
Then she glanced up at him searchingly.
"That's Lowenstein's 'Marquise de Granville.' You
can't sell that, Carl; it's reported everywhere," she said.
"That's why I got it cheap," he answered steadily.
"Think what the stones are worth, Bill. You can always
get rid of them."


106 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Bill Coke pushed the miniature from her with obvious
indifference. Her face was set, unreadable as a poker
player's.
"No good, Carl," she said, with a shake of the head.
"It would take years to get rid of, and not a very wise
thing to keep about the house either." She allowed herself
the faintest of laughs.
Mingay's smile seemed glued to his face. It was mirth-
less; suggestive of some grinning gargoyle.
"Right, Bill," he answered, stretching out his hand.
"There are others that aren't so particular. I didn't want
to break it up; I thought it was in your line."
"It is, it is," she agreed dispassionately. "But it's too
dangerous. Much too dangerous. If I were you I'd get
rid of it quick. Lowenstein's employed Pringle's; he's not
trusting the official police."
Mingay's smile faded.
"How do you know that?" he asked quickly.
Bill Coke's voice was bored.
"I just know," she said in a matter-of-fact way. For
a second her eyes shifted to his face, then swung back to
her desk.
He returned the miniature to his pocket and asked for
a cigarette.
"Well, I'll take my chance," he said, with a forced
laugh. "I'd have let you have it for fifty, but I'll get
double that the other side."
"You'll be lucky," she muttered as though she were
thinking aloud.
He scowled, then burst out in a blustering way:
"I'll get it all right. Don't you worry. What's the
matter with you?"
"Then get it!" she exclaimed impatiently. "And I'll


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK IO7
be just as glad when you are on the other side, with that
thing on you."
"Where's Friend?" he asked with apparent irrelevance.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"New York—the last time I heard."
"He'd buy it—and be glad to get it."
"Maybe. Better go to America and ask him. That's
the only place you'd get the price for it." She got up
suddenly. "Well, Carl, I've got work to do."
"Half a minute, Bill," Mingay protested. "There's
something to come for the fake stuff I brought over."
"When it's delivered," she said without concern.
"But you won't let me wait for that. It's a bit thick."
"Sorry, but you know the terms." Mrs. Coke was hard,
almost inhuman, in the utter finality of her refusal.
"I must have a bit to go on with," he persisted. "I'm
broke, Bill. Clearing out of Antwerp and all that. After
all, it's partly your fault."
Bill's voice rose to a harsh note as she knocked the ash
from her cigarette.
"Really, Carl, that's too funny. You made a complete
fool of yourself, and now you try to blame me."
"I think there's something behind this letter business,"
he replied truculently. "So does Elsa. Don't you try
any games now, Bill."
Mrs. Coke looked up, her hand still extended over
the ash-tray. There was a curious immobility about her
face.
"Carl," she said, as if she were announcing the most
trivial of facts. "We know exactly where we stand, you
and I. We know exactly what would happen if I have
you struck off the list." She might have been asking his
opinion upon some quite unimportant matter.
His mechanical smile came back hurriedly.


108 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"No need to get nasty about it," he said in a conciliatory
voice. "I've got to look after myself just as much as you
have."
"So you come down here in broad daylight, where
you're likely to be seen. You've a funny way of looking
after yourself, Carl."
He grew uneasy under her accusing gaze.
"I had to," he remonstrated sulkily. "I want some
money. Look here, Bill; what will you give?" His hand
slid back to his hip pocket.
She shook her head.
"Too risky, too risky altogether," she said. "It's much
too well known."
"Oh, come on," he tried to persuade her. "You know
you could get three hundred for it. You've got ways. I
bet you could get it to Friend inside a month if you
wanted to."
"No," she replied apathetically.
"You can have it for forty."
She hesitated.
"I'll give you thirty, and I'm a fool to do it," she said.
He threw it across to her.
"You're a hard nut, Bill. Take it. It's me that's the
fool, not you." He gave a soured, disgusted chuckle.


CHAPTER X
i
Dick Culver woke late that morning. There was only a
slightly gummy mouth to remind him of the indiscretion
of the night before, but he was surprised when he looked
at his watch. It was long after nine. He had been late
in getting to bed. It was nearly midnight when a sleepy
porter had let him in, and he must have walked six or
seven miles after Parry had left him.
Culver recalled the incident with a shame-faced grin
and hurried to his dressing. He wondered what Parry
would have to say about it, and whether he would have
a fat head. Parry had been really tight, there was
no doubt about that.
There was a note from him waiting at the office. Parry
had scrawled: "What did we do last night? I feel like
the devil, and I'm off for a spot of air and exercise. You'll
probably find me loafing on the beach. No golf to-day; I
couldn't hit a football. And thank God the old parson
bird has put us off. He sent his chauffeur round soon
after eight to say his heart had gone back on him. We're
to go to-morrow if he's better. I'm glad.—F. P."
Culver was glad to; he didn't feel quite up to the strain
of that lunch.
"What time did Mr. Parry come down?" he asked the
waiter casually.
"Early, sir, early," the man answered, as though Parry
had confided his condition in him. "He was down before
eight and out soon after. Said he wasn't feeling very
well, sir."
Culver nodded and continued to attack his bacon.
He was rather lazy, and he lingered over the papers
before he wandered out on to the beach. It was a glorious
109


110 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
day, and the shingle was crowded, as was the surf, with
many bathers. Culver ambled along looking for Parry,
but couldn't find him. Then somebody threw a stone at
him, and he turned to see Ann Gray.
She was enveloped in a giddy bath-wrap, sun-basking
after her swim. As usual, she was surrounded by a group
of friends.
Culver went over to her. She looked particularly jolly
this morning, he thought, with her unruly short hair dry-
ing in the sun, and her clear skin burning to yet a deeper
tan.
"Hullo," she drawled. "You look a bit pink-eyed.
What have you been up to?"
He assured her that he had been up to nothing.
"Well, you look it," she said frankly. "Come and sit
down." She made a place for him and introduced him
cursorily to the group.
They talked on for a time, till one by one the others
departed. But Ann showed no sign of moving. She
lolled back on the warm stones, smoking Culver's cigar-
ettes and chatting of the trivial gossip of the place—the
tennis tournament, the coming regatta, and the dances
at the Palace. She made only the most fleeting references
to Mrs. Coke and Elsa.
But she explained one thing that interested him. He
had asked, naturally enough, with whom she was staying
at the Palace, and she had laughed lazily >
"Not a soul. I'm all alone. Does that shock you,
Richard Culver?" The mocking way in which she always
spoke his name both pleased and irritated him. "You
look a bit Victorian, like some of the old ducks at the
hotel. They don't think I'm quite nice. But I am
really."
"But surely "he began.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK III
"Now, don't you start lecturing me," she interrupted.
"I get quite enough of that at home. I know the tone
of voice." She laughed again. "Ever had measles?"
He looked at her blankly.
"Measles?" he echoed.
"Yes. The spotty things. You know."
"I—I suppose so," he said foolishly.
"I haven't, and I didn't want 'em. That's why I'm
here." She leaned upon an elbow and watched his be-
wildered face with mock seriousness.
Culver was conscious once more of the poor figure
he cut with this extraordinary girl. She had a devastating
faculty of making him appear a callow youth.
"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked, try-
ing hard to seem unperturbed.
"Measles," she answered solemnly. "Beth's measles.
I suppose they were Jimmie's really."
"Ann, don't be an idiot," he broke out, hardly realising
what he said.
A smile of real amusement came gradually to her sun-
burned face.
"That's much better," she drawled. "Richard is be-
coming almost human. It's quite true, my dear, Beth had
measles, and she caught them from Jimmie. Beth's my
married cousin. I live with her in London most of the
time. And Jimmie's her boy. We were all coming dowrt
here till they got measly. So I had to come alone. It's
quite true. Beth will be here herself, in about a fort-
night, to prove it. She's at home now, getting disin-
fected. Now is our curiosity satisfied?"
There was something in her teasing manner that broke
down his self-consciousness.
"You are a ridiculous child," he retorted. "Do you
behave like this with everybody?"


112 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Not everybody," she said gravely. "I'm only serious
with serious people."
He grew daring. The girl attracted him enormously.
For the moment he entirely disassociated her from Mrs.
Coke and Elsa and all the mystery that they stood for in
his mind.
"Come and have tea somewhere this afternoon?" he
asked.
She nodded, without a moment's hesitation. "Let's
go to Salthithe. I'll drive you over. It's a simply gor-
geous place with an adorable castle full of dungeons and
things—all rats and ghosts. It makes me frightened; I
love being frightened. It's too thrilling."
"Splendid!" he said. "May I call for you about three?"
"Yes, I'll be ready."
He helped her to her feet, and they walked back to the
hotel. And for the first time since he had been in the
town Dick Culver felt that Oldford was a really cheery
place.
n
Franklin Parry had not returned when lunch started,
and Culver went in alone. It was only after he had left
Ann that he began to wonder how Parry would receive
the news that he was going to spend the afternoon with
her.
He felt awkward about it, sensitive in a way. He
hoped Parry would not make cynical jokes. After all,
Parry had deserted him all the morning; he couldn't be
expected to hang about the whole day waiting for him.
Lunch finished, and still there was no sign of Parry.
Culver was more relieved than curious about his com-
panion's absence. He had probably gone for a long


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 113
tramp and was lunching at some country inn. He would
leave him a note, say he'd be back to dinner, and leave
explanations until then.
He wrote a non-committal letter and left the Blue Boar
soon after two. But killing time was a dreary occupa-
tion, and Culver found himself at the Palace Hotel ten
minutes before he was due. He strolled into the lounge
from the beach side, determined to hang about there till
three o'clock. But Ann was there already.
She was standing on the far side of the room, talking
to a tall, dark man in tweeds. She caught sight of
Culver, gave a curt "Good-bye" to her companion, and
hurried towards him.
"Bright lad," she said in an undertone. "You've saved
me from the world's worst bore. Let's go and get the
car."
She bustled him out through the door by which he
had entered while he asked vague questions about the
bore.
Ann explained in her usual exaggerated manner.
"But who is he?" Culver asked in amusement.
They were in the car and starting off. Ann accelerated
and the two-seater jumped forward.
"I daren't tell you," she laughed. "I once mistook
you for him. It's Elsa's pal, Captain Mingay."
Ann described him unflatteringly as they wound their
way through the little town and out into the broad
heath country beyond.
"I suppose it's shell-shock, poor dear," she summed
him up in the end, with the speedometer needle quivering
in the forties. "But that doesn't make it any easier for
Elsa."
Mingay, it appeared from Ann's story, was "simply


114 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK
dotty" about Elsa Mayer. "He follows her all over
the place,” she said indignantly. “I bet he goes down
to Devonshire now, after her.” She slowed up for a flock
of sheep pattering along the road.
Culver learned that Mingay was a picture dealer. “Not
that he's any good at it, Bill says,” Ann announced. "He's
always trying to sell her duds and swearing they're by
Rubens or somebody. That's the worst of these ama-
teurs.”
“And who's Elsa?” Culver asked curiously.
"Oh, Elsa's an artist like Bill. But she works for Bill's
shop in her spare time-picks up things for her, and got a
flair for it too, Bill says.” Ann's admiration for Mrs.
Coke was obviously very real. What Bill said was
gospel to her.
They turned from the main road into a sandy lane
that runs across Hithe Heath.
“I think we can get through this way,” Ann laughed
as the car jolted over the ruts, “but we'll probably get
lost.”
"I don't mind," he said with sincerity, for he was
enjoying every moment of this drive.
Ann went on to talk about Mrs. Coke. "The pluckiest
woman I know," she described her, and Culver frowned
as a memory of the Palmerston in Chelsea, and Doreen's
bitter words, came to his mind. “I want to go into
partnership with her, but she won't let me. Bill thinks I
wouldn't work. Rot! I believe in earning my own
living."
A lonely, weathered signpost by the wayside pointed:
“Pryke 142 miles.”
“Oh, Pryke! A heavenly spot! Ever been there?”
Ann asked abruptly.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 11$
He shook his head.
"We'll go," she announced, and swung the car round
sharply. And they never reached Salthithe that after-
noon.
Pryke is just a cluster of cottages set in a purple com-
mon. The road to it meanders on through the heather
till it ends in a track that runs down to the edge of a tidal
river. A great tan-sailed barge drifted by as they came
to the place, and gulls were hovering round it, tumbling
splashes of purest white in a sapphire sky.
"Don't you think this is topping?" Ann drawled
proudly. Then, almost in the same breath: "Damn!
Now we've done it. And there's no spare wheel." For
the off back tyre chose that moment to burst with a
report that sent a cloud of gulls scurrying up from the
flats, wheeling excitedly as they rose.
But Culver only laughed. He could conceive no pleas-
anter place in which to be marooned with such a com-
panion on so perfect an afternoon.
"Cheer up, Ann," he said. "I think it's very thought-
ful of the thing to wait till now. We'll job a barge and
sail home if needs be. Let's go and look at the water."
m
They idled two lazy hours away on a strip of sand
that runs down from the heather and bracken of the
commons to the edge of the tide, and Culver, at any rate,
noted regretfully the return of the lad they had sent on a
bicycle into Oldford to fetch a new tyre.
They had tea in the garden of an odd, little, red-
bricked cottage—a real farm-house tea, with jam, and
lettuces and radishes pulled fresh from the earth—and
■


Il6 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
watched the placid tide ebbing slowly and the wild fowl
flitting lightly from flat to flat as it uncovered.
Ann had puzzled Culver during the afternoon. She
was a contradiction. She would speak of work and the
fun of work in a dreamy, serious way, then, in a flash,
change to some slow, mocking comment: "But I bet I
wouldn't find it quite so funny if I had to do it," she
said once.
She spoke little of her home, save to admit: "Father's
Theo Gray. We're ships you know," and to break into
a bitter, little outburst about the dreariness of her pa-
rent's life.
Ann struck him as an extraordinary mixture. There
was a strong streak of that same love of work in her
which had made her father's fortune, but at the same time
there was a craving for novelty and excitement, a pas-
sion for speed and new experience with no thought or
care of possible consequences.
Her confidences invited his, and he told her of his luck
that had made him independent for the time being.
"You'll go straight to the devil, I can see that," she
said, not all in raillery, he thought. "Money's going to
spoil you; you're lazy. You'd better go and shift that
tyre and do a real job of work for once."
While he sweated with the wheel, she sat by the road-
side gibing at him, vowing she could do it infinitely quicker
herself. Which was true, for Dick Culver was not hur-
rying.
"And so you thought you'd go travelling for a bit,"
she said in her inconsequent, irrelevant way. "And be a
nice, idle lounge lizard. Aren't you sorry you didn't?"
"Not a bit," he said cheerfully, rubbing his greasy
hands on the springy turf.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. II7
"Why didn't you?" she asked with challenge. "What
on earth made you come back here? I don't believe that
story of the Congo person."
He hesitated for a moment. Her question ruffled his
complete contentment; it brought back disturbing
thoughts. And as much to dispel those thoughts as for
any other reason, he took up her challenge.
"Because you suggested I should," he said blandly.
"You are rotten as a liar," she answered quickly, but he
thought she was not altogether displeased.
They drove home slowly, for Ann vowed the tyre
wasn't safe, and that she daren't let the car out.
When he left her at the hotel he reminded her:
"I've still got that promise of yours to come to Sal-
thithe. We haven't been there yet."
"Some time, if you're good," she laughed. "You're
improving. I'll give you quite a good character to Bill
to-night; she's having dinner with me. Bye-bye, Richard."
Culver was thoughtful as he wandered back to the Blue
Boar. This obsession of Ann for Mrs. Coke worried him.
There was something wrong about it. Bill Coke, the
mysterious, the secretive, the woman with some very dark
chapters in her past, was not a desirable companion for
a headstrong girl like Ann. Yet what business was it of
his?
Franklin Parry's even voice broke in upon his musing.
Parry was lounging in the doorway of the hotel, smoking
his inevitable calabash. He had changed already, and
he grinned knowingly at Culver as he greeted him.
"So you've had a pleasant afternoon, I reckon," he said.
"What? Yes. Yes. You saw me come by, I suppose."
Culver was curiously embarrassed.
"And saw you go, old man. I fetched up here just
after you'd left."


118 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Well, what happened to you?" Culver asked, anxious
to turn the conversation.
"I just walked myself fit again and got lost. I really
mustn't do it, Culver, at my age." He smiled reminis-
cently. "But it was a damned good dinner, wasn't it?
What about a spot before you go up and shift?"


CHAPTER XI
i
Franklin Parry was getting, just a little, on Dick Cul-
ver's nerves. He seemed futile in a way. He had no
suggestions to offer about Mrs. Coke; indeed, whenever
her name was mentioned, he appeared deliberately to dis-
miss it with some fatuous remark like: "Don't rush it,
old man. Wait a bit."
Culver felt, too, that he hampered him. He would
like to have tried to see Ann again the next morning,
but Parry wanted to play golf.
The tentative luncheon engagement with the Rev.
Clement Foster was cancelled. The parson had written
a courteous, old-fashioned note of apology saying that,
although he was better, he was not yet fit to play the
host in a worthy manner. Culver was sorry for the old
man and inclined to be resentful of Parry's undisguised
relief at the postponement of the lunch. A strain of
stubbornness in him made him suggest that it would be
a polite action to walk out to Bidefy that afternoon and
make a formal inquiry after the parson's condition.
Not that he cared very much; it was more a gesture of
protest against Franklin Parry's attitude and a means of
escape from another round of golf.
Parry agreed, in his impassive way.
"Not a bad idea," he said without argument. 'Then
I can say I've seen his church."
That fretted Culver more, and he wished he had never
made the suggestion. But there was no way out of it.
It was a dreary walk. For half a mile on end the two
men would not exchange a word. Culver's ill-temper
smouldered resentfully. He knew it was unjustified, and
that made him the more sullen and fretful. From side-
119


120 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
long glances at Parry, it appeared that he was quite un-
conscious of his companion's mood. His face betrayed no
feeling as he puffed mechanically at his pipe. Culver
hated that pipe, it looked so much like its owner, he
thought irritably; long and expressionless and sallow. He
wanted to snatch the pipe from that straight mouth and
scream, "For heaven's sake, say something, man," though
he knew that whatever Parry might say would only ex-
asperate more.
To make matters worse, Culver missed the way, though
torture would not have made him admit it. The church
was in sight, in its clump of trees, and he struck delib-
erately cross-country for it.
"Rough going," he growled. "Hope you don't mind."
"Not a bit," Parry answered serenely without checking
his stride. "Good country this; I like it."
Culver swore to himself. The sky had clouded, and it
was sticky and moist. The midges were troublesome, too;
they buzzed in a swarm about Culver's perspiring face,
neglecting Parry entirely.
They tramped on in taciturn gloom.
But Dick Culver was feeling ashamed of himself, and
he made an effort, just before they reached the rectory.
He tried to speak in a more natural manner.
"I don't know how we get in from this side," he said,
breaking the silence. "I fetched up the other way last
time."
"I expect there's a gate," Parry announced with as-
surance.
Culver continued:
"Look here, Parry, Pm afraid Pve been rotten com-
pany. I've rather got the hump to-day; Pm sorry," he
blurted out.
Parry looked round in surprise.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 121
"Hump, old man? I hadn't noticed it. That's all
right," he said. "I'm no chatterbox myself."
II
They had reached the garden wall, of old lichen-grown
bricks, that rose straight from the heath itself. A wooden
gate opened when they tried it, and they found them-
selves on the lawn.
"Front door's on the other side," Culver said. "We'd
better go round. The old bird mayn't like us taking lib-
erties."
"Right you are." Parry maintained his imperturbable
calm.
Culver was a little uneasy about this unconventional
method of approach, and he rather hurried as they made
for the corner of the house, feeling a trespasser and
hoping the parson wouldn't discover him.
He turned the corner swiftly, and came upon an open
French window. From the room came a sound of con-
versation, and there was no going back now. He gave
a nervous cough, to announce his presence, and walked
on. But his eyes turned instinctively to the room.
The Rev. Clement Foster was seated at a table in the
window examining something through a watchmaker's
magnifying glass, fixed in his eye. Culver had a glimpse
of a miniature in a jewelled frame.
Standing immediately behind the parson was Mrs.
Coke, and he saw the alarm that spread over her face
as she caught sight of him. Then the old man looked
up, startled, the glass dropping from his eye; and there
came a savage growl from the room and a sharp cry from
Mrs. Coke as a wild-eyed Alsatian sprang forward,
straight at Culver.


122 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
The beast sprang short, and a stupendous clatter fol-
lowed.
In that detached moment, which comes in times of
crisis, before the brain has time to register any emotion
of fear, Culver saw exactly what had happened.
The Alsatian's chain lead had attached itself to a chair;
that chair came forward under the impetus of the spring,
fouled the table from which the parson was rising in
alarm, brought it down with a crash, and pulled the
snarling dog up short.
Mrs. Coke's voice cried harshly:
"Dirk! Dirk! Come here, you devil."
Parry had jumped forward and had twisted the crook
of his stout ash stick deftly through the dog's collar,
holding him at bay. The parson was stooping as though
more concerned in the fall of the table than in anything
else.
Culver took in the whole scene with its vivid unreality.
His attention fixed dumbly on the miniature the old man
had been examining. It had flung forward a little, and
was lying face upward not a yard from him.
Parry was the first to speak.
"It's all right. I can hold him if you can untangle
the chain," he said, with no trace of excitement.
Mrs. Coke came towards him, pale, and with a stupid
smile on her face.
"Let me take him," she said. She passed in front of
Culver and deliberately kicked the fallen picture into the
room, then, quite fearlessly, seized the collar of the
frightened, menacing dog, and hit it as hard as she could.
It yelped, and she struck it again.
Culver bent down to do what Parry had asked Mrs.
Coke to do—clear the lead. It had been purposely looped
around the chair leg, he found, but he got it free.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 123
Parry took it from him.
"Better tie him up somewhere till he settles down,"
he suggested.
The old parson spoke for the first time.
"There is a wood shed by the kitchen door; perhaps
if you would help Mrs. Coke "he said vaguely, with
a helpless gesture of his outspread hands.
Culver went ahead to open the door, and Mrs. Coke
and Parry followed with the growling dog.
Mrs. Coke was talking more easily now.
"I am so sorry, so dreadfully sorry," Culver heard her
saying. "I've never known Dirk do this before. He was
frightened. I do hope he didn't touch you, Mr. Culver."
Parry sounded quite cheerful as he broke in before
Culver could reply:
"The furniture suffered, I think, that's all."
Culver was worried, but he tried to make light of the
incident.
"I did call him a man-eater, didn't I, Mrs. Coke?"
he said.
The resisting hound was pushed into the shed.
"You will see that the door is safe, won't you?" Mrs.
Coke pleaded. "Poor Mr. Foster, whatever will he think
of me! And that lovely vase." The strain being over,
she seemed suddenly to have lost her nerve, and she
hurried ahead of them back to the house.
Parry assured himself that the dog was safe.
"Is this the mysterious lady?" he asked in an un-
dertone.
Culver nodded.
"Rather a stormy introduction," Parry went on, "and
not very good for a man with a heart."
"By Jove! no," Culver agreed. "I say, I hope the old
boy's all right."


J 24 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
They went back to the room. The table had been put
to rights again, and Mrs. Coke was on her knees gather-
ing up fragments of broken china. She was apologising
with nervous volubility. In fact, Culver imagined she
was on the verge of tears.
"How can I forgive myself?" she repeated. "Really,
Mr. Foster, I do assure you that in all the months I've
had Dirk he's never behaved like this."
Culver recalled Elsa Mayer's statement that Dirk was
Bill's latest pet, and that, too, perplexed him.
Clement Foster was trying to make light of it all.
"My dear lady, please don't think any more about it.
So long as nobody was hurt, what does it matter? Ah,
now do come and help me," he went on, as Culver and
Parry arrived. "Poor Mrs. Coke is making a dreadful
fuss about nothing. A broken vase—that's all—and a
few scratches to Mr. Britain's furniture which your clever
hands, Mrs. Coke, I know will soon put right. What do
you think, Mr. Parry, you have a. wide experience of the
world?" He beamed genially.
Parry pushed his huge pipe into his pocket and be-
trayed an unsuspected faculty for glib tact.
"If the blame's on anyone, it's on my friend Culver,"
he said with a slow smile. "You see he led me astray
coming here, and we came in at the back door. Any in-
telligent dog would resent a couple of tramps sneaking
in at the back door. I'd make Dick pay the damage
if I were you, Mr. Foster."
The parson chuckled.
"There you are, Mrs. Coke—what have you to say to
that? You must mulct Mr. Culver. Beguile him into
your charming gallery and make him buy something
really nice."
But Mrs. Coke would not be placated. She gazed


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 125
ruefully at a heap of broken blue and white pottery
that had once been a Lowestoft vase.
"That beast of a dog," she murmured, as if to herself.
She tossed the pieces with disgust into a waste-paper
basket. "I'll take the brute home now, before it does
any more harm. I'm sorry, Mr. Foster. I'll replace the
vase, of course, as soon as I can find you another as good."
in
Parry went with her to release the dog.
"I'm used to savages—man and beast," he explained
cynically, and despite Mrs. Coke's protests, he insisted.
Culver stayed talking to the parson. He felt awkward,
and conversation came with difficulty. The old man,
once Mrs. Coke had gone, sank on to a sofa and put his
hand to his heart.
"Not too good for my old heart," he said, with a wry
smile. "A very trying incident, Mr. Culver. Why will
women keep these ferocious pets?"
He went on to speak of Mrs. Coke's call.
"A little mercenary, that lady, I fear," he said, and
Culver was surprised at the querulous tone. It was un-
like the old man. 'The love of money—I'm afraid that
—has wrought this evil."
He was panting, and showing obvious signs of distress.
Culver asked anxiously:
"Is there anything I can do for you? Don't you think
we ought to get the doctor to have a look at you?"
"No, no, my boy. I shall be all right in a few min-
utes." The parson smiled gratefully. "Just a little
shock, you know. But I have to be careful."
Culver explained the object of their visit.


126 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"We were taking a tramp," he said, "and we thought
we'd look in just to inquire how you were."
"A very kindly thought indeed," the old man beamed.
"And a very ungracious reception you received." He
went back to the subject of Mrs. Coke. Evidently she
rankled.
"That dear lady, on the other hand, came to try to
sell me some of her wares. She knows my weakness—
I bought those." He indicated a couple of blue-and-white
vases on the chimney-piece. "But I don't think it's quite
playing the game to track a poor man to his own drawing-
room with your goods. It puts him rather at a disad-
vantage." He smiled sourly. "She might have waited.
But I suppose it's good business."
Parry came lounging back enigmatic as ever.
"I've seen the lady on to her bicycle, and advised her
to shoot the wolf," he said laconically.
Clement Foster looked up with a twinkle.
"It's no good shooting the wolf after the vase is broken,"
he commented dryly. "But now, you dear, good fellows,
do let me offer you a little something to take after your
excitement. Indeed, you have earned it. Mr. Culver,
open the door and raise your voice and call Ellis. He
will minister to our needs."
rv
They did not stay long. The parson was clearly ill,
though he pressed them not to hurry.
Franklin Parry made the move to go, and Culver wel-
comed it. There was a most disturbing doubt in his mind
that made it difficult for him to appear at ease.
Parry said quietly, as he finished his whisky and soda:
"Mr. Foster, you'll be much better without company,


128 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK.
"That's a matter of degree," Parry answered, without
expression. "Most dealers are."
"I know. But this is a serious matter, damned serious.
Old Foster was looking at a miniature when we came
to that window. She was trying to sell it to him, without
doubt. And I saw it, Parry. I saw it when the table
went over. The thing fell almost at my feet. And I'm
positive that it was Thouais' 'Marquise de Granville,'
the thing that was stolen from the Lowenstein collection.
It's been photographed everywhere a gorgeous bit of
work—one of the finest miniatures in the world. And
it was there—jewelled frame and all—I'll swear it. That,
or the finest copy that ever was made, and I know some-
thing about miniatures."
Parry had stopped.
"Steady, old man, steady," he said. "What exactly are
you suggesting—that Mrs. Coke's a thief? That's a pretty
serious thing to say, you know."
"That, or what's worse, the receiver," Culver retorted
savagely. He was nettled by Parry's attitude. Always,
this man tried to sheer him off when he approached the
subject of the mystery of Mrs. Coke.
Parry seemed to sense his annoyance.
"Culver," he said patiently, "you do jump to conclu-
sions. What is this picture?"
None too graciously, Culver told him, remembering
as he did so that it was unlikely that Parry should have
known the details of the sensational burglary, six weeks
before, of Baron Lowenstein's chateau near Ghent. Parry
would have been in the wilds of the Congo then, and he
was not the sort of man to know that the Lowenstein
collection was one of the finest in Europe.
"Well, and what do you think you ought to do about
it?" Parry asked, with his irritating calm.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 129
"I don't know," Culver snapped. "And you're not very
helpful. Certainly I must give the old parson a tip."
Parry frowned through a dense puff of smoke.
"No, old man," he said quietly, "you mustn't do that.
There are reasons."
"What reasons?" Culver demanded truculently.
"What could the old bird do if you did? That's one
thing to consider." Parry looked about him and settled
himself comfortably in a smooth patch of grass. "And
there are others. Sit down. I'm going to talk to you."
Culver obeyed unwillingly.
"Well?" he queried.
"Suppose you told the parson—and he believed you.
He'd have to go to the police."
"Isn't that the obvious thing to do?"
"Perhaps. But not the wisest. If you're wrong, you
make a gorgeous fool of yourself; and if you're right—■
where does it lead?"
"They get the woman, I suppose. That's what the
police are for. Damn it all, Parry! I can't sit still and
do nothing with crime going on under my very eyes."
Parry's slow smile fretted him almost beyond endur-
ance. It made him feel hopelessly inferior, as though the
man were playing with him, confident of his ability to
fool him. Well, he wasn't going to this time. There was
something behind it all—something very curious.
"So you think the bobbies just stroll round to The
Pines, find the picture, shove the lady in jug, and that's
that, do you? I'm an older man than you, Culver, so I
can say things. You do take a damned sight too much for
granted in this world. You're so apt to believe what
you're told."
"Am I?" Culver asked angrily. "This time I'm going
to believe what I saw—no matter what you say."


130 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Parry ignored this outburst.
"And you saw?" he asked, then answered the question.
"You saw Mrs. Coke and the parson with what you be-
lieve to be a stolen picture."
"I'm sure of it. That woman was scared stiff. And
another thing; in the scrap she came deliberately outside
and kicked the miniature away so that I couldn't see it.
What have you got to say to that?"
"That it was almost as silly as trying to sell a well-
known picture to a simple parson. Think, man. If
there was anything crooked about it the thing would
be traced at once. No reason why the old bird shouldn't
say where he bought it, is there?"
Culver was silenced for the moment. The fact was
so obvious now that it was pointed out to him. What
a fool he was—and Franklin Parry was just laughing at
him.
"Then what the devil was he doing with it?" he asked
blankly.
"Couldn't very well have been stolen, could it?" Parry
answered blandly.
"And yet I could swear there was something wrong."
Culver's brow was furrowed. A new, almost unbelievable
idea had suddenly come to him.
"I say, Parry," he began slowly. "Old Foster was
looking at it through a glass. And he never said a word
about it. God! man. He couldn't be in it, too, could he?"
Parry shrugged his shoulders.
"Is it likely?" he asked incredulously.
But Culver hardly heard him. This new, impossible
idea was rapidly becoming possible in his mind.
"I believe he is," he went on earnestly. "When you
come to think of it, he was supposed to be ill. Nothing


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 131
ill about him when he jumped from that table. And
Mrs. Coke lied, too, about the dog. It's a horrible idea—
but I'm right. I tell you I am"
"Don't get excited," Parry broke in calmly, though he
was eyeing Culver with a new interest. "You're only
guessing."
"Guessing be damned," Culver said rudely. "You got
any interest in these people, Parry?"
He was sorry the moment after he had uttered the
words, but Parry's complete lack of emotion was mad-
dening.
Franklin Parry seemed to be debating the question.
Culver looked at him, half in shame, half in wonder at
not receiving an immediate denial. Then Parry gave a
queer smile.
"As a matter of fact, I have," he said quietly. "They've
been a hobby of mine for some months past. Your pal
Peter particularly. Did you know he was in Oldford
yesterday?"
Culver's face was a study in passing expression. Re-
sentment, suspicion, curiosity, showed in his wide-open,
grey eyes.
"Look here, what the devil are you talking about?"
he asked, in a level voice. "Have you been fooling me?"
"Yes. All the time."
"And lying to me, too?"
"As well as I know how."
Culver flushed. In face* of this frank confession, it
was so hard to go on. He felt trapped, as though at any
moment he might find himself up against some prepos-
terous, utterly unanticipated menace prepared by Parry.
"Well, out with it," he said resentfully. "What's your
game?"


132 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Parry leaned forward, and one of his rare flashes of
feeling came into his face.
"Old man, first of all I'll thank you for having done
me a hell of a good turn, then I'll apologise for having to
do what I've done. No need to worry about going to
the police; in a way, I am the police."
"What? You're not a detective?"
"That's the answer."
"But where do I come in?" Dick Culver was utterly
bewildered. Odd little details were flashing back into
his mind, queer incongruities that seemed to bear out,
conclusively, Parry's statement.
"You don't if you want to go out. But if you'd rather
stay in, well—you could be very helpful."
Dick Culver would not answer for some moments; he
was swallowing a very bitter pill. It was not easy to turn
to a man who had deceived him as completely as Parry
had done, and admit the perfect fool he had made of
himself.
He stared vacantly across the hazy, purple common.
He was stringing facts and details together with the
facility of a mind trained in journalism. And he was
very fair with himself. He had taken too much for
granted; Parry was right. He had behaved throughout
the whole affair like a callow youth doped by sentiment.
And he had thought himself so clever.
An involuntary, sidelong glance at his companion
showed that strange man of mystery impassive as ever,
pulling away at his pipe like an automaton. Culver
thought of Jean. What was his place, now, in this ab-
struse puzzle? Of Elsa, and the Rue Jan Hoeck, and
Peter—Parry had said he was in Oldford yesterday;
what the deuce did he mean by that?
Then his mind fixed on Ann Gray, that queer, sen-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 133
sation-seeking girl, and for a time he forgot his own
chagrin. Ann couldn't be mixed up with these people
seriously—mixed up with criminals. It was a beastly
thought, an unwelcome one. What did this apathetic,
inscrutable man Parry know—or suspect—about Ann?
Once more he glanced swiftly at Parry. He looked
like an image carved in brown stone. How the devil
could you tell what a man like that was thinking? Or
what he knew? He was eerie, inhuman.
But the image moved at that moment, as though it
were thoroughly aware of the swift, furtive inspection.
The bleached eyes, from which it seemed that years of
sun had taken all the colour, half-closed in a most en-
gaging smile.
"Feeling a bit sore, aren't you?" Parry said, with
uncanny understanding. "I don't blame you. Honestly,
I've hated it as much as you. But it had to be. Mine's
a rotten job sometimes. I'd pull out, if I were you. No
good looking for trouble. You're on a romantic wild
goose chase if you'd only recognise it. That fellow
Jean—he was only one of the gang. There's no romance
about him—just sordid crime, that's all."
But Culver wasn't thinking of Jean of the Natation
then. Ann still filled his mind. And he was afraid of
Parry.
He looked up suddenly. "I don't want to be offensive,"
he said, "but a man when he's been made a fool of isn't
at his best. How am I to know that you are not still
fooling me? Suppose I don't—and do go to the police."
Parry knocked his pipe out on his heel, and ground
the embers into the dry earth.
"You won't, old man," he said, with a shake of the
head. "I'm too good a judge of men. Listen."


134 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
V
Lolling back on the soft grass, Franklin Parry told a
story that enthralled and convinced Culver. He told it
with humour and a real appreciation of drama. He made
his points crisply, and he dropped much of his lacka-
daisical manner as he spoke.
He was one of Pringle's men, he said. Pringle's is the
famous Chicago private detective agency whose men rival
the best police detectives in the world.
Culver knew of their reputation. The firm prides
itself upon never dropping a case. Patiently, relentlessly,
they harry their prey for years. No criminal ever feels
safe with Pringle's after him; they are not like the police,
who abandon a crime after a time and are glad to have
a failure forgotten. Pringle's reduced burglaries in jew-
ellers' shops by eighty per cent, in three years after the
retail jewellers' association employed them.
And Parry, although he would not say who his prin-
cipal was, admitted he was engaged in an art robbery
case, like the Lowenstein affair.
"There's a gang at this work as clever as sin," he said,
"and, Culver, you've led me to them, I believe. Some
of the stuff I'm after turned up in Antwerp. That's why
I was there. I got on to Peter there. He calls himself
Captain Mingay at other times."
He waited to see the effect of his words, and smiled
as Culver gasped:
"Good Lord! The fellow was in the Palace Hotel
yesterday. I "He stopped abruptly. "Why—why
didn't you nab him?" he asked haltingly, for he recalled
that Ann had been talking to this very man.
Parry seemed to enjoy the joke.
"You've got to have the definite proof before you 'nab'


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 135
people, as you call it," he laughed. "That's why we've
got to let Mrs. Coke and Foster have a bit more rope.
Do you know, Culver, I thought you were in it the first
time you went to the Rue Jari Hoeck. Oh, I saw you,
old man; I beat you back to the hotel by about ninety
seconds when the rain began. I knew the nearest way
and you didn't."
"Well, I'm damned!" Culver exclaimed blankly.
"You weren't the only one who was fooled," Parry
grinned. He went on to explain how he had been fol-
lowing Culver when he was attacked in the darkness.
"Even then," he said, "I had my suspicions. You were
too easily persuaded not to confide in the police. But
when you took me back to the shop next day and the
birds had gone—I had to acquit you. And when you
put me on to Marie Schmidt and made a link with dear
Mrs. Coke—Gad! you did me a good turn." Parry
smiled his gratitude.
Culver shot eager questions at him. Then with more
seriousness he asked:
"You talk of a gang. Who's in this gang?"
"That's what I want to know."
"But do you mean Mrs. Coke, and Elsa, and Mingay,
and the parson, and—and Ann Gray, and "He
6topped.
"Probably," Parry nodded grimly. "All of them I
imagine, and perhaps more. And I want the lot, and
I'm going to get them." He spoke with a fierce confi-
dence.
"But when?" Culver demanded uneasily.
Parry jerked his head in the direction of Bidely Church.
"Before that old bird's tenancy of the Rectory is up,"
he said. "That's the best good turn you've done me,
leading me to him. He's not down here for his health.


I36 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
They're up to something in this neighbourhood, and that's
when I'm going to get 'em—with the goods on 'em."
Culver looked at his companion in a startled way. The
wooden expression of indifference had gone. Parry looked
alert, watchful, and without pity.
From the trees by the church, there came the faint
sound of a motor running. Parry's head swung round to
listen.
"Car, eh?" he said, with a smile that betrayed keen
anticipation. "Suppose we roll ourselves behind that
clump of furze, and see who goes by." He shifted posi-
tion like a trained scout, head and shoulders kept low,
the whole body moving easily and unobtrusively. Culver
felt clumsy as he scuttled awkwardly to cover.
Then the car slid by, the bucolic Ellis at the wheel,
and huddled on the back seat, the retiring figure of the
Rev. Clement Foster.
"That settles it," Parry murmured. "That's our sick
man. I'd give a bit to know where he's off to."


CHAPTER XII
i
Parry went up to London that night. He announced
his decision when he reached the hotel, and he had less
than half an hour to pack his bag and catch the train.
He left Culver with only the vaguest of explanations,
and a rather bewildering one at that.
"This means a change of plan," he stated, without
any preliminary discussion. "I'll communicate, old man.
If you can let the fair Bill know I've gone for a relation's
funeral, so much the better. You'll see the relation in
to-day's Times—Colonel Franklin, of Southsea; he's my
uncle. Hearty old warrior, eighty-six. Read the obit-
uary, that'll give you the tip."
And Dick Culver, thinking over the incredible events
of the day, after a lonely dinner, found this sudden de-
parture as hard to explain as any.
He read the obituary. Colonel George Franklin, C.B.,
certainly was a fine old warrior. He had served in pretty
nearly every campaign from the Zulu War to the South
African, but that he was Parry's uncle Culver found it
difficult to believe.
Parry was inexplicable. The man was like a sphinx;
he knew so much and said so little. Though he had
spoken of the help that Culver might be to him, he had
indicated no particular line of action. "Keep pally with
Bill Coke and don't go near the parson" was all he had
said in reply to Culver's question as to what he wanted
him to do. And now he had flitted.
Culver spent some of the most restless days of his
life killing time in Oldford, with only a post card from
Parry with a scribbled "Can't get back for a day or two"
under a picture of the Victory's Anchor on Southsea
137


I38 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
front, to persuade him that Parry had not deserted him
permanently. And the card was posted in Southsea;
that surprised him more than anything.
He had tried to sort out things in his mind, and re-
duced himself to a state of suspicious bewilderment. That
Mrs. Coke was a crook he had little doubt; but this gang
that Parry had spoken of sounded a little melodramatic.
His suggestion that "the gang"—Culver could not help
thinking of it in quotation marks—was up to some definite
crime in the neighbourhood savoured more of an Ameri-
can film than of real life. One read of these things in
cheap novels usually, these organised communities who
dealt in stolen art treasures. One did not come across
them actually. And yet he had. He was certain about
the miniature, but now by no means so certain of the
parson.
Parsons didn't do these things; the very idea was loath-
some; nor, for that matter, did women so well known and.
reputable as Mrs. Wilfred Coke. And yet indubitably
they did. Bill Coke's intimate friend was Marie Schmidt,
and Mingay, the man he had known as Peter, a rough
loafer in an Antwerp slum, was a visitor at The Pines,
was known to Ann Gray; a man, Culver had little doubt,
who had tried to kill him.
The thing was a nightmare, a travesty of probability,
yet only too probable.
What Parry had said of Jean was only too probable.
This man was one of "the gang." Yet that only made
his identity the more elusive.
An English gentleman and a criminal, who had died
with the words of the Penitent Thief on the Cross upon
his lips. There was a poignant tragedy there, and a secret,
a secret Dick Culver was more than glad he had not
revealed. Jean had passed beyond the reach of human


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 139
justice, repentant in the end. Poor devil! It was a pretty
horrible thing to think of a decent man sinking as low
as that.
But Ann Gray? Where did she come in? She was
decent, and charming, and young; and Parry had as good
as said he believed her to be mixed up in this detestable
affair. What in heaven's name had come over the world?
Instinctively Dick Culver kept out of Oldford. He
shrank from a meeting with Mrs. Coke, almost more so
from seeing Ann. His faith in human nature was shaken;
he felt unclean. There were moments when he debated,
seriously, clearing out altogether—sending a letter to
Parry's bank to say he had taken his advice and had
decided to drop the whole matter.
He spent his time in exploring the neighbourhood,
leaving the Blue Boar immediately after breakfast and
returning late to dinner. He wandered for miles about
the country, finding a certain restfulness about the lone-
lier parts of the coast, or tramping the deserted commons,
with their rare glimpses of the distant sea from the higher
ground.
Once he found himself on the breezy, bracken-covered
waste of Hithe Heath, gazing across the dancing water
of Walm Harbour to the grim Norman tower of Salthithe
Castle, looking immensely old and grey in contrast with
the cluster of mellow, red brick houses round about it.
He wondered if ever, now, he would go there with Ann,
as she had promised.
That was on the third day after Parry's departure,
and he reached the hotel late and weary, to find a note
from Mrs. Coke waiting for him.
She bade him and Parry come in that evening after
dinner. "Some of the children are going to dance," she
said, and added: "I do hope you have both forgiven me


140 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
for Dirk's behaviour. If you don't come I shall think
you haven't."
The note was so conventional and simple that it almost
angered Culver. It annoyed him that Mrs. Coke should
think that she could deceive him so easily, and his instinct
was to refuse.
But Parry had asked him to "keep pally" with the
woman, so he supposed he must go. Reluctantly he
changed, and more reluctantly made his way to The
Pines soon after nine o'clock.
11
"The children" consisted of about a dozen of the young
people Culver had seen about Oldford; many of them
Ann's companions. But there were others.
They were dancing in the big studio, with the old furni-
ture crammed up into even a smaller space at one end.
A gramophone was throbbing out a popular two-step
when he entered, and near to it, fixed on the great Flemish
dower chest, a loud speaker stood in readiness for action
as soon as dance music should be broadcast.
Mrs. Coke was dancing with an elderly, soldier-like
man with close-clipped grizzled moustache, but she broke
off as soon as she caught sight of Culver, and came
towards him, bringing her partner with her.
"So you have forgiven me," she began, with a smile
of welcome. "But where's the Congo man? Does he
still bear malice? Sir James wanted to meet him; he
knows those dreadful countries." She turned to her
companion. "This is Mr. Culver, whom Dirk tried to
kill. Mr. Culver, Sir James Ellenglaze."
Culver bowed, and looked up sharply at Sir James.
He knew his name well; General Ellenglaze was a dis-


142 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
ing about the prospective harvest yield filled the room.
Someone had turned on the loud speaker, and a great
roar of laughter went up at a sepulchral announcement
about quarters to the acre.
Mrs. Coke said, "Those idiotic children!" and called
out: "Do stop it, someone." But the voice droned on,
and she ran from them, calling over her shoulder: "Sir
James, you know where the drinks are; take Mr. Culver
to them. I must stop this awful noise."
Ellenglaze murmured: "Damned fine hostess, Maude.
Come on, Culver, let's obey orders. I can do with a peg.
And so your friend Parry is a relative of old George
Franklin. I'd like to meet him when he comes back. I'd
have gone to the funeral myself, but it's such a deuce of a
journey. I wonder if I ever met Parry; I've met lots of
George's kith and kin."
Culver was on tenterhooks. Here was a dilemma that
was going to lead to disaster if he were not careful. He
answered vaguely:
"This chap's been abroad a lot. But he'll be back in a
day or two. Do you know the Congo, General?"
Sir James was side-tracked for a moment with a remi-
niscence of the Ashanti scrap in the nineties, and they
came to the dining-room, where drinks and sandwiches
were laid out on the mahogany table.
Mrs. Coke's sedate old servant, Ada, assisted by a
gauche country girl, was presiding over the table. The
General edged his way through the little crowd, exclaim-
ing, "Ah, there's Beatrice!" and piloted Culver to the far
side of the room, where a rather old-fashioned smart
woman was talking to a genial parson.
"Beatrice," he said, breaking in upon their talk, "this
is Mr. Culver, whose pal Parry is a relative of poor old
George Franklin's. Culver, my wife."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 143
Culver's heart sank.
Lady Ellenglaze smiled upon him. She was evidently
bored with the parsonical tete-a-tete.
"How very curious!" she said. Then, to his relief:
"So you are the man Maude's brute of a dog went for."
She spoke crisply, with a dominating, self-confident man-
ner. "Dear Maude! I'm very fond of her, but she lacks
sense. I've always told her so."
Culver made some commonplace reply. He was puz-
zled to think why Mrs. Coke had broadcast this story
of Bidely Rectory so freely; certainly she made no secret
of it.
The General said, "You'll have a whisky-and-soda,"
as if it were a parade order, and went off to get it; and
the parson spoke up apologetically: "Poor Mr. Foster!
I was over at Bidely this morning, and found him very
poorly—very poorly."
His voice seemed to recall his existence to Lady Ellen-
glaze's mind.
"Do you know Mr. Frazer?" she asked Culver, with
something of the same imperious manner of her husband.
"I think not," Culver said.
"Mr. Frazer is rector of Flackston," she stated by way
of introduction, then ignored the unfortunate rector again
and reopened the dangerous topic.
"Now, which of George Franklin's people is your
friend?" she demanded.
Culver floundered.
"Parry—Franklin Parry, a—a nephew," he answered.
"Oh! On Millicent's side of the family." Her inquisi-
tive eyes half closed in thought. "That's Frank, I re-
member him," she went on brusquely. "He was a black
sheep. I hope he's reformed."
Culver found himself laughing, with what sounded to


144 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
him obvious insincerity. He would have to see this thing
through more for his own sake than for Parry's. And
he would have to take chances.
"I think so, Lady Ellenglaze," he said. "He's knocked
about a lot abroad, you know. He's quite tame now,
quite mellowed."
"As I remember, there was room for reform," she re-
plied tartly. "Still I'd like to see him. Bring him over,
Mr. Culver. Come to lunch one day. I'll ask Maude,
too."
She seemed to judge, from his uncomprehending expres-
sion, Culver's confusion.
"But perhaps you don't know. We've got a place near
here—at Rangrave, near Eckenham. You must let me
know when Frank gets back."
Groping for any means of diverting this unwelcome
conversation, Culver said:
"How kind of you. I will, of course. Won't you
dance?"
She accepted at once. For all her years Lady Ellen-
glaze had evidently no intention, yet, of surrendering to
age.
Culver went back to the safer topic of Mrs. Coke.
"You knew her husband, I expect," he queried.
Lady Ellenglaze nodded. Obviously she thought little
of the deceased Wilfred. She suggested the tragedy of
his end with a swift lift of her eyebrows and a sour, "Such
a pity," then went on to eulogise Maude.
She danced really welL in the more tutored manner of
a past generation, and as they went round and round the
floor, Culver judged that Beatrice Ellenglaze had known
Mrs. Coke for many years.
"Quite the most amusing dear I know," she described
her, adding, "And don't you think it superbly plucky of


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 145
her to take up this business?" in a tone that dared him
to disagree.
As Dick Culver murmured, "Amazingly plucky,
Lady Ellenglaze," he thought of the satanic humour of
the situation; of this censorious, domineering woman's
astonishment if she knew exactly what Bill's business
was: of the possibility of that stolen miniature being still
in this house filled with respectable and ultra-conven-
tional friends of a criminal.
That was one of the most incredible features of this
mystery of Mrs. Coke—her friends. Did Elsa and Min-
gay rub shoulders with these people at times, he asked
himself. Mrs. Coke introduced him to several of the
older people. All of them seemed to accept her as a
charming hostess and welcome acquaintance; some even
on terms of friendship—like Lady Ellenglaze.
There was a wizened little lawyer man and his wife—
Nonnary, a well-known leader at the Chancery Bar; he
called her Bill and spoke of how she had dined at their
flat in Westminster. And the Dennings, some of the big
wigs of Oldford, retired Anglo-Indians; Mrs. Denning
was voluble in singing Mrs. Coke's praises. She was
"such a dear to our girls," she explained. "She gives them
such a good time."
The whole thing beat Culver. He danced and chatted
with apparent carelessness, but all the time one part of
his brain was puzzling this extraordinary situation. It
was too utterly fantastic to see Mrs. Coke moving about
so easily among her guests, always with her calm, confi-
dent, hospitable manner, and yet to have to connect her
with Peter, and Elsa and Jean and all the sordid beastli-
ness of crime.
And to realise that Franklin Parry was waiting to trap
her; that one day, quite soon perhaps, Parry would give


I46 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
the word, and dull-faced policemen would come for Bill
Coke.
This time next year—where would she be? The thought
came to him as he was dancing with her, and he felt for
the second that she must have read his thoughts.
"You're very solemn, all of a sudden," she said, look-
ing up at him quizzically.
He tried to laugh it off.
"Am I?" he answered. "I'm solemn by nature, Mrs.
Coke—and really quite a shy young man."
She said nothing; but he wondered whether it was to
Aylesbury or Holloway that they sent women convicts,
and he felt suddenly terribly sorry for Bill Coke. A great
revulsion of feeling came over him. He vowed to him-
self that he would have nothing to do with Parry's
schemes. Detectives might be necessary in life, but their
job was a beastly one. Let Parry do his own dirty work.
Mrs. Coke looked up at him again, with a trace of dis-
appointment in her keen blue eyes, as the dance finished.
"You're a very silent young man," she said reprovingly.
"I feel quite jealous of those all-absorbing thoughts."
in
Ann Gray had been dancing with the General and, from
the expression on their faces, he had enjoyed it more
than she.
She made an impish grimace at Culver, and came
across the room to where he and Mrs. Coke were standing.
"There, Bill, I've done my duty twice. Pompous old
pet, isn't he?" she said with mocking gravity. "And
how's Richard Culver behaving?"
"Badly," Bill laughed: "The poor dear is distrait.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK I47
Cheer him up, Ann; I think he's feeling his age." She
left them and went again about her duties.
Culver had had very few words with Ann that evening.
She was in enormous demand as a partner, and he tried
to make light of Bill's reproof with a half serious request
for at least one dance, if Ann would take pity on him.
She looked at him in surprise.
"Of course," she said in her slow way. "That's what
I came for. I want to hear about the Congo man. The
bad egg, or Lady Ellenglaze says he is. I love real bad
lads, they're so exciting. Do tell me what you told her."
"But I didn't tell her anything," Culver protested in
confusion. "She said she knew him, that's all."
He was feeling most uncomfortable. If Ann started
pumping him about Parry, with her devastating candour
his story of old acquaintanceship would probably be dis-
covered a fraud in five minutes.
"But you must have told her something," Ann persisted.
"She was full of it—telling Bill just now."
Despair threw Culver back to a defensive policy of
raillery.
"What was she full of?" he demanded in a teasing voice.
"Well, she as good as said that your pal had to skip
the country when he was young."
Culver felt a sudden sense of apprehension; a swift,
uneasy doubt. But he put it out of his mind for the
moment. He must head Ann off this subject somehow.
They had begun dancing again.
"There's not a word of truth in it," he laughed. "Frank
Parry"—he had picked up the name from Lady Ellen-
glaze—"is one of the most pious people I ever knew.
Didn't she tell you he was a missionary?"
"No. You rotting?"
"Never more serious in my life, Ann. He specialises


I48 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
in cannibals. Makes 'em vegetarians first of all, then
goes straight for their black, hearts. A wonder, Frank
Parry. A real revivalist—sort of Congo Salvation
Army"
"Oh, shut up, Richard," Ann drawled. "Why won't
you tell me about him?"
"But I am telling you about him, my child. And like
the black persons, you will not listen to the truth."
"I said you were a rotten liar," she answered. "You
are—toshy."
"All right. Let's try another topic, if you don't like my
pious pal."
She seemed quite willing to drop the subject—too will-
ing, he thought—and she referred to the other common
topic of the evening; the incident at Bidely Rectory.
"It's fuggy here. Let's go into the garden for a bit—
unless you're afraid Dirk will go for you again," she said,
breaking off in the middle of the waltz.
"You've heard that story, too?" he laughed.
Ann nodded.
"Poor Bill, she's taken it terribly to heart. Doesn't
mind about you so much—it's the comic parson. She
thinks she's killed him."
Culver reassured her.
They stood on the broad verandah outside the studio
talking of the affair, Ann inciting him to explain exactly
how it happened.
"As far as I can make out," she said at last, "it was
all your fault, yours and the missionary's. Bill's a fool
to worry."
"She is," he agreed cheerily. "Ann, what a perfect
night!"
It was a perfect night; still and dark, with just a touch
of autumn mist hovering about to tone the cold blue of


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 149
the stars to a warmer tint. Ann leaned forward and filled
her lungs with the clean night air.
"I suppose we are idiots, aren't we, to stay hopping
about indoors? Go and bag me a coat from somewhere,
Richard. We'll go for a walk."
He found his own coat and put it on her, and she led
him across the lawn and down a narrow, pitch-black
path, where straggling twigs from the bordering hedges
brushed their faces, mysterious and unseen, until they
came to the garden wall, and a boathouse by the very
edge of the river.
Ann tried the door.
"Oh, curse Bill!" she said petulantly. "It's locked."
"Can I get the key?" he asked eagerly.
"No. No. Bill would only fuss. Give me a leg up."
She scrambled lightly to the top of the wall, and he
followed. From where they sat, but for a narrow strip
of marsh, the river was at their very feet. It looked
immensely desolate and solitary.
The strident notes of the loud speaker came to them
in odd, fleeting bursts from the house, but from the water
there was an eerie silence broken now and again by the
plaintive cry of some wild bird.
Ann had become quiet, fascinated by the beauty of
the autumn night. Once she put her hand on his arm
and whispered: "Listen!"
A strange, mournful piping came over the flats, from
some redshank flitting about in the marsh.
"Must be rather a jolly life, don't you think?" she
said almost sadly.
"What?" he asked.
"Wild birds. Nothing to worry about. Wouldn't you
like to be able to fly out there now—into the mys-
tery? . . ."


150 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Her mood unsettled him. He laughed self-consciously.
"Not so much fun with an ardent gunner about, blazing
off at you," he said.
"But then it would be all over—quickly. You'd have
had your fun. . . ."
"Ann, what's the matter?" he asked, really surprised.
"You aren't usually so morbid."
"No. Only now and then." His tone seemed to have
broken the spell. "Mysterious, unknown things often
get me like that. It seems so exciting. One wants to
know. And yet it's so dull when you do know. The
sameness—and the safeness. Don't you ever want ex-
citement?"
"You want smacking, my child," he said brusquely.
"You've got more than most young women of your age,
and now you're pining for the vast unknown, and dan-
gers, and excitements—looking for trouble, in fact! I
should think it the dullest life on earth to be a redshank.
Messing about in the mud all day. Buck up, Ann. You'd
better get out of Oldford if this is how it affects you. Try
a change of scene, my dear."
He was acting with intent. He, too, had felt the witch-
ery of the night, but it seemed to him that Ann was speak-
ing in allegory, trying, perhaps, in a hesitant way to
explain something of herself to him. For a moment he
was sorry that he had checked her talk. Perhaps she
wanted his help—or advice—and this was her oblique
method of suggesting it.
She did not answer him, and he went on abruptly, half
apologetically, ready to jump from grave to gay at her
response.
"That is "he stammered, "I mean, Ann, there's
nothing gone wrong, is there?—I mean, you haven't really
got the hump?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK I$I
From her illusive laugh he knew that he had lost his
chance if ever there had been one.
"Not now," she said. "The Reverend Richard has dis-
pelled the gloom with his nice, little, moral preachment.
You ought to be a missionary, too. Come on—let's go
back. I've cut about eight dances."
She went on ahead of him, and but for a cheery wave
of the hand when he left, that was all he saw of Ann Gray
that evening.
IV
Culver caught a fleeting glimpse of Ann the next morn-
ing. She was turning out of the High Street into the
London Road, and missed a lorry coming carelessly down
the hill by something less than a foot.
Ann might have many virtues, he thought, but careful
driving was not one of them. And she didn't seem to
care a row of pins. She called out a cheerful, "Sorry.
My fault," to the scared lorry driver, and went gaily on
up the hill, quite unconcerned. But Bill Coke, who was
by her side, looked hysterical. Culver saw her draw
herself up, braced for a smash. She looked almost hag-
gard at that moment.
Neither Bill, nor Ann, had seen him, and Culver went
on his way wondering, and depressed. He could not
explain this intimacy save in one way, and that way he
would not admit. It was damnable of Parry even to
have hinted that Ann was mixed up with Mrs. Coke's un-
derground life.
But Ann was driving Mrs. Coke to Bidely Rectory at
the moment. She took the last half-mile of winding track
from the main road at a mad speed.
"Ann, you're a devil," Bill said as she got out of the


152 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
car. And there was not much jest in her tone as she
said it.
Ann retorted slowly, "What's the matter, Bill? I
haven't crashed you yet," and proceeded to turn the
two-seater while Mrs. Coke went into the house. She
fixed the car to her satisfaction and lit a cigarette.
Though Bill had said she would only be a minute, Ann
was sceptical. Bill's minutes were illusory.
Fully five had passed when the little man came plod-
ding up the road; they had passed him just after they
had turned into the Church Lane, as the winding, un-
fenced track was known locally. He had jumped like a
hare at the sound of Ann's horn; it was largely that which
had made her finish the journey at such breakneck speed.
She watched him with mild interest as he toiled along
the shadeless heath. He looked so moist and hot. He
waved a cheap-looking, soft felt hat in a futile attempt
to discourage a cloud of flies that buzzed about his per-
spiring head—a ludicrous head, largely bald, but with one
pathetic, Napoleonic lock of straggling fair hair which
had fallen untidily almost over his eyes.
He looked as if he hated his clothes—a thick, double-
breasted blue serge coat and a stiff, white collar particu-
larly. The collar had wilted, and the coat was flung
open in a vain attempt to cheat it of some of its heat-
giving properties. He was rather like a superior fisher-
man in his Sunday best, she thought, though the camera
slung round his shoulders indicated tripper.
As she came nearer, Ann saw him goggling at her.
Evidently he disapproved of her cigarette, and that
roused the natural devil in her.
He looked about him vacantly, great beads of sweat
standing out on his pallid face.
"You looking for anything?" Ann called to him lazily.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 153
He replaced his hat and removed it quickly.
"I wanted to 'ave a look at the church, miss," he
answered in rich Cockney.
Ann's expression was grave as an owl's.
"There it is," she said, waving a hand towards little
St. Nicholas. "A perfectly good church. A bit old,
perhaps, but they're mending it."
"Can I get in?" he asked, in a voice that showed that
he was not quite sure if she were serious or not.
"Rather," she answered, smiling for the first time.
She felt sorry for this bewildered, little man. "The
door's open; there are workmen there. Go through the
gate; it's all right."
"Thank you, miss." He hesitated a moment, recog-
nising the entente. And to add his share to it, he said,
with a polite smile: "A very 'ot morning. If I might
suggest, them tyres won't do no good in this sun. It's
my trade, miss."
Ann glanced down quickly. The man was quite right.
"Good lad," she said casually. "Thanks for the tip."
He wandered through the little gate to the church, and
she backed the car into the shade. When she looked up
again he had gone. She was sorry. He would have
amused her till Bill came. Little, Cockney motor-me-
chanics, with a taste for old churches, were unusual.
Bill's minute ran into ten. When she did appear she
looked fretful.
"Is it all right?" Ann asked cheerfully.
Mrs. Coke shrugged her shoulders with indifference.
"Look here, Ann," she said, "for God's sake drive back
decently. I'm all on edge this morning."
Ann drove as far as the main road at snail's pace, and
the pallid, perspiring little man passed clean out of her
mind.


154 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
V
But he was an earnest little man, though possessed of
the great gift of Cockney humour.
Even before he heard the sound of Ann's engine run-
ning, he was on good terms with the four workmen en-
gaged on the chancel roof. They thought him funny
from the moment he entered, treading almost on tiptoe,
and calling up to them in an awed whisper:
"Don't mind my 'aving a look round, mates, do you?"
They called him "sir," instinctively, at first, but when
St. Nicholas' clear, treble bell struck noon, and Amos
Gill, the foreman, came down the ladder preparatory to
knocking off for the dinner-hour, the little man ap-
proached him with friendly deference and a fund of
inquiry about the antiquities of the church.
"Very old place, ain't it, mate?" he queried. "'Obby
of mine, churches. I'd like to take some pictures. No
objection, I suppose?"
Amos thought not, and suggested, with bucolic hu-
mour, that the visitor start by taking him and his men
on the ladder.
"Worm 'untin', we are," he said in his pleasant Suffolk
voice. "That 'ere roof 'ave got it terrible bad."
The stranger recalled that a place near Westminster
Abbey had got it, too. "Costing them tharsands of quid
killing the little blighters, so the papers say," he an-
nounced. Then, "All right, mates, 'op up there, I'll take a
picture," he added, swinging the camera from his shoulder.
The four of them dressed the ladder, grinning oafishly.
The stranger chatted on about the church, then re-
membered suddenly that he was keeping these men from
their meal.
"But you chaps want to get off to your dinner," he


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 155
broke off in the midst of a question. "Do I 'ave to go,
or d'yer leave it open?"
"That's all right, old fellow," Amos reassured him. "Us
chaps is only goin' round the corner. Don't you hurry."
The visitor thanked them profusely, and the men filed
out, smiling sheepishly at his funny, outlandish ways. A
simple lot of chaps these Londoners were—afraid like,
when they got into the country.
The little man gave himself up to a careful examina-
tion of the church. He peered here, there, and every-
where, even discovering the tower door and adventuring
up into the lower chamber where the workmen kept some
of their stores.
He took a picture from the tower window, another
from the open door of the nave, showing the rectory, cool
and placid in its setting of trees. Then he fixed the
camera to take a general interior of the church, and gave
it a time exposure. And as he waited by the door, with
a swift glance over his shoulder, he withdrew the great
key, silently, from its lock.
It was back again in a few seconds—the visitor was
obviously used to the task—but in those few seconds he
had taken a squeeze of it; a perfect impression in a lump
of soft wax he produced from his pocket.
A few moments later he performed the same deft oper-
ation with the key to the tower door. Then he picked up
his camera and went in search of the workmen.
He found them in the shade of the chancel, on the
north side, munching their rough fare, handkerchiefs
spread out on the grass before them and a big jug in
their midst.
"Seen all you want, old fellow?" Amos asked, as he
chewed at his bread and cheese.
"Yes, thanks, mate," the stranger answered. "Got


I56 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
some nice pictures, too, I think. If you chaps comes
out all right, I'll send you a print. Where'll I send it?"
All four looked anxious, but Amos Gill spoke up first.
"Gill my name is," he said. "Amos Gill, Station Road,
Eckenham. That'll find me. Will you 'ave one?" He
indicated the jug. "That comes from the old gent what's
taken the rectory. Very kind gentleman, Reverend Fos-
ter. Not like Reverend Britain what belongs here. Tea,
'im, if anything."
The others guffawed appreciatively.
The little man picked up the jug with a nod of gratitude.
"Them parsons!" he said expressively. "'Ere's luck,
mates."
He took a long pull, and wiped his mouth. "And very
nice, too," he commented, with an engaging smile.
"'Arris my name. Len 'Arris, chauffeur to a gentleman
in Kensington."
The younger of the workmen had a sister in service
in Kensington. Mr. Leonard Harris remained for some
time discussing the respective amenities of London and
Eckenham. Not until one mellow note from the church
clock struck, to tell that the dinner-hour had run its
course, did Mr. Harris leave his new-made friends. If
the picture came out all right he'd bring it over hirriself
before his holiday was over, he promised.
Amos Gill and his fellows were well pleased with this
pleasant little interlude, but they still thought these Lon-
don chaps funny.
VI
Sheer boredom drove Dick Culver up to the golf-
course after lunch that day, and a perverse fate threw
Malcolm Nonnary at him the moment he entered the
-club.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 157
Nonnary greeted him with the brisk heartiness with
which he was used to welcome a likely witness in the
box in his junior days, and there was no escape.
Culver played a disgraceful round, and Nonnary, ap-
proaching each shot as though it were a legal argument
to which he would not commit himself without much
thought and precedent, beat him six up and five, and
then insisted upon tea.
Nonnary kept up a placid adulation of Mrs. Coke;
Bill, as he called her, with an air of reckless daring. He
laboured Bill's pluck and Wilfred's worthlessness until
Culver wanted to blaspheme.
This sort of thing made him doubt his sanity. If a
stodgy, pawky, Chancery lawyer admired, so whole-
heartedly, Mrs. Coke, could it be possible, Culver asked
himself, that she were the cunning, crooked, deliberate
criminal that he had the best of reasons to believe her?
Nonnary seemed to resent his tepid acquiescence. To
prevent an outburst, Culver invented a business tele-
phone call to escape from the lawyer's irritating: "Don't
you think so, Culver?"
But a real call came soon after dinner. Culver was
sipping his coffee in moody uncertainty of mind when
the porter came for him.
"Mr. Parry on the telephone, sir," he said, and Culver
felt an immense relief. He hurried to the box in the hall.
"Hallo," he called, more cheerfully than he had spoken
all day. "That you, Parry? Where are you—London?"
Parry's slow, distinctive voice came clearly acioss the
wire.
"Hallo, old man," he said. "Listen. I've got to be
quick. You know Plomesgate?"
"No. Plomesgate?"
"Well, it's about five miles beyond the Oldford bridge.


158 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK
Look on a map. I want you to walk over there to
morrow. Come early—I'll give you breakfast—and come
quiet.”
"But, Parry - " Culver was completely at sea.
"Don't 'but till to-morrow, old man. Nine o'clock or
sooner. Keep the straight road. I'll be looking out for
you. Can you do it?”
“Why-yes. But — ”
“Good. See you to-morrow."
Parry had hung up, and Culver was left glaring fool-
ishly at a dumb telephone.


l60 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
ford in an antiquated pony-trap bearing their night's
catch. The country, in the freshness of the young day,
appealed to him immensely. It was so very restful and
out of the world. He wished to heaven he were going
merely for a holiday walk, not to meet Parry in these
furtive, mysterious circumstances, to be plunged once
more into a sordid world of intrigue.
What on earth was Parry up to now? he asked himself
vainly. Why had he 6taged this extraordinary meeting?
Had the fellow ever been away at all?
Culver shook his head involuntarily, as if with distaste
for the thought. He was growing to disbelieve every-
thing, so frankly contradictory were all the circumstances
associated with Mrs. Coke and Franklin Parry and the
people connected with them. Even Parry's story hardly
held water. Was the man a detective? Lady Ellenglaze
—she, at least, was real, or he supposed so—had spoken
of him as a man with a past; a bad egg, as Ann had
called him. Then what was he doing as a detective?
Detectives weren't usually men of decent family, as Parry
appeared to be.
A great marsh hare came loping down the lonely road.
It stopped for a moment, its long ears erect, as it caught
sight of Culver, then turned and bounded away. Culver
came back to earth and forgot his misgivings for the
time being in the joy of the air and sea and of Nature.
Plomesgate hove in sight, its little cottages of red brick,
often tarred against the weather, dropped about haphaz-
ard among the bracken and gorse. Only two or three
were by the roadside, and from one of those a sun-
bleached sign, of some impossible vessel, indicated the
inn. Culver had thoughts of an early draught of beer.
There were white, purposeful chickens ambling about


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. l6l
the road, and some children playing by the wayside. But
no sign of Franklin Parry.
Culver passed on, puzzled. Then, perhaps a couple of
hundred yards beyond the inn, a loafer, sprawled at full
length in the grass, called lazily: "Hallo, old man, you're
in good time. Had any breakfast?"
ii
He wasn't a tramp. It was Franklin Parry, hatless,
and in the oldest of clothes. He looked more human
than Culver had ever seen him. There was colour in his
cheeks, a healthy tan was replacing the sere and sallow
tint. His queer, pale eyes were more expressive: they
twinkled, as if conscious of his own disgraceful appear-
ance, his hair was tousled and matted, and looked hardly
yet dry from the sea.
"Good Lord! Parry, you look fit," Culver said, in gen-
uine amazement.
"A great spot this," Parry laughed. "I like it better
than Oldford. So well indeed that I've taken a cottage
here. That's the shack." He pointed to a squat, tarred
building between the road and the beach; an untidy-look-
ing place, with a rough fence dividing its tiny, sterile
garden from the common land.
A footpath led to it, across the heath, from where
Parry had been lounging.
"Come on in," he said. "There's breakfast if you want
it. Sea bass, caught 'em myself this morning. Oh, a
great spot, Plomesgate." He chuckled.
"But damn it all, Parry, what's the game?" Culver
asked, in perplexity.
'The game, old man? Just the same. Your pals at
The Pines plus the amiable parson, now."


162 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"But why this?" Culver indicated the cottage.
"Greater freedom of action. We don't want to alarm
the quarry. But seriously," as he saw signs of irritation
showing in Culver's face, "I can work better away from
Oldford. I've got a little car down here and a man to
look after me, and there's some rather difficult work
ahead—but you don't want to be bothered with that, do
you? Anything happened since I left?"
Culver was not quite sure now whether he did want
to be bothered or not. That was the infernal part of
this business. Parry tantalised him. Culver was never
certain whether he wanted him to help. He told the inci-
dent of the Ellenglazes, and Franklin Parry looked grave.
"What exactly did you tell her?" he asked tersely.
Culver racked his memory to recall every word, and
Parry smiled with appreciation.
"Good man," he said. "Most judicious. A very wise
move that, ragging the Gray girl—I like the missionary
stuff." He grinned.
He was busying about in the cosy, cottage kitchen.
The way he handled a frying-pan showed that he was no
beginner as a cook. The fish sizzled and gave out an
appetising smell.
"Shove the teapot over, will you?" he called. "Sorry
it's such a scratch meal. My man's gone over to Oldford
shopping. He will give us a real lunch—a great fellow
as a cook. You must have met him on a bicycle; worried-
looking chap. I cleared him out of the way so that we
could have a talk."
Parry was a little vague about his man. "A good
chap, used to be a steward on the Great Eastern boats,"
he said. He was vaguer still about his doings after leav-
ing Oldford. He had already been in Plomesgate two
days, he admitted.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 163
"But didn't you go to Southsea?" Culver asked.
"Not within seventy miles of it."
"But your card?"
"That came from Southsea." Parry smiled enigmat-
ically. "Bit of local colour," he explained. "I'm never
quite sure how much you're being watched. The Gray
girl, perhaps. I fancy the fair Bill doesn't quite trust
you—you were too inquisitive. And I don't want her to
get curious about me. That's largely why I took this
place. I got it from an Ipswich agent. Suitable place
for an artist. I'm an artist! The village doesn't expect
any sense from artists."
"Then, aren't you coming back to Oldford?"
"Not officially, old man. Certainly not with Lady
Ellenglaze about."
Culver looked dubious.
"But how are you—or rather how am I going to ex-
plain it?" he asked.
"Don't," said Parry blandly. "If you're going to stay
on, expect to hear from me every day. I'll give you quite
a convincing tale on post cards. You can show 'em. You
are going to stay on, I suppose?"
The question was too casual to be entirely disinterested.
Culver hesitated, then blurted out in an injured tone:
"Do you want to get rid of me? Damned if I can make
out what you're trying to get at."
Parry's eyebrows lifted quickly.
"What's the trouble?" he asked, in a restrained way.
"I'm sorry," Culver answered impulsively. "But the
whole thing's got on my nerves. I don't like being made
a cat's-paw. I'll clear out if you like. I'd rather, I think.
It's a malodorous business, and I'm not at all sure you're
right, after all. Elsa Mayer and Mingay may be wrong
'uns, but women like Mrs. Coke—and—and Miss Gray—


164 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
I mean it isn't reasonable, Parry. They couldn't live such
double lives. Bill Coke's queer, I grant, but that minia-
ture—if I was right, the odds are she's being exploited
by the others. I've half a mind to go and face her with
it frankly."
"Yes?" Parry had reverted to his old, expressionless
self.
Culver went on, determined, now he had started, to
state openly all the carking doubts and fears which op-
pressed him.
"Then Ann—Miss Gray." It was curious how he bog-
gled over the name suddenly. "We know who she is—
how in the name of—of heaven, earth, or hell can you
imagine a girl like that would mix herself up in a filthy
affair that would land her in quod? It's—it's—it's utter
damned nonsense, man. She doesn't want money—she's
rolling in it."
"Yes?" Again that passionless query.
"And the parson. Parry, parsons don't do these things
—even the rotten ones. They've too much sense for one
thing, even if you bar natural decency. I—I "He
found his fervour cooling in face of Parry's immobile,
gelid challenge.
"Well, there it is," he finished weakly. "It may be
your job to think the worst of everybody, but I've got to
use my own common sense. I tell you, that dance at
Mr8. Coke's shook me. She could not do it, Parry, if
she were what—you—what I—thought."
Parry picked up a fork and drummed idly with it
upon the table.
"Thanks, old man," he said, after a pause. "I'm
glad you got it off your chest. Now wash out the women
for the moment: women aren't logic; let's start with
the parson. You sure he's a parson?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 165
III
Culver flushed with humiliation. The implication was
obvious.
"Well—I—I "he began. "Well, we can easily set-
tle it. There's Crockford."
"Oh, he's in Crockford all right, but not this year. Nor
for some time back. Then he crops up in the Appen-
dix—'Clergy who cannot be traced,' you know. Half a
moment"
Parry disappeared. He was back in a minute, and he
put a type-written sheet before Culver.
"There are the details," he said quietly.
Culver read:
"'Foster, Clement Henry. Trinity College, Cam-
bridge. B.A., 1896. M.A., 1899. Deacon, 1898. Priest,
1899. Curate of Llanhurst, 1898-1901. Vicar of St.
Crispin, Wandle End, 1901. Extract Crockford's Cleri-
cal Directory, 1920. No reference since.'
"Well?" Culver said stupidly.
"How old would you guess our bird at Bidely?" Parry
asked.
"I don't know. Rising seventy."
"Well, he ought to be about fifty-four or five."
Culver glanced at the typescript. "That's true," he
agreed unwillingly. "But some parsons take orders late
in life."
"I don't think this one did." Parry was emphatic.
Culver frowned.
"Do you know for sure?" he asked.
"No. But I'd like to. My trouble is that I can't be
in two places at once. Llanhurst and Wandle End, even
after twenty-five years, might tell us something of the


166 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Rev. Clement Foster. But Bidely's more important. I
wonder"
Dick Culver fumbled for a cigarette. Parry's sugges-
tion was quite clear to him—he was asking him to go in
search of the history of this mysterious Clement Foster.
And, curiously enough, he wanted to go. Action appealed
to him. It was this perpetual hanging about that got on
his nerves.
And if what Parry suggested were true, Foster of Bidely
must be an awful swine. At least, one was justified in
unmasking a brute of that kind.
"Would it help?" he began.
Parry looked round sharply.
"Half a moment, old man," he interrupted. "Here's
Harris back."
The latch of the kitchen door lifted, and a pale-faced,
perspiring, little man appeared, a lock of fair hair strag-
gling over his forehead.
"Beg pardon, sir," the little man said. "I didn't know
you was in 'ere."
The Cockney voice sounded strangely out of place.
Culver looked up, smiling at the incongruity of it.
"This is Harris," Parry announced solemnly. "Harris
is supposed to look after me."
"I do me best, sir," the man said half resentfully. He
dumped a basket of provisions on the floor and looked
about him uncertainly.
"I'm sure he does," Culver put in. He liked this funny,
serious, little man. "Harris, I'm afraid I've made more
work for you." He nodded at the littered table.
Harris was tactful.
"No trouble, I'm sure," he said, in a friendly, intimate
way. "But the guvernor will 'ave 'is little joke."
Parry laughed and pulled himself lazily to his feet.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 167
"If you've finished, Culver, let's go out and contemplate
the North Sea, ex-German Ocean," he suggested.
"Very much ex," Harris interposed cheerily. "Don't
I know it!" His shrug was more expressive than many
words. "Fifteen years of it, bar the perishing war. Mine-
sweepin' then." He proceeded automatically to gather
up the dishes, as though they were mines.
Parry led the way down to the beach.
"A comic cove, Harris," Culver commented, with a
smile as they trudged over the rough shingle.
Parry beamed.
"Harris' experience of life is wide and his illusions
negligible."
"How did you get hold of him?" Culver asked curiously.
Parry reverted to his faculty for convincing vagueness.
"Harris? Oh, he looks after me in Town, as a matter
of fact. A priceless fellow. There's nothing he can't do
but be respectful. He'll give you plenty of shocks if you
see much of him. But he's got brains. A useful lad Mr.
'Arris."
They had reached the edge of the sea, a steep, shingle
beach that ran north and south in a seemingly dead
straight line. Parry lugged out his pipe and started to
load it.
"As I was saying," he began thoughtfully, picking up
the threads of their conversation before Harris' interrup-
tion, "I'd very much like to know a little more of the
history of that reverend fraud at Bidely. Of course, he
might be the same Clement Foster—parsons when they
do go astray are apt to go the whole hog. But frankly
I hope he isn't."
He struck a match and puffed noisily at his pipe. Cul-
ver played nervously with the pebbles, picking up a hand-


168 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
'ful and letting them drift aimlessly through his fingers.
He was still uncertain.
Then, with sudden decision, he said:
"Like me to go and find out?"
"Very much," Parry answered, with complete candour.
"I couldn't very well ask you; but I hoped you would
offer. It would be of enormous assistance. Would you
go at once?"
Culver was taken aback by the directness of the answer.
Parry fitted no type that he had ever met before. His
queer blend of secretiveness and embarrassing frankness
was so hard to comprehend. But Culver preferred the
frankness.
"Yes," he said. "But oughtn't we to put up some yarn
for the benefit of Mrs. Coke—and the parson? Wouldn't
it look fishy if I cleared off too suddenly?"
"Ye-es," Parry drawled. "There's a snag there. Wait
a minute." He gazed dreamily out to sea. "You'd better
—you'd better—I've got it. Drive a car?" he asked
sharply.
"Yes."
"Then go and get it."
"But I haven't got one, man."
"Yes, you have." A slow smile lit tip his face. "You
have a Fowler saloon. You sent it to the works for a
thorough overhaul when you went abroad. Now you're
going to stay in Oldford you want it. And it's just about
ready. So you're going up to the Fowler works in War-
ington to drive her back. You find your pal Ann Gray
this afternoon, and tell her that tale. It's a nice car, dark
green, three years old, sluggish under forty, and a devil
for hills."
"But—but how do I produce it—or don't I?" Culver
demanded, in sheer amazement.


CHAPTER XIV
i
By noon next day Dick Culver was in possession of a
very fine Fowler; and Fowlers are among the luxury cars
of the market.
He took over in an extraordinary manner in the Station
Approach at Ely. The car was waiting there, a uni-
formed chauffeur at the wheel. Culver came out of the
station, a porter following with his suitcase.
The chauffeur seemed to recognise him at once. He
jumped from his seat and touched his hat.
"You're from Mr. Frank, sir?" he said. He took the
suitcase and stowed it away at the back.
Culver tipped the porter and turned to the chauffeur.
"Now I'm ready, Nash," he said. "Mr. Frank sug-
gested you drive me as far as Cambridge so I can pick
up the hang of the car, then you can get back."
"Very good, sir. I'll just take her out of the town."
Nash was back in his seat, and Culver climbed in beside
him. "She's quite easy, sir," the chauffeur went on, "the
change "He proceeded with technical details as they
moved smoothly into the main road.
At Cambridge, Culver parted with the competent Nash
and put the Fowler's nose westward, bound for the other
side of England.
Parry really was uncanny. A man who could produce
a fifteen-hundred-pound car at twenty-four hours' notice,
and hand it over to an acquaintance of a few weeks with-
out the least hesitation, wanted some explanation. Yet
Franklin Parry had provided none.
"It'll be all right" was all he said about the car. "Nash
knows."
But Ann, when Culver had found her, after an hour's
170


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 171
anxious loafing and two or three cocktails in the lounge
hall of the Palace Hotel before dinner, was thrilled.
"A Fowler!" she had exclaimed enviously. "Oh, you
lucky devil! Will you let me drive it? You can get ninety
out of them. If you can't, I will."
He had told his story, and she had listened with peculiar
interest. That it had convinced her, he had not the least
doubt.
"And when will you be back?" she asked eagerly.
"You are coming back?" Her voice changed to a slow,
provocative drawl.
"Two or three days, I hope," he answered. "But you
know what these people are. If I don't go for it, they'll
waste weeks."
She pouted.
"Be quick," she urged. "Beth's coming next week. My
measly cousin. She's stuffy, awfully stuffy, sometimes.
She'll be the complete invalid I know. And I must try
the Fowler. Bet you I can whack her up to eighty-one."
"I bet you don't," he said, "not with me in it. I saw
you nearly hit a lorry yesterday. You're not going to do
in my car like that."
"All right—snail," she laughed, and hurried away. Ann
was dining at the Nonnarys with Bill that night. It was
always with Bill, Culver thought savagely.
H
Culver was bound for Llanhurst, a village on the Here-
ford border of Wales, and the best part of a hundred
and fifty mile run, as his map told him.
It was there that the Rev. Clement Foster had spent
three years as a curate, according to Crockford, and


172 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
there, although that curacy was a quarter of a century ago,
that Culver hoped to pick up some information. Mem-
ories were longer in remote country villages than in Lon-
don suburbs, and Wandle End, Foster's last recorded
cure, was one of the rawest of London suburbs: a place
of acres of red brick terrace houses with a shifting artisan
or clerkly population.
It was doubtful if anyone had lived for twenty years at
Wandle End; and parsons were not known to many in
such a community.
But now that he had started, Dick Culver was de-
termined to thrash this matter out. There must be in
existence many people who had known this Rev. Clement
Foster, and Culver was going to find some, at least, of
them.
It was a long and tiresome cross-country journey, but
the Fowler did all she was advertised to do when she had
a chance. And Culver pulled up before the Dragon, at
Llanhurst, soon after six: climbing stiffly from his seat,
in the garage, he walked out into the quiet village street
and viewed Llanhurst with pleasure.
To the west, the great upstanding Radnorshire hills
were lighted by the declining sun. They looked Scottish,
he thought—there should be some trout and grouse up
there. The street itself was amazingly picturesque, rich
in half-timbered, black and white cottages, with the tall,
graceful tower of the church at the end by the stream, and
a ruined castle standing out just across the valley.
It was a mellower, kindlier country than the bleak
East Coast, which he had left that morning. There was
a moist, lazy, somnolent atmosphere about the place; a
suggestion that time moved slowly in these Welsh marches.
He was hopeful.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 173
The Dragon was more than he had dared to expect; a
jolly, hospitable-looking, half-timbered house, with a little
porch, and beyond, a hall panelled from floor to ceiling in
rich, honey-coloured oak.
Clifford, the landlord, an elderly, brisk, and jovial man,
was respectfully chatty. The Fowler had not failed to
impress him, and he was plainly anxious to please this
rich, chance customer. Clifford carried Culver's bag him-
self to his room, and asked what he would like for dinner.
Culver had knocked about in country inns a good deal,
and was pessimistic from experience. Not what he would
like, but what he could get, he knew would be the result.
The landlord suggested trout, and Culver gasped.
"And perhaps a nice partridge to follow, sir," he went
on in his soft pleasing accent.
Dick Culver could have embraced him. He was raven-
ously hungry.
"Couldn't be better," he answered. "And the sooner
the better."
Clifford glanced at a huge turnip of a watch.
"Say a quarter past seven, sir?" he suggested.
"Good man," said Culver with feeling.
Culver strolled, hatless, down the village street before
dinner. The wind had dropped, and a faint mist was
rising from the valley, and with it mingled the wood smoke
of the cottages; the scent of the wood smoke, blended with
the keen hill air, was like incense to Culver's nostrils. He
walked as far as the church and gazed curiously at it.
Had that rubicund, portly parson at Bidely Rectory ever
served in this church? He tried to visualise him, nearly
thirty years younger, slimmer, keen and newly ordained.
It didn't seem possible.
Culver turned with a sigh and went back to the Dragon.


174 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
III
The dinner was perfect. Culver had the panelled coffee-
room to himself, and he moved across to the open hearth
where Clifford had lighted a little log fire—"to take the
chill off the room," as he put it—and sipped his port in
great contentment.
Even the problem he was trying to solve seemed less
grim for the moment. It's ugly corners were rounded, its
unwelcome possibilities capable of some undefined ex-
planation. Llanhurst, like some dear old maiden lady in
an atmosphere of lavender and sweet woodruff, and the
Clement Foster of Bidely, with his aura of crime and
cunning, would not mingle.
The landlord came deferentially into the room to inquire
if Culver had all he needed. Culver put his first ques-
tion—he had to force himself to do so.
"Excellent. Excellent, thanks," he said. "A very cosy
place you've got here—and a very charming village.
Years ago I knew a parson you had here—a Mr. Foster
—Clement Foster. He was curate for about three years.
Do you remember him?"
Clifford cast his eyes to the beamed ceiling, thought-
fully.
"Foster—Foster. I recall the gentleman. A very nice
gentleman, too. Walked with a limp. Hurt his leg at
football. What happened to him, sir?" The landlord
had become suddenly self-conscious. "He went up to
London when he left us, and we did hear there was some
trouble. I don't believe 'twas true. Not Mr. Foster."
Culver felt himself start. Here was the first, unwelcome
confirmation. His Clement Foster certainly had no limp,
now, nor did he look a one-time football player. But this
talk of scandal.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 175
He managed to answer with unconcern.
"I never heard anything about the trouble," he said.
"I expect it was just gossip. So you liked him, eh?"
"Well, yes, sir." Clifford was still uneasy. "I never
was much of a church-goer, I'll admit, but that didn't make
no difference to Mr. Foster. I'm remembering him better
now, sir." He smiled. "I'd just come here, then, from
Leominster; that 'ud be—what? Best part of twenty-
five years ago. I remember the curate coming into the
bar one day and saying: 'I'd like to make our church as
attractive as your bar.' Regular surprised the chaps, it
did. He had his pint and went out, and they liked him
for it. They often talks of that now in there." He in-
dicated the bar parlour, from which there came the com-
fortable hum of conversation.
Culver lied glibly.
"Yes, that's just the sort of thing I should have ex-
pected of him," he said.
Clifford looked relieved.
"There's Jack Thomas in there now; he was there at
the time. He could tell you more than I can. Jack used
to sing in the choir."
Culver smiled.
"I'll come in in a few minutes," he said. "It sounds
cosy."
He followed the landlord into the bar, shortly. It was
a snug little room, a bit stuffy, and very smoky. Some
half-dozen reputable-looking men—little tradesmen they
seemed—were sitting over their evening beer. Their con-
versation slackened as Culver entered, and they looked
up at him with respectful curiosity. But they replied to
his "Good-evening," in a friendly enough way, and very
quickly returned to their talk.


I76 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Culver went across to the bar and ordered himself a
drink.
"In a moment or two you might get Jack Thomas to
have a word with me," he said to the landlord. "I don't
want to intrude."
Clifford nodded, and Culver took a seat on a high-
backed settle, a fine old piece of furniture, highly polished
with years of use. It recalled Bill Coke to his memory.
He could see this settle in her studio.
Presently the landlord beckoned to a little grey bearded
man, with bright, dark eyes.
"Jack, you remember the Reverend Foster," he said
as the man came across the sanded floor.
"Reverend Foster? I remember him well. Nice
gentleman." There was an unmistakable touch of the
Welshman in Thomas' voice.
"Gentleman here was asking about him. He knows
him."
"Indeed you do?" said Thomas with interest. "Where
would he be now, sir?"
Culver was vague. He had met him in London some
years ago, he explained. Would Mr. Thomas have a
drink?
Jack Thomas chose what was apparently a local tipple,
whisky and beer, and very willingly entered upon rather
inconsequent memories of "the Reverend Foster," in-
terspersed with deprecatory comments upon the present
vicar, a rather sour ritualist, it seemed, who was not too
well loved by the parishioners of Llanhurst.
rv
Culver extracted many words, but little real information
from Thomas. The man was the local tailor, garrulous,
but a trifle suspicious of the stranger.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 177
He told long-winded, pointless anecdotes. Reverend
Foster had married his daughter Annie to Ben George.
Followed the life history of Annie. He recalled once when
Reverend Foster had torn his trousers on a fence—and
many minutes were occupied in the details of how the cu-
rate had stood joking in the tailor's shop while the repairs
were effected.
Culver was very patient, and he did learn definitely that
Foster's limp was no passing disability. "Broke his heart
that he'd never play football again," Thomas said. And
Foster was described as a tall muscular man, a bachelor,
and a great singer. That appealed to the tailor. But
further details were hard to get.
His vicar of the time had died long since, but the old
Rector of Moreton, a few miles away, would remember
him.
Culver went over to Moreton the next day, only to find
that the rector was away on holiday. He had a few
casual words with the Vicar of Llanhurst, too, but that
gaunt zealot had never heard of Clement Foster. The
verger of the church recalled him vaguely, and hinted
again that there had been trouble up in London. But de-
tails he either would not or could not give.
His hope of finding a photograph of the curate in some
group, perhaps, Culver found vain. And after nearly
thirty years it was not surprising that memories of a
young curate had worn very thin.
But what he had learned was most perplexing. Foster
of Bidely did not fit at all the physical description of the
curate of Llanhurst. The old man was on the tall side,
and the flesh of years tended to disguise that. The limp,
too, might have passed, but certainly he seemed too old.
Yet that hinted scandal. That fitted. And the genial


I78 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
manner might well be the ripening of the boisterous cheeri-
ness for which Foster was remembered in Llanhurst.
A little discouraged Culver set out for London on the
second morning. If a remote and conservative community
like Llanhurst could produce so little, there was not much
hope of better success in a restless, modern London
suburb.
Culver stayed at his club that night. The place was
just reopened after the annual cleaning, and the members
were delighted to be home again. He welcomed the
merry crowd in the smoke-room; they helped to divert him
for a time.
Franklin Parry came through on the telephone soon
after ten. Culver was playing bridge at the time. He
had wired Parry from Hereford on his journey—they had
arranged to keep in touch in that way—and Culver, from
the trunk box in the hall of the club, had a long con-
versation.
Parry was by no means discouraged. The scandal
rumour interested him particularly. "Sounds very prom-
ising," he said. "When you go down to the other church,
go for the women, old man. Find a nice, soured, profes-
sional church-worker. They never forget scandals about
vicars, all their lives. You'll have good hunting to-
morrow." His cynical laugh came over the wire.
But to Culver's inquiry of how things were going at his
end, Parry gave a non-committal: "Moving. Nothing
wonderful, but moving." And before he rang off he urged
Culver not to hurry.
"Take your time. You can't rush these things. It
may take you a week, but it'll be worth it. Right you are,
then, I'll give you a ring about the same time to-morrow."
Dick Culver felt that it was rather unsatisfactory:


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 179
rather as if Parry were keeping him amused. He didn't
really seem to care a hoot whether he found out anything
or not.
He went back to the card room and finished his rubber.


CHAPTER XV
i
Officially, the Spratboat at Plomesgate was closed. Its
few customers had shuffled out into the still, autumn night
some time before, but Jim Chantrey, the landlord, offered
no objection to Franklin Parry's suggestion of "a- nightcap
each," as he came out of the cosy parlour where he had
been telephoning.
Jim poured out a couple of generous whiskies.
"Take it all out of that, the call to London and the
drinks, Mr. Chantrey," Parry said, throwing a note on the
table.
Mr. Chantrey took it, fumbling deliberately at the till.
He liked being called Mr. Chantrey by this artist gentle-
man. He was queer, of course, but not quite so queer as
most of the visitors. "More of a real gentleman, in his
way," Jim thought. "Had his own servant, too, that funny
chap that talked so comical. Amusing chap that, for a
Londoner. And open-handed."
Mr. Chantrey passed over the change and announced
that it was a dark night.
"Gettin' cold, too," he stated, rubbing his hands. "I
was out about five o'clock time this mornin' and there
were a frost."
Parry hinted with interest that winter was approaching,
and they talked weather with great seriousness.
Mr. Chantrey was proud of his telephone. It was
the only one between Oldford and Street. Wasn't often
it was used to London, it was true, but Mr. Parry had
no idea the funny calls he had on it. He told stories of
wrecks.
"Well, I'm coming in again to-morrow night," Parry
180


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK l8l
said, finishing his drink. "Helps me keep in touch with
my business. Good-night, Mr. Chantrey."
He groped his way out into the keen night. It was
black as the pit, with a white mist rising from the ground.
A few yards along the road a silent figure joined him from
the darkness of the common.
"Just hit it off nicely," said Harris' genial voice. "Here's
your coat, you'll want it. But the night's right." There
was only a trace of the cockney in his accent now, a rather
harsh, metallic tone, rather like a sergeant-major's. And
his manner was that of easy equality.
"Good man," Franklin Parry answered, pulling on the
coat. "Gad, but it's chilly. Got the flask?"
"Have I not?" Mr. Harris chuckled knowingly. "And
won't we be glad of it?"
They struck out diagonally across the heath. "Look out
for rabbit holes," Harris warned. "Rough going for a
bit, Mr. Parry."
Parry, stumbling, agreed. "Damned rough. Better
not use a torch just yet, I suppose?"
"Just as well not. Mr. Culver got any news?"
"Yes and no," Parry answered in a puzzled voice. "He's
got on to a rumour of a scandal about this Clement
Foster, but where it will lead to I don't know. Hear more
to-morrow, I hope." Parry elaborated.
"We don't want him back too soon, Mr. Parry," Harris
said from the darkness.
"I know, I know. I suggested that, but one can't do
more. He's an impulsive man, you know. And no fool.
I've had the devil's time with him. I've nearly lost him
twice."
"Means well, but a nuisance," Harris commented
calmly. "I know 'em. Hope he won't raise a hare to


182 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
startle the old bird up at Bidely. I bet he's got eyes.
But it's a neat game. Oh, he gets marks for brains."
Harris was frankly appreciative.
"If he is our pal—he naturally would," Parry retorted
with decision.
"You're right there," answered Harris.
They trudged on for the best part of half an hour.
Once well away from the road, they produced torches,
which made the going easier. The air thickened as they
dropped down toward the marshes of the Oldford river.
The mist was white and cottony here, and crossing one
field, Parry blundered into a flock of sheep.
"A bit too thick, I'm afraid," he said. "If this doesn't
clear there'll be nothing doing."
Harris grunted. But he was a good guide; he seemed
to know every inch of the path, and the final few hundred
yards, across open saltings, was the hardest going of the
journey. Harris gave a sigh of relief as he came to the
water's edge.
"Well, I've done it," he said with satisfaction. "Now
it's your job, Mr. Parry."
Parry looked at the slim duck-punt at his feet. "Right.
In you get," he said. Then he laughed softly. "Where'd
you pinch it, Harris?" he asked.
Harris was tucking himself up on the floor-boards by
the bows.
"Belongs to a London gentleman," he answered
solemnly. "It's kept at Pryke. That's about half a mile
up that way. I borrowed it, and a 'ell of a time I had
gettin' it here too. We'll have to put it back before day-
light, Mr. Parry."
"We will—if we get back," Parry laughed. He shoved
off into a narrow creek amid a misty waste of mud-flats,
over which the flood-tide was advancing steadily.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 183
II
Parry handled the paddles with skill. Squatting on the
floor at the stern, he drove the punt along at a good pace,
hugging the Plomesgate shore to cheat the tide, and
avoiding the shallow flats with a good deal of luck.
Only once did they go aground badly, and then but for
a few minutes before the tide floated them again.
But in those few minutes Parry's longed-for breeze came,
in weak, puny puffs at first, swirling the white mist about
like smoke, then stronger and keen from the coast, clear-
ing it altogether.
"Good omen," he said softly to the man in the bows.
Harris answered with a low chuckle: "Bit parky,
though. Half a moment, Mr. Parry. Let's have a look
and see where we are."
He twisted himself round and peered across the river.
Only an odd light or two showed ahead, where Oldford
had already gone to bed. Overhead the stars were shining,
now, with amazing brilliance. And the stillness was awe-
inspiring.
There was the soothing flap of the water against the
punt's timbers, and the low, restless rumble of surf on
the distant beach; otherwise, only the occasional cry of a
wild bird or the faint, far-off barking of a dog disturbed
the night.
Presently Harris whispered: "I've got it. Might shove
her across now; keep a bit to the right."
Parry obeyed without question. He put the punt's
nose straight across the river and paddled vigorously.
Harris guided him like a pilot, and they crept up under
the farther bank until they came to a little bay where
half a dozen punts and dinghies were moored, lifting and
splashing as the tide stole in to set them afloat.


184 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Parry manoeuvred into the midst of this fleet, and
Harris, on his knees, grabbed the side of a white boat
and tied up.
"Now we're safe for a couple of hours," he said. "What
about the flask, Mr. Parry?"
Parry murmured, "Good man," and soon the scent of
hot coffee mingled with the salt air.
It was noisy in their little haven; the boats creaked and.
chattered as the tide rose higher and higher and they
tugged at their moorings. The strengthening breeze had
set up a popple on the water that kept up a splashing ac-
companiment to the creaking song of the boats.
Parry and Harris climbed into the white boat and
crouched down under her gunwale for shelter and secrecy.
They spoke very little, and hardly moved, save to sit up
abruptly every now and again, their ears strained intently
in listening.
An hour passed, and Parry began to swear mildly with
impatience. He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Nearly one,"
he whispered. "If they're not along soon we shall have
to chuck it."
Harris growled: "I made sure it would be to-night,
with the tide what it is. They can't have gone up the
other bank, can they?"
Parry had no suggestion to offer, and the tedious watch
went on.
Ten minutes dragged itself away before Parry suddenly
stretched out and gripped his companion's arm.
"Listen," he said. "There's something moving."
Very cautiously Harris raised his head above the gun-
wale.
"That's right," he whispered. "And they're coming
up-stream, too. That's funny."
Faintly from the darkness came the soft plash of oars;


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 185
more faintly just ahead of them a dark blur came in view,
low on the water and indistinct—a duck-punt, like their
own, moving up-stream.
It faded, swallowed up in the shadow of the bank, then
passed from sound and view.
Harris said eagerly:
"You'd better land me, Mr. Parry. I'll get along better
on shore. If it is them, I'll be up at Bidely before they're
there. I can get on to the road in about five minutes;
there's a path."
They scrambled back into the punt, and Harris splashed
through the muddy fringe of the river to the sea-wall.
"I'll get back as soon as I can. You know where to
put the punt?" he called back cautiously.
"I know. Good luck," Parry answered as he shoved
off and made his way into the main stream. He let his
little craft drift most of the way. Time did not matter
now, and noise was to be avoided.
As he neared Pryke he edged the punt close into the
bank. Neither sound nor light came from the sleeping
village. But for a denser blackness from its encircling
trees there might have been no Pryke. Parry found the
landing-place Harris had indicated and pulled the punt
ashore. Then he set out to tramp back to Plomesgate
across the bleak and deserted common.
in
Mr. Harris had made himself amazingly conversant with
the country round about Bidely since he had been in the
neighbourhood. He knew its footpaths as well as most
of the natives, and at the cottage at Plomesgate there
was a large-scale map, profusely annotated in red ink,


186 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
with details, the result of Mr. Harris' innocent walks in the
district.
Likely clumps of gorse, cattle sheds, even ditches that
would provide shelter from observation, were marked
there. Red crosses in various places indicated watchful,
vocal dogs; other mysterious signs refreshed Mr. Harris'
memory of things to be avoided by one who wished to
ramble this country unnoticed. And for hours the man
would sit studying this map, committing its every detail
to memory. And Harris' memory was no ordinary one.
He had cut through the blackness, across a marshy
field, straight to the road, after he had left Parry, moving
with ease and assurance. The road was a by one that led
from Oldford, past The Pines, to Bidely village, where it
joined the Salthithe road by the bridge over the river.
Mr. Harris took this road at a fair pace, keeping to its
grassy sides as far as possible, and interrupted in his
journey only once.
That was when the measured tramp of a rural police-
man sounded ahead. Mr. Harris swung himself over a
gate and lay flat, close against the hedge, praying that the
bobbie would have no dog with him.
His prayer was answered. The policeman went steadily
by, humming "Valencia" and puffing contentedly at a
forbidden pipe.
On the outskirts of Bidely, Mr. Harris turned sharply
to the left, crossed a couple of fields, and found the brack-
ish marsh that edges the river. Under the wall, which
saves the marsh from flood at spring tides, Mr. Harris
wormed his way backwards a little; then, crawling up the
wet, grassy bank, he lay flat on the earth and listened.
From his lookout he could discern a lonely cottage built
under the wall on the land side. Mr. Harris' head, peering
so very carefully over the bank, bobbed down suddenly


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 187
at the sound of someone moving by the river. He shifted
position, silently, to a safer distance; then, like a snake,
crawled up until he could see.
A duck-punt had just landed, and a man was bending
over it lifting some heavy object from the bottom boards.
Harris could hear him grunt with the effort. Then there
was the rattle of rope, a slow, steady tramp, and the man's
figure appeared for a moment against the skyline, a square
package on his shoulder. He scrambled down the wall
and went towards the cottage.
Mr. Harris followed discreetly.
The man did not linger long. Harris judged he had
gone in for a drink, and envied him, for he was squirming,
belly to earth, like the serpent, in the long, mist-soaked
grass of the marsh not fifty yards away, and he was muddy
and chilled, and impatient.
He saw the fellow's dark form emerge, saw him hoist
his heavy burden to an easier position on his shoulder,
then set off to the right, away from the village.
Harris frowned as he tried to visualise the map. He
could recall no field path that way, and he hardly dared
risk following over an unknown marshy field. He took a
chance, cut back and joined the road, sinking again into
hiding at its junction with the sandy lane that led up to
Bidely Church.
The vigil was short this time. Harris had found a clump
of heather, dry and comfortable after the muddy grass in
which he had been lying, and he had hardly settled down
before his sharp ears caught a faint sound in the distance.
Somebody not far away was breathing hard, and he was
crossing the open heath; Harris could hear the swish of his
feet as he tramped through the rough ground. He had a
bad few seconds as the footsteps drew nearer. The man


188 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
passed within a dozen yards of him, his head bent to the
earth, picking his way.
Then followed as cunning a bit of tracking as could be
devised by the keenest scout. Up that road, along which
but so short a time before he had plodded so wearily
through the heat, Mr. Harris squirmed his way from bush
to bush, now hurrying, bent almost double across a more
open tract, now lying breathless behind a clump of gorse,
always just near enough to his man to keep him in view,
always ready to drop at the first sign of alarm.
Harris was exultant. He had proved his theory—al-
most. He took another chance and swung far out into
the heath to get ahead of his slowly plodding quarry, then
turned inward and found a safe shelter in the dense
shadow of a great yew in the churchyard.
A moment or two later a soft voice from the darkness
by the church whispered through the night:
"Here I am. You've done it all right, then."
A grumbling voice answered:
"Here, you take it for a bit; it's damned near broke
my back. Next time we both go."
Harris saw a light flash for a moment. It showed up
the rubicund face of the supposed invalid, Clement Foster.
The light vanished, and the two voices grew dim. Then
a door opened, and Mr. Harris sighed with relief. His
job was done for the time being.
IV
In the kitchen of Beach Cottage, in the yellow light of
the oil-lamp, Mr. Harris appeared, as he himself de-
scribed it, after one glance at the dresser mirror, "a fair
sight, and no mistake."
His face was streaked with mud, that unruly Napoleonic


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 189
lock of hair was matted, his clothes were soiled beyond
description. Grass and leaves and bits of heather and
gorse stuck to him in odd places, giving him something of
the appearance of a dejected scarecrow.
Franklin Parry laughed openly.
"My hat! Harris, you are in a state," he said. "But
cheer up, old man. I've got a bit of food for you here.
Better call it breakfast; it's just on four o'clock."
Harris dropped wearily into a chair.
"It wasn't too easy, I will say," he answered with a
touch of pride. "But it was worth it, Mr. Parry. I was
right. They are using the church. And that cunning old
fox, Foster, was there too. But it's neat. Oh, it's neat.
And so simple."
He took a cigarette from a paper packet and lit it with
relish.
"But what is it?" Parry asked anxiously, pouring out a
cup of steaming coffee. "That beats me. Why all this
elaborate trouble? And if they've got it in the church,
they've got to get it away again. Has Bill Coke tumbled?
Is she getting rid of stuff?"
Harris gulped his coffee.
"One thing at a time, Mr. Parry," he said. "Something
is in that church now. If we can get an idea what it is,
we can get inside their brains again."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 191
bell-cote over the western gable with a bell that Culver
was sure would be irritatingly thin and harsh.
A pathetic effort had been made to do something with
the garden which surrounded the building; but the grass
badly needed cutting, and climbing nasturtiums rambled
aimlessly about amid ragged bushes of phlox.
Culver studied the blistered notice-board. The vicar,
he learned, was the Rev. Stuart Weston, M.A., and the
vicarage in Geraldine Road. He read the long list of
services, trying to make up his mind how best to pro-
ceed. A direct call on the vicar was clearly the first thing
to do; but what explanation should he offer him?
He scanned, idly, a bill announcing a Sale of Work for
the organ fund, and gathered from this that the vicar
was married, since Mrs. Stuart Weston and Miss Adelaide
Cupper were in charge of the White Elephant Stall. Why
was it, he asked himself, that church-workers always had
such distinctive names? He recalled Parry's suggestion to
find an ardent church-worker, and smiled grimly.
But he could not stand there for ever in the mellow,
misty sunshine. Better try the church first. He pushed
open an ill-fitting iron gate, from which the paint was
rapidly flaking, and crunched his way along the gravel
to the door.
To his surprise it was open, and to his greater surprise
the church, when he entered it, was not nearly so barren
as its exterior had suggested. The Rev. Stuart Weston
must be a man of taste, he reflected.
There was a faded, elderly woman in the chancel, at-
tending to the flowers. She glanced up as he entered, and
went on with her task.
Culver waited until she returned to the vestry, then
followed her. This would be Mrs. Weston, perhaps.
"Excuse me," he began, standing at the door, "but can


192 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
you tell me if the vicar will be here this morning—or—
or where I could find him?"
The faded lady's voice was crisp and detached.
"He should be," she said. "He generally comes in
about twelve. I'm expecting him."
"Thank you," Culver answered. "Then I'll wait. And
may I leave this card here for him, that he may see it
when he comes in? Perhaps you'd be kind enough to say
that I'm here."
The faded lady took the card gingerly between two
moist fingers and turned on a queer, mechanical smile.
"I'll tell him," she said, and Culver went back into the
church and sat meditating in a pew. The faded lady
flitted in and out of the church with her vases, and
presently the hushed rumble of voices from the vestry
indicated the arrival of the vicar by some other door. A
moment later he came into the church and looked towards
Culver.
Culver went forward. The parson, he noticed, was a
tall, dark, pleasant-looking man; youngish and active,
and with a friendly smile.
"You want to see me?" he asked simply.
"Just for a few minutes," Culver answered.
"Come along in, then." He led the way into an inner
vestry. "Topping day, isn't it?" he said. "Makes you
want to be in the country. I'm only just back, and I
haven't trained my neck to the yoke yet."
He laughed easily, and Culver liked him instinctively.
"Now then, Mr.—Culver," he went on, glancing at the
card, "what can I do for you?"
Even at that moment, Culver had no clear idea of his
line of attack, but the vicar's manner encouraged him to
be franker than he intended. He summed the man up
quickly. He was human and sincere, and not the sort of


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 193
man to be easily gulled. An unconvincing lie would prob-
ably result in the teller being shown quickly and politely
out. He decided not to lie.
"I want to know something about a predecessor of
yours," he began. Weston's dark eyes hardened a little,
and fixed themselves upon his visitor. "A Mr. Clement
Foster," Culver continued, rather ill at ease. "He was
here in 1901, and he came from Herefordshire, Llanhurst."
"Yes. I know of him. He was the second vicar of this
church. But what do you want me to tell you?"
The direct question was awkward. Culver hesitated a
moment.
"Can you tell me where he went to when he left here?
I—I'm rather anxious to get in touch with him."
The vicar swung round in his chair and grabbed a
Crockford.
"I can't," he said. "Perhaps this can."
Culver interrupted him.
"No. I've looked there," he answered. "There's no
record of him after this parish."
"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," Weston said
blandly. "I've only been here seven months myself, and
in Foster's time I was fourteen years old." He smiled
whimsically. "And had never heard of Wandle End."
"I wonder," Culver went on, "if there are any of your
parishioners who would remember him?"
"I dare say a few. Fulham, my verger, might. He's
been here since the church was built. But Fulham's on
holiday, and I'm my own verger."
"Would there be a photograph, do you think? In the
Parish Magazine, or a group"
"I'm afraid not. The magazine's only a few years
old, and I know of no group." The faded lady had come
into the outer vestry, busying herself noisily with a water-


194 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
can. "Of course, I'll inquire for you if—if you'll tell me
frankly why you want to know, Mr. Culver."
Culver looked up quickly to meet the vicar's level gaze.
He was certain then that Stuart Weston knew something
of Clement Foster's story, and as certain that nothing
but sheer candour would enlist his help. He answered
the vicar's question in a tone as incisive and sharp.
"I speak to you as a priest?" he asked in question.
"Certainly," Weston bowed gravely.
"I have only too good reason to believe that Clement
Foster, or someone using his name, is engaged in some
very crooked business. I can do nothing till I know more,
and I'm afraid I can tell you no more at present. That's
my reason, Mr. Weston. You have my name before you.
If you like you can satisfy yourself that I am who I pro-
fess to be"
"No. No. That's quite enough. I know who you are
—I read novels—you know." Weston's smile was very
human, and Culver was appreciative of the graceful com-
pliment. "But when jobs are unpleasant I like to get
down to facts as soon as possible. You want to know
something of poor Foster. Well, all I can tell you is hear-
say, and it's peculiarly unpleasant hearing. The poor
devil was accused of theft—but how far he was guilty or
not is not for us to judge."
ii
An expression of real pain came into the parson's dark
face. Culver shared that pain. This seemed definitely
to confirm his worst fears. Clement Foster of Bidely,
then, was the same man. And his fall had been
permanent.
"It's a bad business," he said. "I wonder if you'd tell


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 195
me all you know. I've got to do something. This man is
still at the same game. It's pretty tragic, isn't it?"
"Oh—damnable!" the vicar commented frankly. "And
the man seemed such a decent fellow, too, from all I've
heard. Popular, played Rugger until he got smashed up.
. . . I don't know. ... I suppose it's like cancer, a
disease. Is the man really past helping?"
"I'm afraid so. It's a really bad case. I suppose it
must be the same man? Could anyone describe him to
me?"
The vicar frowned.
"There's Miss Cupper," he said. "If she would. She
knew all about it, and adored Foster. To this day she
swears it was a mistake. I'll try her, but she's difficult."
He indicated that Miss Cupper was the faded lady. "May
I hint—just a little of what you've told me?"
Culver trusted his man. After all, it could do no serious
harm.
"If you think it wise," he answered.
The faded lady came back into the outer vestry. Noises
told that she was "tidying up." Weston raised his voice
in a boyish way.
"Oh, Miss Cupper," he called.
Miss Cupper appeared at the inner door pulling on her
gloves. Her costume was a timid imitation of the vogue
of the moment: she evidently aspired to keep smart, but
lacked courage. Her faded hair was unshorn, but was
dressed to appear short: her hat, which should have been
pulled well down on her head, sat foolishly in the air.
Her skirt came well below the knees, and her stockings
were of demure grey. But she had been pretty once,
Culver realised, though her face was thiri and drawn, and
her pale lips peevish in repose. Her big blue eyes were
still expressive: there was the fire of the zealot in them.


I96 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Did you call, Mr. Weston?" she asked, with a faintly-
suspicious side-glance at Culver.
"I did," the parson responded lightly. "Miss Cupper,
it was Mr. Foster who limped and had the fair hair,
wasn't it? Or was that Mr. Yardley?"
Miss Cupper's lips tightened.
"Mr. Foster was lame, but he was dark," she said
primly.
"Ah, that was it, was it? Mr. Culver was asking. He
thinks he met him not long ago. Your man was dark, was
he, Culver?"
Culver nodded. "A round-faced, genial man, rather
portly," he added. "With a weakish heart and a pleasant
voice."
Miss Cupper listened avidly.
"He's been schoolmastering for some years," Culver
went on, "but he's retired now."
"And where did you meet him?" Miss Cupper de-
manded seriously.
"Er—at the seaside," Culver said vaguely.
Weston noticed the hesitation, and jumped in quickly.
"Haven't you a photograph of Mr. Foster?" he asked
innocently.
Miss Cupper's mouth shut firmly. She looked from
one to the other, then announced definitely:
"No, Mr. Weston. I have not," and a faint flush
coloured her faded cheeks.
"I thought perhaps you had," he said. "But it's a
long time since his day. So he's retired, you say, Culver?"
Miss Cupper was agitated. She made as if to speak,
checked, flushed still deeper, then burst out in indignation.
"I don't believe a word of it. You've been talking
scandal, you two. And you ought to be ashamed. There's
not a word of truth in that—that"—she tried to find a


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 197
word strong enough—"nasty story," she went on weakly.
"Mr. Foster was an honourable, Christian gentleman, and
those who say otherwise are—are—wicked."
"Come, come, Miss Cupper," the vicar put in pro-
vocatively.
"I'll not, Mr. Weston," she reproved him. "I'll not hear
a word against Mr. Foster, and if Mr. Culver is sneaking
round trying to find out things, I'm ashamed of him.
Poor Mr. Foster, he's had his cross to bear. That
woman "She tried to swallow the last words, and
blushed so deeply that she looked almost pretty again.
"That's all I have to say about it," she finished, in an acid
tone. "Good-morning, Mr. Weston."
in
The vicar looked at Culver and raised his eyebrows.
"I was afraid so," he commented dryly. "I've known
her do it before. She's amazingly loyal."
"But what woman does she mean?" Culver asked.
"Mrs. Foster: the wife." He shrugged his shoulders in
resignation. "I'm afraid there is some very human
jealousy in that otherwise Christian heart. We parsons
see a lot of that sort of thing."
Dick Culver was frowning. He had not associated a
wife with the Rev. Clement Foster.
"Who was she—the wife?" he asked thoughtfully.
Weston shrugged his shoulders again.
"That's another part of the tragic story," he said.
"There was trouble there; they didn't get on happily, so
I'm told. She was younger than he, and never ought to
have married him. She seems to have hated the hum-
drum life of the parish—she was always in Town. For
weeks on end she never showed herself here, I've heard.


I98 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
A pretty woman; now I can lay hands on her photo-
graph—but that won't help you."
"It might." Culver was curiously restrained. "I'd like
to see it, anyhow. But what was the scandal—may I?
Do you feel you can tell me? It's a really serious matter."
"I'll tell you all I know," the vicar nodded, after a
moment's thought. "I suppose—I suppose it's my duty."
The story he told was a tragic one.
Foster's wife was an extravagant, pleasure-loving
woman, and kept her husband pitiably poor. He adored
her, it appeared, and shut his eyes to all her failings.
They had only been married a short time—married on his
getting the Wandle End living, worth a meagre £400 a
year.
"The sad business happened at the Capes' place. That
old house in the recreation ground now. I don't know
if you noticed it as you came up."
Culver shook his head.
"Well, Wandle End was more country than town then.
Cape made a fortune out of developing the suburb. He
was a retired merchant, very rich, and I judge a bit vulgar.
A dour Evangelical, but a good friend of this church—he
built it and endowed it out of his own pocket. I don't
speak slightingly when I say he made a hobby of it. This
church to him was everything.
"He was kind to Foster, but I imagine he thought him a
little flippant for a parson; and he disapproved of the
wife. However, Foster and his wife were dining with
the Capes one night, a big, ostentatious dinner-party
with the old man's silver plate scattered about—a regular
Victorian feast. And Mrs. Foster went faint halfway
through the dinner. She left the table to lie down, and
presently Foster himself went to see how his wife was
getting on.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK 199
“As far as I can gather he didn't come back for a bit,
and old Mrs. Cape, a motherly body—she only died last
year-she got worried and went to inquire if Mrs. Foster
were seriously ill. As a matter of fact, she caught them
both at the top of the stairs coming out of her bedroom
--and there was a pearl necklace missing."
“But do you mean to say they caught the two of them
-red-handed?” Culver asked incredulously.
“It seems so. Though they never found the necklace.”
“But—but what did they say?"
“Foster-poor chap, put up a cock-and-bull story about
hearing suspicious noises and going up to see. His wife
bore him out. But it was too thin—much too thin. Then
Cape went raving mad-you could hardly blame him.
It was the disgrace on the church-his pet church-more
than the loss of the jewellery, I honestly believe. He
wouldn't prosecute-which was charitable of him—and
they say he gave Foster a hundred pounds to clear out of
the country. Anyhow, he resigned then and there, and
had gone next day. And that's the story—as I know it
-pretty rotten, isn't it?"
Culver bit his lip. It was rotten—a beastly story, the
more so because he was becoming more and more con-
vinced that Foster of Bidely was this same man. And it
was loathly to think of a man like that still brazening
about in parson's garb; still impudently using his own
name twenty-five years afterwards. And how had he
lived in the intervening years?
"Do many people know this story?" Culver demanded
dully.
“Not the details. There are hardly any of them left
in Wandle End who were here then. Vaguely, the story
is known; people have a sad way of cherishing memories
of a parson's faults." Weston sighed. “I used to hear


200 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
bits of gossip when I first came, and I got all the facts
I could in hopes of being able to combat the scandal. But
it wasn't much use."
"Who did tell you?"
"Miss Cupper told my wife a bit. She was in the house
at the time. Of course she swears that Foster told the
truth, and she has poor old Cape in the nethermost hell
now." He smiled sadly. "But mostly it comes from old
Gissing; he was churchwarden at the time and a crony of
Cape's. He was a doctor here for years, a regular nabob.
Gissing's very funny about it—he quarreled with Cape
on the very point. For years they never spoke. Gissing's
point of view is that Cape should have prosecuted in fair-
ness to the man. He's a cynical old fellow—it's he who
has the photograph."
"Could I see it—now?" Culver asked anxiously.
"Yes. We'll walk round there." The parson reached
for his hat. "You can be quite frank with Gissing. He's
just as safe as I am."
IV
Old Dr. Gissing was a curious man. He was over
eighty, the parson said, but though he was wizened and
frail, mentally he was extremely alert, and his humorous
eyes suggested the perpetual enjoyment of some private
joke.
Weston saw him alone first of all, and, when the two
of them came into the old-fashioned drawing-room where
Culver was waiting, the doctor said shortly:
"You can ask the questions, Mr. Culver, I shan't ask
any. I'm too old to want to learn any more."
They sat over some of the old man's excellent brown
sherry while he bore out, and amplified slightly, Weston's


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 201
story. He was inclined to go into detail, and he recalled
the names of everybody at that portentous dinner-party.
"I think I'm the last, bar Foster, if your story's true.
So it's a pity I'm not the last, eh? Like this sherry, Vicar?
I bought it out of Cape's cellar."
Culver was anxious to know if anything had been heard
of the Fosters after leaving Wandle End.
The doctor shook his head slowly.
"Gossip. Gossip. Nothing to go on. They said he
went abroad—to America. Some said Africa. And I
dare say it would have been Australia if they'd thought of
it. There was a yarn that he'd gone to the Boer War.
That sounded most likely; he was a plucky chap."
"And his wife?" Culver queried.
"Some said she divorced him. Others that they were
never married. Which sex do you think that was, Vicar?"
He chuckled. "But my own opinion is, he'd stick to her.
Whatever else was wrong with him, he was fond of that
woman. But you want to see her picture, don't you?"
He got up and shuffled out of the room.
Culver's nerves were tense. He was developing a score
of fleeting theories.
The doctor came back.
"Here it is," he said. "I kept it because of Winnie—
my baby daughter." He indicated a pretty, fluffy-looking
girl with her hair in pigtails, in the foreground of a casually
arranged group.
The picture was an enlargement of a snap-shot. It
showed three or four women on a tennis lawn, queer, ante-
diluvian-looking females in flat, white hats and skirts
down to the ground.
"Foster took it himself—out on the lawn there," the
doctor explained, jerking his head towards the French


202 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK.
window. "That is his missus, the one at the back.
Pleasant enough looking girl, isn't she?"
Culver's eyes were fixed to the picture. The woman at
the back was tall and slim and amazingly attractive,
despite her old-fashioned costume. She was staring
straight at the camera, with rather a superior smile on
her face. Indeed, she looked superior; she was infinitely
prettier and smarter than the others.
But what caused Culver to let out a sharp sigh of
mingled amazement and satisfaction was that the smiling
face of Mrs. Clement Foster was unmistakably that of
Mrs. Wilfred Coke.
v
Bill Coke had waged her war against advancing years
only too well. Here was the same face, younger, of course,
and more feminine with its locks of dark hair dressed
about the temples. The high collar and big sleeves gave
her almost a mature appearance. Yet it was Bill Coke, in
the early twenties, with those same steady, immensely
confident eyes.
Questions crowded into Culver's brain. Were the two,
husband and wife, still hunting together: still preying
on society after a quarter of a century?
How, then, did Wilfred Coke come into it? Was the
woman a bigamist? Or had she ever married Coke?
Gissing had spoken of divorce—perhaps that explained
it. And the two had come together again: joined forces in
common outlawry. The man had been devoted to her,
the doctor had said. His one redeeming virtue, perhaps!
This settled it. This identified Clement Foster of
Bidely and Bill Coke. There could be no doubt about it
—the man older than she. Her fault, perhaps, but the


PART TWO
CHAPTER XVII
i
The mid-September nights grew cold after sundown, and
this evening there was a restlessness in the air, like a
vague boding from the north whispering that, despite the
serenity of the mild autumn days, winter was watching.
The wind had risen late in the afternoon, and the surf
was thundering on the shingle close to Beach Cottage at
Plomesgate. Franklin Parry wandered out into the
ragged garden and gazed through the fading light towards
the road. Harris was late.
Angry clouds drifted across the flaming, sunset sky
behind the village, and Parry shivered. There was rain
coming with the wind, he reflected. The first of the equi-
noctials perhaps. He went back and stirred the fire to a
blaze.
But it was nearly eight before Mr. Harris came wearily
in. He looked worn out, his eyes were baggy and dark
ringed, and his face appeared paler than usual. Parry
looked at him, with unspoken inquiry, and Harris shook
his head.
"No, not yet. They do take a devil of a time. And
to-night would have been lovely. Black as your hat, too."
He flung himself into a chair, and lit a cigarette.
Mr. Harris, it seemed, had had a full day. He had
been over to Bidely Church again, cementing his entente
with Amos Gill and his mates. The picture had come out
well enough, and he had taken over prints which had
pleased the workmen immensely.
"But bar thanks, that's all I got, Mr. Parry," he said,
s
205


206 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
with a grimace. "And I had a good look round, too. It's
the tower if it's anywhere, I'll bet you. That's the one
place I couldn't get a proper squint at. If only those keys
had come."
He raised his hand with a gesture of complete disgust.
"Any chance to-morrow morning?" Parry asked.
"No. I got on the phone to the office. They swore
they'd have them down by to-morrow night—but you
know what they are. It's all right about the chauffeur,
though; they've taped him."
"What, Ellis!" Parry spoke with excitement.
"Yes. He's Martingdale, the chap that was in the Gray-
don Hall affair I was telling you about. He comes from
these parts; that's how he's got the accent so good."
"But—but he's employed by the real parson—Britain.
At least so Foster said."
"That's all right. He's been here nearly six months.
They've been preparing for this for a long time, you see.
Mrs. Coke's been here what—four?"
"Very nearly. But I wonder how the devil they wangled
Ellis in with Mr. Britain. Pity he's abroad. I'd like to
know."
"And so would I," said Mr. Harris meaningly. "The
Reverend Mr. Britain may or may not be all right. It
looks funny to me."
"Come now, Harris. You can't have the whole lot of
'em crooked. Britain's all right—you know that well
enough. Senile decay is the only thing wrong with him.
He's just on eighty, and he's been here for forty
years.
"I expect you're right," Mr. Harris agreed reluctantly.
"But I never really trust anybody. My experience


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 207
"I know your sour experience," Parry laughed. "But
they hadn't identified Foster, I suppose?"
"No such luck," said Harris sadly. "It was a rotten
picture I sent up. Best I could get though, and took me
hours to get it. But, then, you see, no one really knows
anything about Friend. There's the Chicago police.
They reckon he was Sanders, the osteopath, but they're
not sure. Then there's that line on him in Amsterdam,
but I never set much store by that. No, Mr. Blooming
Friend's the real goods. My word, Mr. Parry, if only
we've got him! I admire him, mind you. Brains? He's
got it there all right." Harris tapped his own bald
temples, and brushed back the straggling lock of hair.
His tired eyes lighted up with keenness.
"Crumbs. But what a haul," he went on reflectively.
"Friend, Mrs. Coke, Martingdale, and the rest of them all
at once. Too good to be true, you know. Much too
good." He rubbed his hands with cheerful anticipation.
"Nothing from your end, I suppose?" he queried hope-
fully.
"No. I took your tip and did a bit of fishing in the
river. Right off The Pines too. Got a few whiting and
dabs, but the glasses showed nothing. The lady was
playing tennis after tea. Regular crowd there. How she
does it, I don't see. I mean she's got as decent a crowd of
people about her as you'd find at a bishop's." Parry's
voice was puzzled.
"And some wrong 'uns, too," said Mr. Harris. "Bluff.
Sheer nerve. I give her marks too. But she must have
been at it for years. When I think of the stuff that may
have gone through that shop of hers in Kensington, right
under our eyes, it makes me fairly savage, Mr. Parry.
She's got it there too." Again the hand went up to the
pallid forehead.


208 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Well, we've got to thank Mr. Culver for a good deal/'
Parry said.
"If Foster is Friend, I'll thank him all right," Harris
grinned. "He can have the best meal on me that any
man ever had. And you haven't disgraced yourself either.
Pity you didn't start earlier, Mr. Parry. You'd have
done well. You think quickly. That's the great thing.
Get into their brains and think a second ahead of them."
Parry retorted grimly.
"And yet, for all we know, we don't know what they're
after."
"No, but we will. That's where you do fall down.
You're impatient. You've got to wait at this game.
They've waited, haven't they? Started work on this job
six months ago. Well, we've got to wait better still."
Harris spoke with the air of a tutor to a promising pupil.
Parry nodded his acquiescence.
"But I sometimes think you're wrong," he said after a
few moments. "Mr. Culver could be very useful to us.
Frankly I think we'd be wise to tell him the whole story.
He's straight enough."
"That's his trouble," Harris broke in cynically. "If
he told a lie, no one would believe it. Look what he's
given away to you."
"And look how he's helped!"
"Yes, but he didn't know it," Harris chuckled. "And
he believes everything he's told. No, leave him out. Use
him—yes. But tell him—nix."
Parry was not convinced.
"And one of these fine days you'll find he's suspicious
of me and he'll go and give the whole show away to the
police or to Mrs. Coke. He's got it there, too, Harris."
Parry smilingly imitated Harris' gesture. "I believe he


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 200.
could be devilish useful with Foster—if we told him
what to do. He's a simple, ingenious lad—but he's stub-
born."
"Well, we'll wait," Harris answered, shelving the ques-
tion. "I think I'll have a bit, of supper and get to bed.
I'm tired. And to-morrow there may be a long night."
Parry went out with him into the kitchen, where the
wind, straight off the sea, was howling and rattling the
windows. Harris made himself a scratch meal of cold
ham, then, admitting himself still hungry, cooked an ome-
lette with the deft air of an expert.
Trying to lounge in a hard-seated, kitchen chair, Parry
puffed at his calabash and listened while Harris reverted
to his great obsession, the mysterious Friend. That was
the man he most eagerly wished to lay by the heels. It
was a matter of professional ambition with him. For
some minutes he would be filled with optimism, then he
would banish his hope, like a child afraid too freely to
anticipate good fortune lest it never come.
"I don't know," he said. "Even if it is him, he'd be
too smart to give us anything to lay hands on. He's
deep—oh, damned deep—Friend! He sits outside it all,
Mr. Parry. Lets the others do the work. Yet it's funny.
He hasn't been heard of for months."
Harris glanced down at the littered table and cleared
a space for his elbows.
"Of course, he'd be a bit hard up now, you know,"
he went on, speaking as of a casual acquaintance. "You
see, he never got away with that Arnsberg stuff in Chi-
cago. That's what makes me think he might have been
Sanders. Sanders flitted about that same time. . . ."
Parry pulled at his pipe impassively. He, too, felt the
fascination of this elusive Friend, this expert in art rob-
beries known to the police of two continents by his


210 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
pseudonym only—"A Friend," as captured, incriminating
letters were signed.
Friend bought and sold and organised. Bought crook-
edly and sold crookedly, but his clients never gave him
away. He had become a sort of myth, yet the police
knew him to be a very real person. They guessed
shrewdly enough that the stolen Mabuse from the Count
Van Gelde's house near Harlem had come into the pos-
session of Benjamin Wisdom, the Seattle millionaire, via
Friend, though Wisdom swore he had bought it openly
from a dealer in Vienna, and the dealer bore out his
story with a convincing one of its purchase, dirty and
hardly recognisable, from a chance vendor.
True, the dealer disappeared soon afterwards, but
nothing was ever proved.
"No, I believe we're nearer that chap than anyone's
ever got," Harris reflected, with a determined nod. He
brushed that foolish straggling lock of hair back over
his forehead and seemed to try to plaster it down. It
was a characteristic gesture of his when he was lost in
thought.
"Let's hope so," Parry put in without expression. "Any-
how, it's a bit of luck it wasn't to-night we had to be out.
Hear that?"
A wilder gust than usual shook the cottage and rat-
tled the windows, filling the kitchen with a puff of acrid
smoke.
"You're right," Harris agreed.
He sat pondering, elbows on table and head down-
bent in moody meditation of the unwashed dishes, and
that was how Dick Culver found them, master and man,
hobnobbing in a littered kitchen. And he saw each jump
to his feet in sudden surprise as he knocked on the
kitchen door.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 211
II
Culver had walked over from Salthithe, and in the
last couple of miles he was pretty nearly soaked to
the skin.
To wait in London, inactive, until Parry should tele-
phone after ten o'clock that night, Culver had decided
was too much for his patience. He dared not wire Parry
openly; indeed, he was not sure that his friend was using
his own name in Plomesgate, so he had driven down
that afternoon and determined on Salthithe rather than
Oldford as his stopping-place. It would be better to talk
things over before he returned openly to the Blue Boar.
Culver had stumbled through the gale across the black-
ness of the open common, and gone, instinctively, to where
a ray of light showed from the cottage window. And
even then he was not quite sure that he found the right
cottage. He had only been in Plomesgate once before.
But his glance, through a gap in the swinging curtains,
showed him that he had come to the right place, though it
filled him again with those former misgivings, that vague
uncertainty of Franklin Parry's true part in this extraor-
dinary affair.
Culver's bedraggled condition served well enough to
disguise his apprehensions when Harris opened the door.
Parry had vanished. He had cut straight for the little
parlour at the sound of a strange knock, and Harris was
blandly inquiring.
Culver walked in, without invitation. He nodded to
Harris and asked for "your master," as he put it in a
subconscious effort to conceal his surprise.
Harris was splendid.
"Why! It's Mr. Culver," he grinned. "And not 'arf


214 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
to be sums, refreshing his memory from a notebook. His
mild eyes glowed with simple wonder as he flung the
most startling suggestions at Culver with a sharp "How's
that fit your story?" or "That sound likely to you?"
Culver learned much of the history of Friend, in odd
interpolations as the examination went on, and he found
himself, before the end, tending to defend Clement Fos-
ter, and seeking to prove that the curate of Llanhurst
and the mild old man at Bidely could not be the utter
scoundrel that this shadowy "A Friend" was known to be.
"Damn it all! I can't believe it," he said at length,
turning to Parry for support. Parry had been listening
in silence, a faint smile of interest, from time to time,
lighting his straight mouth. "My man had some good
in him. Yours" he nodded at Harris—"yours must
have been born rotten."
"Sentiment, Mr. Culver—sentiment," Harris said re-
provingly. "You must cut it out; it clouds the judg-
ment. My experience is that, apart from business, the
clever crook is a very agreeable person. He couldn't get
away with it otherwise. Look at Mrs. Coke, now; the
perfect lady. And ought to have been inside—that is,
gaol, Mr. Culver—years ago."
"Still, I won't believe any man who's once been a
parson could have been such a swine as your man Friend,"
Culver maintained stubbornly. "The woman's a bad egg
from the beginning. I got the impression that she was
responsible for his fall."
Culver was tired and disappointed. His discovery had
impressed and shocked him, and somehow he felt that
it would have an important bearing upon the case, what-
ever it was, that Franklin Parry had in hand. But now it
seemed that Parry was merely a secondary figure, an
assistant, as it were, of this new man, Harris.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 215
And they appeared, all the time, to be acting a part.
That lie about Harris being Parry's man; Culver was
certain that they would still have kept it up were they not
pretty sure that they had been discovered. Culver felt
that they were playing with him, treating him as a child,
to be amused, but kept in the dark so far as real issues
were concerned.
They were trying to side-track him now with their
fantastic talk about this creature Friend, this lifelong
criminal with his legendary anonymity. Culver didn't
care a rap for Friend. But he did want very much to
know Mrs. Coke's story.
Here was something human, something that touched
him. He knew Wilfred's tragedy and people who had
been intimate with the Cokes. And, above all, there was
that mysterious figure, Jean Malet, who had sent him to
Mrs. Coke. When he put the question as to how Bill
could have been married to Coke with Foster still alive,
Harris had dismissed it as interesting but unessential,
and Parry had offered no comment.
Rather peevishly he got up.
"Well, I've told you all I know," he said. "I'm fed
up with the whole thing. I think I'll get off, Parry. I've
a long walk ahead, and I can't be any more use to you
people."
Parry was quick to notice the disgruntled tone, and
his eyes flashed instant inquiry to Harris. Culver noticed
the exchange of glances, and it fretted him, and Harris'
conciliatory voice, so obviously insincere, irked him the
more.
"Indeed you can, Mr. Culver," he began. "And believe
me, I'm very grateful for what you have done."
"Well," Culver said boorishly, "what's the next move
in fooling me?"


216 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
He was ashamed of the speech, but not sorry. His
nerves had worn very thin, and this obviously put-up
job between the two men was the last straw.
Parry pulled his pipe from his mouth with that de-
termined movement that was sure indication of one of
his rare expressions of emotion. "Look here, old man,
don't say that," he answered, and there was sincerity in
his voice.
But Culver was feeling savage.
"I do, and I mean it," he broke in. "Are you a de-
tective, or aren't you? And what's Harris? I've had
enough of this fooling business. If you're honest, and
want real help, you know I'm willing to give it. But if
you're just taking me for a perfect damned fool, perhaps
you're right up to this point, but from now on—you are
wrong. I'll be my own detective, and maybe I'll find out
a good deal more that way."
He went forward to get his coat, now dried by the fire,
but Harris raised a hand, almost in parsonical manner,
and checked him instinctively. Harris looked thoroughly
worried, he noticed, and he was glad of it, but the next
moment the extraordinary little man had surprised him
out of his angry mood.
Very calmly he said:
"You're right. I'd have kicked, myself. Me, I'm
Harris of Pringle's all right. And you—you're a news-
paper man, aren't you, Mr. Culver? In the City once;
then did a bit of painting before you took to writing.
Made a bit on Kwaya rubbers and resigned your job.
It's my business to know, you see—even more than you
told Mr. Parry."
"Yes," Culver said frankly, amazed at this precis of
his life.
Harris went on in the same bland way:


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 2IJ
"Then, before you left Fleet Street you would remember
the Carey Manor robbery—books you'll recall"
"I remember," Culver interrupted. "I wrote a good
deal about it. The library; there were two unknown
Caxtons and some pictures, too, portraits. What's that
got to do with it?"
Harris grinned.
"Ask Mr. Parry," he replied. "He owns them."
"But I'm of opinion Mrs. Coke or your parson could
better tell me where they are," Parry put in bitterly.
IV
The story came back to Culver then, a robbery of
the previous winter, one of a series of spectacular, coun-
try-house burglaries.
The Carey Manor affair had been rather swamped in
the more sensational robbery that had succeeded it, when
some fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewellery had been
stolen from Lord Berford's place some thirty miles away.
Jewels appealed to the public more than books, and Carey
Manor was quite a small place, and its owner compara-
tively unknown.
The rumour of unrecorded Caxtons had attracted Cul-
ver, and fixed the incident in his memory.
"Carey Manor," he said. "But the owner was a woman.
An old maiden lady, a Miss"
"Gillot," Parry put in. "My aunt. She was over
eighty. She died soon afterwards and left me the place.
I was in the Congo at the time."
"But "Culver demanded looking from one to the
other at a loss to frame the dozen questions he wanted
to ask.
Harris chuckled.


218 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Mr. Parry's mighty impatient," he explained. "Got
fed up with the regular police and employed Pringle's.
Got fed up with Pringle's and took a hand himself. He's
accredited to us all right, and very well he's done, too."
Parry said, with a new gravity from which every trace
of his old cynicism was lacking:
"The fact of the case, old man, is that the robbery at
Carey killed old Miss Gillot. And the outrage of the
whole business got me. Why the hell should a lot of foul,
sneak thieves get stuff that has been in my mother's
family for centuries? I'm used to getting things done,
and, by God! I'll have those swine somehow—I may never
get the stuff back; but I'll get those who helped to steal it.
I'm not poor—the old aunt didn't know how rich she
was—and I'd as soon spend her money that way as in
playing the country squire. She was a dear old thing.
The only one in the family who didn't think I was a
rotter. You recall Lady Ellenglaze's opinion of me?
Maybe it is exaggerated, but there might have been
cause. I did a bit overdo it as a youngster." He smiled
reminiscently.
"But how do you know Bill Coke's mixed up in it?"
"I don't, old man. But I've got a very shrewd sus-
picion. You strengthened it. Your pal, Mingay, dealt in
one of the pictures; I was after him in Antwerp—him and
Elsa—until you led me back here. And we knew there
was an English end."
"But surely if she is mixed up in it, she'd have tum-
bled to your name. She'd know, I suppose. It would
make her suspicious, anyhow."
Parry nodded.
"I'm very much afraid of that," he said. "That's one
of the reasons why I cleared out. And one reason why
you'll be useful—if you want to be. I won't deny I've


CHAPTER XVIII
i
Culver thoroughly enjoyed his first day back in Oldford.
He felt a sense of adventure and a freedom from sus-
picion which he had not known for a long time.
The revelation of Parry's part in the game appealed
to him. It was so sporting. And such a lot of things
seemed clear now which before had been so unsatisfac-
tory. There was a thrill, too, in being taken into the
confidence of a man like Harris. Culver had almost
adopted Harris' hobby—the elusive Friend.
Parry had given him a more or less definite job.
"Go back and cover my tracks, old man," he had said
3n his queer, emotionless way. "I'm in Town. Talk
about me to Bill Coke. Be peevish, and say I'm messing
up your holiday. Maybe she'll begin to ask questions.
I'd like to know those questions. Take her out in the
car if you can—it's yours to do what you like with. But
keep off the parson."
And Culver, devising his own plan of campaign, had
driven round in the Fowler to call on Mrs. Coke before
lunch the next day.
He wanted to see her again for his own satisfaction.
He wanted mentally to compare her with that photo-
graph that Dr. Gissing had shown him. "The problem
of the years between," as he called it to himself, was a
fascinating one to ponder. Lord! What an amazing
drama this woman must have played since that tragic
night at the Capes' dinner-party at Wandle End.
An unfamiliar servant answered the door at The Pines,
a gawky country girl. The opulence of the Fowler misled
her. Culver she placed as one of the rich customers who
•came from time to time to buy from "William Cook."
230


222 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
though she deliberately grinned at him knowingly. Cul-
ver felt she wanted to wink.
"Good-morning," she said. "I'm so glad you've come.
That Flemish dower chest is here now; I know you
wanted to see it before it went away."
"What, have you sold it?" he asked, with interest.
"Yes. That goes to Philadelphia—almost at once. To
the Jeffreyson collection. Mr. Jeffreyson's agent saw it
only yesterday and bought it then and there. A wonder-
ful specimen, I'm almost sorry it's going so far away."
The Americans were listening, and she went back to
them. They asked about this chest, and presently Bill
took them out to the studio to inspect it.
Culver was amused. Bill Coke was smart. An amaz-
ing woman. He had been watching her keenly as she
was engaged in her craft, and it was startling to realise
how little she had changed in essentials from the girl of
that twenty-five-year-old photograph. She had retained
the same confident, superior smile; the same easy poise.
There was no shadow of doubt about her identity.
And when she returned, after some time, she was
alone, and she came up to him smiling at some joke of
her own.
"You are really a dear," she said, "to have come just
when you did. It gave me such a chance—to boost my
own importance. And in that car, too. Is that yours?"
"Yes," he lied glibly. "I've just collected it from the
works."
"Lucky man," she said. "On the strength of it I de-
scribed you as an immensely rich amateur with an eye on
those chairs. I sold them!" She shrugged her shoulders
in an impish way. "But come into the studio and have a
cocktail and tell me all the news. Where's the Congo
man?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 223
"The Congo man's making himself a devil of a nui- •
sance," Culver answered, with a frown. "He keeps me
messing about while he does business in London. And
I really only came back here on his account."
Bill opened her eyes in reproof.
"But how ungallant," she said mockingly. "Even
though it be true, you might have suppressed it."
Culver looked at her for a moment, then, shamelessly,
he added:
"But now, I hope he doesn't come back for weeks—
that is, if the charming Mrs. Coke will do me the honour
of allowing me to show off the beauties of the car, she
so much admires, to her."
"That's better," Bill laughed. "A little tardy, but not
a bad recovery."
"When will you come for a drive?" he demanded
bluntly.
"I don't know. To-morrow?" Culver thought she
was rather pleased.
"Splendid. Let's lunch somewhere."
"No. Work in the morning," she said definitely. "I'll
be pleased to take tea with you."
"Right. We'll have tea anywhere you like within a
radius of a hundred miles."
"We will keep well within that radius, if you please,"
she announced firmly. "Comfort I love; but speed I de-
test. And if I come with you, I command. Is that un-
derstood?"
"Mrs. Coke, the Fowler is at your service," he an-
swered, with a smile.
II
When Culver drove round to The Pines the next after-
noon, there was a picnic-basket outside the door with


224 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Dirk the Alsatian on guard over it and Ann Gray sitting
on the steps looking sulky, and trying to make friends
with the dog.
"Hallo," she drawled gloomily, in response to Culver's
greeting. "Bill says I can't come. I do want to intrude,
and I'll come like a shot if you ask me. But Bill's so
stuffy. I said you wouldn't mind."
Bill herself appeared at the moment, a heavy coat over
her arm.
"Well, I've told him," Ann announced candidly. "He
hasn't asked me yet."
"Ann, you really are impossible," Mrs. Coke said, with
a touch of embarrassment. "I don't want you, my dear,
because I'm afraid of you. I can manage Mr. Culver all
right, but not you—certainly not together."
"Honest, I won't make him drive fast, Bill," Ann
argued.
Culver looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
"Shall we let her come?" Bill asked.
"Of course," he answered, thankful to have some lead
to follow.
Ann jumped to her feet.
"Bill, you're sometimes quite human," she said slowly.
"And we'll take Dirk, too"
"We will not," Mrs. Coke said, with decision. "Dirk—
go in."
The dog looked up resentfully, and Ann went on:
"I must have someone to talk to. Richard Culver
isn't really afraid of Dirk. Only a little."
Again Culver smarted under the girl's mockery; that
humiliating faculty of hers of making him rise so easily
to the obvious flies she threw at him.
"Of course I'm not afraid," he said. "Let the dog


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 225
come by all means." He was almost angry. Why did
she always make him behave like a clumsy hobbledehoy?
Culver prided himself on his ease of manner.
Mrs. Coke looked sedately amused; as though she read
his thoughts. Then suddenly she decided to close the
incident. She frowned at Ann, and gave a hardly per-
ceptible shake of the head. Culver noticed it, and fumed,
Why was it everyone treated him as a child?
He stooped down to pick up the basket.
"This goes in, I suppose?" he said ungraciously, and
Dirk's instant, savage growl made him start back in-
stinctively.
Ann's face was provocatively vacant. Mrs. Coke kicked
the dog and turned its growling to a yelp. And Culver,
not caring in his annoyance whether the beast sprang at
him or not, pushed the hamper into the back of the
car, and, trying hard to appear unconcerned, insisted,
almost to the point of rudeness, that the dog should
come.
It was a bad beginning, but Bill Coke triumphed over
it magnificently. In half an hour she had won Culver
back to a happier frame of mind. She flattered him with
cunning, and told him that it did Ann good to be treated
as he had treated her.
"That dear child thinks every man bows down and
worships her," Bill said earnestly. 'To be reminded that
she is only a rather forward, young woman now and
again is salutary." Then Bill really sacrificed herself.
That, perhaps, won Culver more than anything. She
bade him speed up the car. And with the needle showing
over sixty, she yet managed to smile, and say convinc-
ingly: "You know, I can hardly believe it. The driver
does make such a difference. You're one of the safe


226 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
sort, Mr. Culver. I dare say I could hate you, but I
could never mistrust you."
Culver purred.
m
They picnicked on a stretch of purple common over-
looking the sea.
It was miles from anywhere. Bill herself had indi-
cated the place. "I was here years ago," she said. "When
poor Wilfred was alive." And then she apologised for
making him picnic at all. "Men do hate it, I know,"
she admitted. "But you said I might command. And
I've done my best."
She produced a siphon and a large flask of whisky
from the hamper, and pointed to them with a mischievous
smile.
Ann was curiously subdued, and even the Alsatian
managed to exhaust itself, to a tolerant friendliness, in
mad gallopings about the lonely heath. After tea they
wandered to the edge of the low cliffs and scrambled
down a slippery path to the sea.
Though the sharp gale of a couple of nights ago had
died down, there was a heavy surf still beating on the
shingle, and Ann suggested, with sudden enthusiasm:
"Amber."
"You can find heaps of it washed up here after a
gale," she said, as though the beach itself were made of
amber; and for a full hour they amused themselves in
vain search.
Ann drifted away from Bill and Culver. Through-
out the afternoon she had left them very much to them-
selves; so much so that once or twice Culver had almost
felt a mild embarrassment, and when Mrs. Coke glanced


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 227
suddenly at her tiny wrist-watch and exclaimed: "We
must get back," Ann was missing.
They found her sitting in the car.
"I couldn't pick up anything. I got fed," she said, in
answer to their questions. "I sang out to you, but you
wouldn't listen. You got anything?"
Bill Coke was impatient. It was later than she had
thought.
"No, and I don't think there was anything to find,"
she said in a preoccupied tone. "Ann, dear, help me
with my coat. Mr. Culver, I'll forgive you if you hurry
back. I must be home by seven."
Culver, sensing her anxiety, was busy with the engine.
"I'll just turn her before you get in, and run her back
on to the road," he said. He climbed into the car and
pressed the self-starter. But only a shrill whine resulted.
The engine would not start.
Culver fiddled with the levers on the steering wheel
and tried again, without success. Then he got down
and lifted the bonnet of the car.
Mrs. Coke watched him with an odd, wondering ex-
pression.
"Don't say the thing's broken down," she said peev-
ishly. But Culver, his head bent over the engine, did not
hear her.
Ann came up to him, looking mildly interested.
"What's up with the bus?" she asked, gazing over his
shoulder.
"I don't know. Got cold, I expect," Culver said, and
was aware then that he was lamentably deficient in knowl-
edge of the intricacies of the Fowler engine for one who
was supposed to have owned the car for some time.
Ann made obvious suggestions. But for all Culver
could do the thing would not start.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 229
genial Culver had ever known. Mrs. Coke was a bad
walker, and her temper grew steadily worse, showing itself
in long, sullen silences, broken by savage outbursts of
annoyance with the road, her thin shoes, and the chill
wind; all excuses for her annoyance with him, Culver
realised. Yet, on the whole, she was behaving remark-
ably well, he admitted.
Ann cheered up, but no one responded to her lighter
mood, and she, too, became quiet. And it was a long
four miles, with a last mile that seemed like two.
Culver got them away in a ramshackle Ford just be-
fore dark, with a good hour and a half's journey ahead
of them. He tried to be cheery as he bade them good-
bye, but even Ann could only muster a mocking, "Don't
think much of your posh Fowler," and Bill was frigid
as she answered, "Oh, don't apologise any more, it only
makes it worse. I'm not blaming you."
He was glad when they had gone.
rv
They towed the Fowler into Covehaven. It was nine
o'clock before they got her into the local garage, and
Culver was far too sick and disgruntled to care what
the cause of the trouble was, that night.
He was oppressed with a sense of failure. It was
hard to define, but very present, none the less. He had
set out with the idea of skilfully extracting information
from Bill Coke. He had meant to put cunningly devised
questions to her, but somehow he had failed even in that.
He had been put off his stride from the start by the
contretemps with Ann and the argument about the dog.
Then Bill h?d fooled him with her clever talk and subtle


230 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
flattery. He realised it now, and vague suspicion began
to grow in his mind.
It looked almost arranged, this forcing of Ann upon
the party. There was obviously a very close understand-
ing between the two women. And Ann had been so
strange, so unlike herself. As if she had been watching.
The way she drifted away from them. . . .
A new suspicion took root, grew and blossomed in a
second. The breakdown. Had Ann been monkeying
with the car? They had found her there when they came
back from the beach, and she had taken the whole inci-
dent very calmly. So had Bill, too, for that matter. Her
annoyance had had something unreal about it now that
he came to think it over.
Culver felt suddenly flat, as a man does who realises,
at last, that Tie has been duped. So it was he who had
been fooled, not they. They had worked this simple trick
upon him and gone off chuckling, no doubt, once they
were out of hearing; chuckling with satisfaction at having
so easily achieved their end.
But what was that end? That was the next question
that arose in his mind. They must suspect him, and
they must have wanted to keep him away from Oldford
that night—that much was clear. Never once had either
of them suggested that he should leave the car to the local
garage people's care and return with them. Parry must
be told of this as soon as possible—Parry and Harris. It
was important.
Having made this decision, it came to Culver with devas-
tating clarity that what he had to disclose to Parry and
Harris was almost definite proof that Ann Gray was an
active associate in the crimes of Bill Coke and Clement
Foster—possibly that peculiarly unpleasant beast known
as Friend.


232 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
compulsion. She had been subdued; perhaps Mrs. Coke
had some hold on her; was exploiting some trivial indis-
cretion in a form of blackmail.
That idea appealed to him more strongly, and he de-
veloped it. It seemed very plausible, Ann, a rich, head-
strong girl in the power of an utterly callous adventuress.
He recalled Ann's mood of sadness on the night of the
dance at The Pines, when she had seemed about to confide
in him. And that strengthened his new-found belief,
and cheered him.
He would have it out with Ann in the morning, he
told himself. There should be no beating about the
bush; he would talk straight to her—frighten her, if
needs be.
They were running down the hill into Oldford, with
its silver-streaked sea forming background to the tone-
less silhouette of its houses.
"Say I'll be over some time to-morrow—or the next
day," he said to the sulky driver. "There's no hurry."
He did not want to know the verdict of the inquest
upon the Fowler's breakdown, and, as though it were
a sop to his conscience, he gave the lad a tip that forced,
even from his surly lips, thanks of sincerity and surprise.


CHAPTER XIX
i
The resolution was still firm the next morning, but the
carrying out did not seem nearly so easy to Culver as he
walked across from the Blue Boar to the Palace Hotel.
His design was to catch Ann before she went out. He
would make excuse that he had come to inquire how she
and Bill got home, and report on the car. Then, he had
thought, he would ask her to come over to Covehaven
with him before lunch, and they could talk on the way.
And—if there were anything suspicious about the Fow-
ler, faced with it, he would spring his suspicions upon
Ann and then really go for her—tell her what a fool she
had been—imply that he knew a lot—and, he hoped, force
a confession from her.
It seemed so simple as he had schemed it out in his
mind, but now, walking into the crowded lounge of the
hotel, the talk loomed as an incredibly difficult one.
Suppose he was wrong. Suppose Ann turned on him,
justly angry, at a false and insulting insinuation. She
might—she probably would—go straight to Mrs. Coke
with the story. . . .
Culver found himself with a sneaking hope that Ann
might already have gone out.
But she was there, dressed to go out, talking to a tired,
ill-looking woman, who drooped in an armchair, a morn-
ing paper in her lap. Ann caught sight of Culver and
greeted him with her slow, mocking smile. She was
herself again.
"Get the old bus home safely?" she called to him.
"What was up with her? I'd rather have a second-hand
Ford if that's what Fowlers do."
He explained, in a stilted way, that he had left the car
233


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 235
very trying." She sighed and played nervously with her
newspaper.
"But she has spoken of you," Culver went on, trying
to put the woman more at her ease. "You are the cousin
who went down with measles, are you not? You look
awfully seedy still. I hope you are really better."
Beth Ames was listless.
"Oh yes," she answered with little conviction. "It
does leave one rather feeble. But I felt I had to come
and see what Ann was doing. I'm supposed to look after
her—it's entirely supposition." She laughed scornfully.
Culver sensed an ally in Beth. She obviously was wor-
ried about Ann, too, and together, perhaps, they might
influence the girl. Anyhow, here was a blood relation
through whom he might communicate, if needs be, with
Ann's parents.
"Won't you come to a less noisy place?" he asked.
"It's very jolly in the sun this morning—and Ann has
charged us to discuss her."
Beth seemed too weak to resist any suggestion. She
rose complacently, and Culver led her to the verandah,
overlooking the sea, where they could sit in the warm
autumn sun, comparatively undisturbed. Beth was a
woman in the late thirties, he judged, but her thin, pallid
face accentuated her features and made her look ten
years older. And she was dreadfully nervous and ap-
prehensive, he saw at once.
She would not smoke, and she appeared to be debating
something in her mind while he talked easy convention-
alities to give her a chance to compose herself. He had
an impression that she was weighing him up mentally,
and presently she said with directness:
"Mr. Culver, I don't know why I should bother you
with this, but I feel such a dreadful responsibility. Ann's


236 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK
people are abroad, and they look to me to take care of
her-and-really I can hardly take care of myself.” She
smiled pathetically. “But can you tell me who is this
Mrs. Coke who seems to fascinate her so much? Is she
-er-all right?”
Culver frowned. It was a difficult question to answer,
and he hedged for the moment.
"I–I don't know what to say-quite," he replied ju-
dicially. “Mrs. Coke is—is well born. She's the widow
of a well-known artist- "
“I know, I know. But she keeps a shop or something.
Ann wants to go into partnership with her.”
There was a prim anxiety in her voice that made Culver
laugh. If that were Bill Coke's only drawback, his mind
would be free of a great load of care.
He explained the "shop," and it seemed slightly to
relieve Beth Ames. "Yet this Mrs. Coke is rather-
Bohemian," she commented. “I suppose all these artist
people are. Last night, for instance, it was nearly one
o'clock before Ann came in. She did have a breakdown
with you?”
"Oh yes,” Culver said quickly. “That's quite true
the breakdown." But he dropped his eyes thoughtfully.
Ann should have been home soon after nine. What was
she doing with Bill Coke until nearly one?
Beth sighed.
"I expect I'm old-fashioned,” she said, “but Ann is such
a headstrong child. And one o'clock! It is rather late
for a girl to be out alone, don't you think?"
Culver agreed, but reassured her glibly that the circum-
stances were unusual.
Beth went back to Mrs. Coke; she was still uneasy
about her.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 237
"Of course, if you really think it's all right," she said
uncertainly, "I suppose I need not worry."
Culver seized the opportunity.
"What exactly does worry you, Mrs. Ames?" he asked.
Beth looked flustered for the moment, then faltered:
"It's a dreadful thing to say, but you know that Ann
is supposed to be very rich. I'm always so afraid that
people may try to—exploit her. And she's so perfectly
hopeless when she gets these sudden fascinations for peo-
ple. She'd give anything away."
The idea was a new one to Culver, and not an un-
welcome one. Perhaps this explained the relationship;
Ann might be quite innocent of Bill Coke's crooked ways
and merely one of her victims.
"That has to be considered," he admitted. Then: "Has
she ever done anything of the kind before?"
Mrs. Ames seemed glad of the opportunity to unbur-
den her heart, and in some way share her responsibility.
She told of Ann's past escapades with undisguised dis-
approval, of her chauffeur experience of which Elsa had
spoken, and of the few weeks she spent as a cook in
London.
"That is where she got to know this 'Bill.'" Beth
spoke the word with distaste. "She worked for friends
of hers. They seemed to have been queer folks. And
when Ann left them without warning, she gave them
fifty pounds in lieu of notice, and said that was what
she was worth. The people kept the money. I think it
disgraceful."
Culver had to smile; he wanted to know more of that
spectacular incident. But he was determined to encour-
age Beth Ames' dislike of Mrs. Coke.
"I think, perhaps, it wouldn't be a bad thing if you
could get Ann away from here," he said at last. "All I


238 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK.
will say is that I know Mrs. Coke is a—a very keen busi-
ness woman. And some of her friends are not too desir-
able for a wild young woman like Ann." He was talking
paternally, and he was glad to notice that Beth Ames
obviously was in sympathy with him. "Your conva-
lescence won't go very well here if you are worried," he
continued. "Couldn't you get Ann to see that? Make
her go away at once—to-day, if you can. Say it's only
for a time, if you like." He hesitated, then decided to
chance it. "Believe me, Mrs. Ames," he finished very
earnestly, "I, too, have been worried about your cousin.
I can say no more than this: I don't think Mrs. Coke is a
very helpful companion for her."
Beth looked terrified.
"But what do you mean?" she exclaimed hopelessly.
"Just that, and that only," he said firmly. He had
taken the step now, and he was determined not to go
back.
"How can I get her away? You don't know how dif-
ficult she is."
"Try," he encouraged. "Talk to her seriously. Ask
her to come for your sake—and—and frighten her if you
can. Is it any use threatening her with her father?"
Beth shook her head weakly.
"I don't know. I really don't know," she said. "Ill
speak to her, of course. I'll speak to her."
"Do," he urged, trying to put some resolution into
this woman. "And, Mrs. Ames, I wonder whether you
and she would dine with me to-night? Perhaps—I might
help."
Poor Beth gave a watery smile of gratitude.
"If you would, I should be so thankful," she said.
Culver became brisk. "Indeed I will," he reassured
her; then he turned the conversation and sat for the


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 239
best part of the morning trying to encourage her, and
learning many odd things about Ann Gray and her
cousin's life together.
ii
Franklin Parry had hinted that he might want Culver's
more active help and co-operation soon. "Don't worry;
I'll let you know," he had said, "but always keep in touch
with your pub, in case." And Culver had an ominous
feeling that Parry would communicate that day.
He did not want to see him then—not until he had
"had it out" with Ann, and he meant to have it out some
time that evening if it were possible.
Beth Ames he counted futile. As a well woman she
might possibly exercise some control over Ann, but in
her present state she was weak as water, mentally and
physically. But even that weakness might prove a
weapon to use—grounds upon which to appeal to Ann,
first of all, at any rate.
To avoid any chance of contact with Harris and Parry,
as much as from a reluctant desire to know the truth
about the car, Culver went off to Covehaven after an
early lunch. •'
The man at the garage met him with a sheepish expres-
sion. His manner was awkward, and in response to Cul-
ver's deliberate "Well, what was the matter?" he shuffled.
"It was the ignition, all right," he answered. "I thought
it would be the ignition."
"Yes, yes," Culver put in impatiently. "But what?
How did it happen—a faulty part or something?"
The man looked up with an uncertain grin.
"Wasn't nothing wrong with the magneto till someone
made it so," he said. "Looked to me as if someone regu-


240 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
lar tried to smash 'un. All pulled about it was. Was
you trying to fiddle with 'un or anything, sir?"
Culver jumped in quickly. Despite his fears, this con-
firmation rattled him badly, and he wanted to disguise
his feelings.
"I'm afraid I was," he answered with hardly a mo-
ment's hesitation. "I thought the magneto was wrong.
Did I do in the contact breaker?" He laughed in what
he hoped was a natural manner.
"You did, sir," the man agreed. "But what you can
a-been after"
Culver checked him.
"I know, I know," he said. "I'm a rotten mechanic.
Anyhow, it's all right now? And you got the ladies back
in good time, too?"
"Ah—I did that, sir," he said. "Regular pushed the
old Ford along." The man smiled reminiscently. It was
he who had driven the car. "We was in by five past nine.
I passed you and the boy on the road, and I was halfway
home and more."
Culver encouraged this story; it shifted the fellow'*
interest from the Fowler.
"Good man," he said. "They told me you'd made a
great journey. Now, what do I owe you?"
Culver paid his bill, talking volubly and making heavy
jests about his inexpert handling of the car until the very
last moment. He felt, as he drove away, that he had,
at least, convinced the garage man that he was respon-
sible for the mishap. But that mood of forced joviality
left him quickly, once he was clear of the village.
Then he felt more anxious, more despondent than ever
he had known himself. The evidence against Ann was
overwhelming. Nobody else could have smashed the
magneto. And no hopeful theory of Beth Ames', that


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 243
a procession of luggage-laden cabs passed by, bound for
the station and the early express to town.
An air of melancholy was upon the place despite the
warmth of the sunny, hazy morning, and he visualised
Oldford as it would be in a week or two's time, shorn
of its visitors and shutting itself up for its long winter
rest.
Heaven forbid that Parry should keep him hanging
about till then! He would die of boredom. And this,
he reflected bitterly, was how he was spending that joyous
holiday to which he had looked forward so eagerly. He
would have got more fun out of life if he had stuck
to his job in Fleet Street.
There was something familiar about a car that was
coming from the distance along the narrow High Street.
His impression was a subconscious one, and, in his de-
jected mood, he hardly realised that he was watching it
until it had almost reached him. Then he jumped to his
feet and glared stupidly at the driver.
It was Ann's two-seater, with Ann at the wheel; Ann
looking very subdued and weary, but there was a new,
purposeful expression in the big, tired, hazel eyes. There
was no lazy mocking there; little friendliness, indeed.
He went across the pavement to where the car had
stopped, and blundered out an exclamation of surprise,
but Ann answered without a smile:
"Go and get a hat; I want to talk to you, Richard Cul-
ver. I'll wait."
There was confident command in her tone, which made
him uneasy. It was clear that his simple plan had mis-
carried, and Ann's return in this mood boded new and
unrealised troubles.
He got in beside her, and she started off without a


244 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
word, and to his nervous attempt at conversation she
responded with laconic coldness.
"But didn't you go away with your cousin?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"But—but why have you come back?"
"Because I'm staying here."
"And Mrs. Ames—what about her? She's really aw-
fully seedy, you know."
"I know. That's why I took her home. She'd no right
to be here."
Ann never smiled, never even looked at him. She
kept her eyes steadily fixed on the road ahead, and origi-
nated no remark.
She was taking him the rough coast sea route which
runs close by the sea, and she kept to it for many miles
until they were well beyond the range of Oldford's most
adventurous explorer. But at last, on a stretch of breezy
common not unlike the scene of their picnic near Cove-
haven, she jerked the car into the heather, stopped the
engine, switched off deliberately, and turned in her seat
and faced him.
"Now we're going to have it out," she said gravely.
She had completely taken the initiative from him. It
was not Ann Gray who was going to be talked to
straighdy, but Richard Culver.
"What do you mean?" he asked weakly.
Til tell you," she said. "Now look here." She leaned
forward like some angry mistress whose patience has
been exhausted by the negligence of a servant. Culver
felt inferior. "I've not the slightest objection to what
you think about me," she went on very calmly. "You
can disapprove in your grey, Puritan mind from morning
to night. But you're not going to interfere with me. Do
you understand that?"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 245
She had overdone it a little. There was an arrogance
that roused Culver's spirit. The inferiority complex
passed.
He met her gaze of annoyance with a look of stubborn
determination.
"My dear Ann, I am going to interfere with you,"
he said, "and I'm more determined now, than ever, to do
so. That's that."
Ann had not expected this reply. She looked baffled
for an instant, then a light of battle flared in her eyes.
Culver pressed his advantage. As she was starting
to retort, he interrupted, still in the same level voice:
"Now what are you complaining of? I'm going to talk
very frankly to you, and you can talk as frankly to me.
This is a good spot; we'll stay here all day, if needs be."
Ann flushed, and, woman-like, she seized on the minor
issue.
"We won't," she said. "I shall drive back just as soon
as I like."
"No, you won't," he answered, with an irritating, mirth-
less smile. "You may find your magneto broken if you
try."
It went home. He saw her hesitate between defiance
and, he thought, fear. But she countered him gamely,
swinging herself easily from the car and walking slowly
towards the sea.
"All right. Go and smash it if you want to," she called
to him calmly over her shoulder, and Culver found him-
self compelled to follow her.
She had found a mossy hummock by an ancient gorse-
bush, blown all awry by years of North Sea gales, and she
sat down unconcernedly and pulled out her cigarette-
case. Culver dropped to the grass beside her.
"Well?" he queried blandly.


246 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Ann puffed at her cigarette, and appeared not to have
heard him. He played her own game and smoked in
silence, too. Presently she said:
"Don't you think it's rather impertinent of you to talk
to Beth about me as you did?"
"Very pertinent," he answered, without taking his eyes
from the distant sea. "Neither your cousin nor I want to
see you making a fool of yourself."
Again she flushed, and he felt a little shame for his
crude speech.
"And then you're libelling my friends," Ann went on.
"What do you know against Bill Coke that you should
say such beastly things about her?"
"I know that she is not a desirable companion for
you," he said gravely. "What do you know about her,
Ann?"
Ann gave a hard laugh.
"I know she's a very plucky woman, having a devil
of a life to earn a decent living. But, of course, that's
the sort of woman all men go for. They hate indepen-
dence in women."
"Now don't be silly," he said. "Sneers won't help.
What do you know about her?"
"Don't be more impertinent," she answered coldly.
That nettled him. He had not the strong advantage
that he had thought.
"Why did you smash the magneto of my car the other
evening?" he flung at her suddenly.
She turned round to him with her eyes wide open in
wonder.
"You mad?" she asked, with a touch of her old self in
her voice. "You've got magnetos on the brain. I never
touched your rotten car."
Her frank answer confounded him. He had expected,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 247
perhaps, an evasive answer or a weak denial. But her
words rang so true.
"If you didn't, then who did?" he asked feebly.
"I haven't the least idea," she answered, with indiffer-
ence. "All I know is that your mouldy car let Bill and
me in for a foully cold drive home."
"And you got there about nine and didn't turn up at
the hotel till one," he put in rather snappily.
"Is that really so? And if it were true, has it anything
to do with you?"
He felt she was getting the upperhand, and he fought
against it.
"It had a good deal to do with your cousin; and I pro-
pose to make it my business," he retorted.
"I can't make you a gentleman," she said contemp-
tuously, "but I can punish you for lying about my friends.
I'm going to tell Bill all that you've 6aid about her, and
I hope she'll get her lawyers to go for you. It's simply
damnable that people should be allowed to say such cruel
things. So that's what I propose to do, Mr. Culver—
and you justify your slanders—if you can."
He saw, then, how he had blundered, and something
of panic came over him. One word from Ann, and Bill
and the parson would be off like hares. And Ann, too,
perhaps. In fact, already the damage was done. If Ann
were in with the gang she would have passed the word.
They might be gone now. And yet Ann couldn't really
be a confederate in their crooked schemes.
Culver looked at her, sitting there with her clear, steady
eyes, so indignant, and so full of fire and courage in
their resentment, her clear-cut, determined chin, her
wonderfully attractive skin, burnt so brown by honest
sun, and owing nothing to the make-up which he hated.
Her head was thrown back a little with the chin raised—


248 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
pugnaciously, he thought. She was fighting, and fighting
skilfully, too. But she was undeniably frightened. Hardly
perceptible quiverings about the strong mouth betrayed
emotion, and the quick, forgetful way in which she puffed
at her cigarette disclosed a patent uneasiness.
And she was beautiful, really beautiful. There was
nothing furtive about her, nothing underhand. Ann, truly
serious and angry he had never seen before, and Ann in
this uncompromising mood of battle was the most allur-
ing Ann he had ever known.
He weakened unconsciously.
"Oh! damn it all!" he said, in real distress. "Why
won't you be frank with me? I know you've got yourself
into some sort of a mess with this woman, and I can help
you out of it. I—I'll go to any lengths. You're only
bluffing. You know that quite well. What's the truth,
now? You don't look happy, and—and—I want you to
be happy"
He saw her frown as, mechanically, she took yet an-
other cigarette from her case. She struck a match idly.
"I'll face Bill Coke if you like, face her with you," he
went on earnestly.
Ann dropped the match, still gazing dreamily out to sea.
"In fact—I've a mind to do it, anyhow," he said reck-
lessly. "I'll"
Ann gave a little scream of fright. "Oh, look!" she
exclaimed, in inconsequent alarm.
Culver looked down. Her match had set the dry
heather ablaze.
"Beat it out," Ann called. "I'll get a rug. Tread on
it. Tread on it."
She was on her feet and running for the car, and Culver,
startled by the suddenness of the event, was trying to
stamp out the rapidly spreading fire. He heeded nothing


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK 249
else until Ann's voice came to him, mockingly, calling
across the heath.
She was in the car, and the engine was running.
"And when you've put it out, you can walk home,"
she shouted, quite unperturbed, “and that may be a lesson
to you, Richard Busybody.”


CHAPTER XX
i
It was a very weary and savage Culver who tramped
into Oldford later that morning. Nearly ten miles of
rough, shadeless road was trying enough in itself, but,
with the humiliation of Ann's victory and the utter hope-
lessness of deciding what action he should take, the walk
had been a misery.
Culver was sullenly angry with Ann; as angry with
himself for caring two straws about her. If the girl
wanted to go to the devil, she'd better go, he argued,
instantly to raise a counter-argument of determination
to stick stubbornly to his task. He could not believe
her really bad; Bill Coke must be exercising some hold
over her.
And Parry's point of view had to be considered, too.
In common fairness he must let Parry know the de-
velopments of the past two days—though he would not
say a word of Ann's share in the breakdown of the
Fowler. But he would have to confess his blunder with
Beth, and Ann's threat to go straight to Bill Coke with
the story of his warning.
Unless she had already done so—and, of course, she
would have done. Probably this morning's affair had
been part of their scheme, Ann had got him out of the
way again, while Bill packed up and vanished. Then
what would Parry say to him?
"Oh, damn everything!" he exclaimed to the air, and
on the last mile he decided that the only thing to do was
to make a frank confession to Parry and clear off himself.
Ann must work out her own salvation. He had done all
he could do, and failed miserably.
He was walking hard, lost in thought, and he passed
2.50


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 2$I
on a pace or two before he realised that someone had
accosted him. As he pulled up, mechanically, and turned
with a vague, "Were you speaking to me?" he found Har-
ris at his side. ,
Culver's instant thought was: "The game's up. They've
bolted and Parry has sent to tell me."
But Mr. Harris' voice was mild and polite.
"Don't know me," he murmured quickly, then, "Could
you direct me to the church, sir?" he asked, in his rich
Cockney.
It took Culver a second or two to pull his wits together.
"The church? The church?" he faltered stupidly.
"Yes, sir. They said it was up one of these streets,
but I wasn't quite sure"
Culver recovered himself; Harris' mild eyes flashed
understanding at him.'
"It's—it's up the hill. You've passed the turning.
Take the main road a little further back." He indicated
the way.
Harris came close to him, listening intently.
"Thank you, sir," he said, adding hurriedly: "Mr.
Parry would be glad if you'd come over as soon as you
can. We'd like to see you. And come carefully—you
never know who's on the look out. Maybe you won't
get back to-night. The next street, sir—thank you. Top
of the 'ill, you said?"
Harris jerked his hand halfway up to his forehead,
nodded, and hurried on ahead. Surprised at the sudden-
ness of the incident, Culver had to force himself to walk
on naturally. His inclination was to stand stock still
gaping in wonder.
Then, slowly, it dawned on him that Ann could not
have warned Bill Coke, or surely Harris would have
known of her flight. He found himself uncertain whether


■252 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK.
to be glad or sorry, for now it means that he would be
expected to take an active part in a scheme that might
end in her arrest,
II
Bearing Harris' warning in mind, Dick Culver came
to Plomesgate by a circuitous route. He drove to Ecken-
ham at a speed that would make it difficult for most cars
to achieve; swung round and took a cross-country road
that brought him into Salthithe by the Chipping Langham
Road, and, at the little garage in Salthithe, he hired a
bicycle, saying he wanted to explore the marsh tracks,
and he might not be back for his car until the next day.
Parry was alone when he entered Beach Cottage, and
he welcomed him heartily.
"Old man, we're rather up a gum-tree to-night. Things
are moving quick, and it's a three-man job. You game
to do a tricky bit of work—no child's play, and a chance
of getting yourself into trouble? Say 'No' if you feel like
it, but I'll tell you," he said, after a few moments.
Parry pondered his pipe, then threw at Culver:
"We want you to explore Bidely Church tower. We've
got a shrewd idea there's something there that oughtn't to
be there."
"Yes—if—if you want me to," Culver replied, in amaze-
ment.
"Good. Wait till Harris comes back and he'll give you
details." Parry seemed to think it unnecessary to explain
any more at the moment. "Now, what's your news?"
This bewildering, matter-of-fact manner stupefied Cul-
ver. He wanted to ask a score of questions, but instead
he found himself complacently answering Parry's inquiry.
Parry listened with interest, too much interest, Culver


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 253
began to fear. Though he kept Ann in the background
as much as possible, Parry went straight for his own
well-founded suspicions.
"Sounds very fishy to me. That girl queered the car,
no doubt of that," he said decisively.
"I did think so, but I can't be sure," Culver retorted
feebly. "Mags do go wrong."
"Not mine," Parry stated firmly. "They're suspicious
of you; there is no question about it. But I don't quite
see the idea "He gazed into a cloud of smoke,
frowning.
Then Culver blurted out a watered story of his inter-
view with Beth Ames, adding: "But though they went
away, Ann—Miss Gray—was back this morning. She
as good as told me that—that her cousin had interfered
with her, and she'd taken her away." He shirked a full
confession, and felt miserably uneasy about what he had
told.
Franklin Parry's frown deepened.
"That was silly of you, old man, damned silly," he
said, after a moment's thought. "The last thing in the
world I'd like to happen now is for Bill and the parson
to get scared. And it seems to me you've scared 'em. No,
I wish you hadn't done that."
Culver knew the blame was well deserved, but he was
unrepentant. There was something so terribly grim about
this laconic man and his companion, waiting, watching,
ready to spring at any moment from their hiding.
"I can't help it," he broke out impetuously. "I don't
believe that girl is really one of this crowd. If she is,
she's dragged into it against her will. Forced—black-
mailed, perhaps. I wanted to get her away, and I hoped
he'r cousin could do it. Damn it all, Parry! even you can't
want to see a decent, jolly girl like that in the mud."


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 255
You can do that. Give me the tip and let me look after
her. I'll get her away by force if necessary. Or"
Culver seemed suddenly to realise the weakness of his
position. "Oh, Lord!" he finished in real distress. "Can't
you give me some advice? What would you do in my
place? You must see what a hellish thing it is."
Franklin Parry's face for once showed some feeling;
its hard lines softened scarcely perceptibly, but there
was sympathy in his eyes.
"I see, old man," he said. "I'll do what I can—I
can't say more than that. I've got no grudge against
the girl—particularly." He knocked his pipe out on the
bars of the stove. "But I don't know that I'd try to see
her again for a bit, and—I don't think we'll tell Harris.
He mightn't understand."
"You mean it? You'll help me?" Culver asked eagerly.
"You didn't leave me much option," Parry answered
enigmatically. "Yes. I'll help you make a fool of your-
self."
m
The soft twilight blended into a hazy moonlit night,
but Harris had not returned. Parry was growing anx-
ious; Harris should have been back by dusk, he said,
but professed himself ignorant of what he was doing.
"I'm very much in the dark myself," he explained.
"Queer devil, Harris; very suspicious. Perhaps he's right.
He says his experience is that half the cases he's been
engaged on have been decided by some one talking too
much—generally the other side. Most secretive is our
Mr. Harris, but, by Gad! he's smart."
Parry produced a meal, but at nine o'clock, with no
word from the absent man, he said: "Well, we'll carry
on alone. We'll have to make a start soon."
-


256 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
He outlined to Culver his task, and chuckled as he
handed him a couple of keys—"the result of Mr. Harris'
first innocent visit to Bidely Church," he said. "It's a
mighty good job that man's on the side of the law—if
he weren't he'd give his pal, Friend, points for deviltry.
You'll find the locks remarkably well oiled, but someone
else did that. They're using the church, old man, and
it's just possible they'll be taking something to or from
it to-night. But you'll be all right in the tower, and one
of us won't be very far away if there's any trouble."
Culver was thrilled. The adventure appealed to him,
and for the first time for weeks his mind was easier about
Ann. If Franklin Parry said a thing, Culver was quite
confident that he meant it. He listened to his instructions
intently, querying uncertain points, and studying care-
fully a recently drawn plan of the church, also the work
of Mr. Harris.
Parry piloted him by devious, cross-country tracks,
skirting Bidely village and crossing open heathland, with
the certainty of one who knew every inch of the district.
Culver was entirely lost, and when Bidely's mellow chime
rang out eleven, almost overhead as it seemed, Culver
started. He had thought the church a mile away in the
other direction.
Parry whispered: "Well, old man, I'm going to leave
you here. Work round up there in the shadow, and get
out before dawn at the latest, and make for Bidely cross-
road. And, if there's no one there, find a nest in the
heather; one or other of us will come along in time. Good
hunting."
Parry melted away into the misty night, and Culver,
with his heart beating louder than he liked, moved stealth-
ily towards the dense shadow of the encircling trees about
the church.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 257
It was not difficult going. A grass-grown, gravel path
led round the chancel end to the porch, and there, in
its silence and darkness, he stopped, listening carefully.
He could discern the vague mass of the rectory close
at hand, but it seemed wrapped in an age-long sleep.
Neither light nor sound came from it, and only a restless
sighing from the trees, moved by the light breeze, broke
the intense quiet of the night.
Just for a few black seconds Culver's nerves went back
on him. He felt a sudden panic, as though in every
shadow there were watchers, waiting their time to spring
on him. He felt trapped, with a horrible sense that the
moment he moved some jeering laugh would come from
the darkness, gloating, and telling him that he was caught.
To fight down this unwelcome horror he plunged his
hand into his pocket and brought out the keys. They
jangled, with a noise that, to his strained ears, sounded
immensely loud. He tiptoed forward swiftly, groping for
the door. Something brushed against his face and set
every nerve tingling, and brought an involuntary gasp
of alarm from his lips. But the next moment he realised
that it was but a flapping paper on the notice board into
which he had blundered, and he muttered, "Idiot," to
himself, and the incident curiously enough steadied his
nerves.
As Parry had foretold, the lock, when he turned it,
worked with astonishing ease. It gave out but the faint-
est click, and the door swung back as though it were on
ball bearings.
Culver closed the door and locked it behind him, to
find, then, that the silence he had left was hardly com-
parable with the deathly stillness of the inside of this
ancient building. It was eerie. The windows glared at
him like cold, accusing eyes, and his foot-steps, when he


258 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
moved, set up a clatter that seemed to echo back from
the hidden roof and proclaim his presence to the whole
countryside.
He had grown desperate now, and he hurried forward
towards the tower door with an instinctive desire for
safety. For the church, small as it was, seemed so full
of vast, unplumbed spaces, with shadowy, shapeless
things lurking all about. He breathed more freely when
once he had gained the shelter of the tower.
And there, in a few moments, he managed to control
his nerves and to look about him with the light of a
carefully shaded torch. Soon the remoteness and stillness
of the place ceased to affect him.
The lower chamber, which he had entered, was clut-
tered with the implements and gear of the men who were
working on the roof. There were short ladders, and
straw bags of tools; a roughly fitted bench with shavings
swept carelessly beneath it, and two iron drums, the labels
upon which proclaimed some insecticide with which,
clearly, war was being waged upon the destructive wood-
worm.
There was nothing suspicious here, and, after a time,
Culver ascended the creaking ladder-stair which led to
the upper chamber. This was the ringing floor. Eight
ghostly ropes, each with its woolly, fluffy handpiece, hung
from the ceiling. There were benches round the wall,
and inscriptions on the plaster telling of the bell-ringing
feats of past generations. A big deal chest promised mys-
tery, but it contained only a mass of rubbish, and, so far
as Culver could see, there was nothing hidden here that
might have bearing upon the veiled iniquities of Bill
Coke and the renegade parson, Clement Foster.
The floor above would be the bell chamber, and ap-
proach to that was up an almost perpendicular ladder to


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 259
a closed trap-door. Culver began the ascent, but in dark-
ness, for the ladder ran by the wall and passed a window
through which the light of his torch would have shone
towards the rectory. He checked as he reached the win-
dow and gazed wonderingly into the moonlit night.
Was anyone inside that house? he asked himself.
Sleeping—or watching? And what was Parry up to now
—and Harris? A loud click, just above his head, startled
him so that he nearly lost his hold on the ladder, and,
then, almost deafening, so close was he to the bell, the
clock gave out its midnight message.
Culver stood fascinated, listening to the last flowing
reverberations, spreading and fading into infinity, then
he turned once more to the window—and gasped.
There was an unmistakable light moving out there in
the darkness, moving from the rectory garden towards
the church.
Strangely enough, Culver felt no fear, only interest,
tremendous interest. So Parry had been right, something
covert was going to happen in the church to-night. Quietly
he unhasped the latticed panel and swung it open. The
sound of voices drifted up to him, and one he recognised
without question. It was Clement Foster's, and he was
arguing in anything but his familiar, mild manner.
rv
Curiosity gave place suddenly to alarm. Culver re-
alised his position.
The tower, Parry had suggested, was the part of the
church these people were using, and if they were coming
to the tower now, Culver was caught. Then what would
happen? Would they use violence, or would they be more
subtle and treat him as the burglar he undoubtedly was


l6o THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
in the eyes of the law? That would be a rich revenge—
if they dared take it.
His eyes went instinctively upwards to the trap-door.
There was safety in the belfry, surely, and possibly from
there he might gain the leads themselves. That was the
only means of hiding, and he did not hesitate.
He scrambled up the ladder into the draughty bell
chamber, with its unglazed windows open to the cold
night. And there he found yet another ladder, leading
to the roof itself. But he waited by the belfry trap, hold-
ing it half open and listening. There would be time to
go higher if he heard them coming up the toward stairs.
But nobody came, and soon curiosity again grew
stronger than caution. Culver began to wonder whether,
after all, they had entered the church. No sounds reached
him save the stolid ticking of the clock, and he crept
down, leaving the trap open behind him.
To the ringing chamber no unusual sounds ascended,
and more cautiously than ever Culver went yet a stage
lower. And there his doubts were set at rest and his
alarms revived again. He heard voices in the church,
and the tower door was open. That gave him a bad
moment; he could not for the life of him remember
whether he had closed it or not. But a light streamed
through it dimly, and he could not resist the temptation
to creep down and spy.
From a few steps from the bottom, he was able, by
crouching, to see that the light was at the further end
of the church. He chanced the last few steps, impelled
by the power of his curiosity, and he stood, sheltered by
the half-open door, and peered into the nave. Only one
man was visible, and that the parson, standing on a ladder
by one of the windows. He was talking to somebody,
loudly, and with no attempt at secrecy.


262 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
He leaned against one of the old-fashioned box pews
and mopped his face, then advanced to help his confed-
erate as he came in.
It was Ellis, the chauffeur-verger, Culver saw with
amazement; Ellis bedaubed with dirt and plaster carry-
ing the glass, like a baby, in his arms.
"Shove the stuff in the tower," Foster said, "and let's
finish the job. I'm damned sick of it; I'd never have
taken it on if I'd known what it meant."
It was not until then that Culver realised his danger.
The men were moving towards him, hardly a score of
yards away. He dared not shut the tower door, he hardly
dared creep up the creaking stair. But he must chance it.
He groped his way upward. From the ringing chamber
he listened for a second. The parson and Ellis had
reached the door and were discussing the best way of
getting their burden up the stairs. So they were com-
ing higher. "How much higher? Culver wondered anx-
iously. He scaled the ladder to the belfry, a wild scheme
taking form in his mind of jamming the trap-door against
them, if they should ascend so far, and finding refuge
on the roof itself.
On that upper floor, with the trap just ajar, Culver
lay, cold and apprehensive, waiting for what seemed an
interminable time, frantically scheming wild means of
escape, yet possessed of an enormous desire to see what
next would happen.
At last they came, moving at a snail's pace; first the
parson with a torch, then Ellis shifting his heavy burden
step by step. And to Culver's immense relief he saw that
the hiding-place of the glass was to be beneath him.
Foster opened the great deal chest and flung its con-
tents to the floor. It was a motley collection of rubbish,
old curtains, tattered hymn books, and worn-out has-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 263
socks—the debris of years. Carefully they placed the
stolen windows at the very bottom and piled in the rub-
bish with ordered disorder upon them.
"That'll do all right," Foster said at last. "But it's
got to be out of this place to-morrow. I won't have it
hanging about here."
"Well, I'm not going to shift it with this moon," Ellis
replied truculently. "It won't do any harm here till we
get a dark night. I can't see why you won't let me take
it round in the car. Who'd know?"
"I'd know. And I won't have it," the parson said
roughly. "It goes down the river—I'm taking no
chances."
"No, you never did," Ellis sneered. "I wonder you'd
the nerve to do what you have done. You and Bill are
getting the wind up. You don't still think Culver knows
anything?" «
The parson turned upon his companion, almost with
a snarl.
"What I think doesn't concern you, Marty," he said
with menace. "You do what you're told and think when
you're told, and that will be better for you. You're not
told to think now. Go on, get down, we haven't got
much time before dawn."
"All right," Ellis mumbled submissively. "I was only
suggesting."
"I do the suggesting in this game, you do the work,"
Foster answered in the same dangerous tone.
v
To Dick Culver this sounded like sheer madness. How,
he asked himself, could Clement Foster explain the miss-


264 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
ing windows? Their gaping emptiness would declare his
crime to the whole world. The workmen would be back
at eight, any chance visitor an hour or so later.
This was more than impudence, more than bravado
—it was idiocy. But there was evidence enough now to
satisfy Harris or Parry. They could arrest the parson at
once—unless—unless perhaps he were going to clear off
and leave Ellis to complete the job—do the work as he
had uncompromisingly put it.
Dick Culver could see no possible means by which
the parson could bluff out this incident, and he was anx-
ious, now, to get the hypocritical renegade caught. That
shocked him as much as anything—the thought that one
who had been in Holy Orders should have grown so
debased. Foster's fall could not have been entirely his
wife's fault; this man must have been crooked from the
beginning; mad, perhaps, but bad to the core.
Culver's chief desire, then, was to get away. The im-
portance of his discovery oppressed him; he felt, in a
sense, outraged by the cunning wickedness of it all. But
how to escape? Foster had spoken of more work to do
—was that in the church?
The two men had gone, and the click of a lock sug-
gested that they were not returning to the tower. Culver
tried to recall that lowest room in which the workman's
gear was stored—there might be a window there from
which he could escape. He made his way cautiously
downward.
Through the thick door, noises penetrated from the
church, indicating that that way was barred, and, grow-
ing reckless, he chanced his torch to seek the exit he hoped
to find. But it was not there; only by smashing the
latticed light, high up in the west wall, could he gain


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 265
access to the open air. There was nothing for it but to
wait in patience, and that long, cold wait tried Culver
more than any experience he had known.
It was exasperating not to know what was going on.
Minutes dragged like hours, and he grew cramped and
frozen. There were times when he dozed, and came
back to his senses with a start of alarm, to realise
his predicament. But still those ceaseless, faint noises
went on.
The clock had struck five before release came, and
then, at a new sound of movement in the church, Culver
fled back to the safety of the upper story. And from
the ladder, through the open window, he saw the parson
and Ellis creeping through the cold light of dawn like
ghouls.
A ground mist gave them an uncanny appearance as
they faded from sight going towards the rectory.
Culver did not wait. Now was a chance to escape,
and he took it. With a mighty sense of relief he emerged
into the dimly lighted church, and his eyes went straight
to the two lancet windows, looking to see their accusing
void.
But so far as he could see, the old glass was still there.
Even in the first faint light of morning it held a warm
glow, the tiny mosaic panes of blue and red blending in
a rich misty violet.
Incredulous, he went across the church and gazed at
the glass at close range. It was intact. The same quaint
little medallions were set in their rich borders, the same
odd little saints stared stiffly at the ancient church. It
was inexplicable. If it were not the windows they had
been after, what in heaven's name was it they had secreted
in the chest in the tower?


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 267
VI
The parson eyed the windows critically, and busied
himself, with the air of an artist, daubing something
on the plaster at their base, and touching up a point
here and there, then, apparently satisfied, he moved away.
Parry whispered: "Now, we'd better cut. Things been
happening, eh?"
Culver nodded, and they crept through the dawn
towards the higher, heath ground, in the direction of
Bidely cross-roads. They had been going some minutes
before Parry spoke in his natural voice.
"We've had a long spell, old man," he said. "I'm
frozen, and I bet you are."
"Yes, but where did you appear from?" Culver asked.
"Me? I've been round about all the time. I haven't
been a hundred yards away since I left you. And daren't
smoke either." Parry produced the well-worn calabash,
and began to load it with relish. "So now you know
what your pals are up to."
"I'm damned if I do," Culver exclaimed. "I thought
they were stealing those old windows." He told his
experience in a perplexed tone.
Parry chuckled. "That's all right, old man," he said.
'That's what they're after."
"But, hang it all, the windows are there. We've just
seen them."
"Not the old ones. Just fakes; that's all. A simple
move, when you come to think of it. It's often done
with pearls and old silver, but I've never known it done
with glass before. Nor has Harris. He'll be annoyed.
He vowed I was wrong, but I wasn't." Parry seemed
really satisfied; he smiled to himself with appreciative


268 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
content. "You know," he went on, "you sell the family
jewels and have replicas made. Nobody else knows. I
daresay nobody would know about this job for years,
but for us. And they've been at it for weeks, bringing
the new stuff up at night, and damned cunningly loosen-
ing the old stuff in bits and pieces by day. Your parson
pal's a genius—he's Friend, all right."
Culver shot question after question at Parry. At last
he was learning something of the hidden life this man had
been leading for weeks past. He heard how Harris had
discovered that there was communication between the
boathouse at The Pines and the old cottage under the
river wall at Bidely, a ramshackle sort of place that had
been rented recently by a "London gentleman interested
in wild-fowl shooting."
"I think we could put a name to that sporting gen-
tleman," Parry mused.
"You mean Foster?"
"I expect so," Parry nodded. "The poor fellow should
have been down a fortnight ago, but he's been taken ill.
Bidely's very sorry for him, so the landlord of the local
pub told Harris. They say it's no place for a nice gen-
tleman. It's rheumatic!"
Culver was sorting this wild, tangled story a little more
clearly in his mind. There were numberless gaps that
yet needed filling, but one point seemed very obvious.
"Anyhow, you've got this blighter now," he said hope-
fully. "I know where the old stuff is; I saw them put
it there. And they can't get it away till to-night. You'll
nab him at once, I suppose."
"Not quite so quick, old man," Parry answered.
''There's the lady to be considered. When the stuff's
on her premises, then we move, and I rather hope there'll


THE THE TILLI
CASE
STRANGE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK 269
be a nice little haul all at once-Bill Coke and her pals,
and the Reverend Humbug and the simple Ellis. Gad!
the world will be cleaner when we've got that lot inside,
as Harris puts it."


CHAPTER XXI
i
Mr. Franklin Parry returned to the Blue Boar at
Oldford that day. He drove up in the Fowler just before
lunch-time, and it was assumed by the hotel that Mr.
Culver's absence on the previous night had been due to
his journey to collect his friend. Culver and Parry en-
couraged this surmise.
The plan had been suggested by Harris over an early
breakfast at Beach Cottage. Harris had spent a fruitless
night in a dinghy moored a hundred yards away from
the boathouse of The Pines, and when he had met Culver
and Parry in a lonely part of the heath country, near to
Bidely cross-roads, he had been distinctly discouraged.
The news that Parry had to give, had galvanised the little
man into loquacious excitement.
But although he talked a lot, and asked endless ques-
tions, he said remarkably little. Culver received the im-
pression that, as the drama drew to a close, Harris wanted
to play a lone hand. It seemed as though he wished to
be rid of Parry—and Parry took the suggestion with his
characteristic indifference.
"Just as well to let Mr. Harris have his own way now,"
he explained to Culver as they drove away from Salthithe.
"It means more to him to net this lot than it does to us,
and he's got to get the police busy. That's what worries
him most; to see they don't act too soon or too late.
There's always a bit of friction."
Fatigue and the reaction from the strain of the night
made Culver unusually incurious. He wanted to sleep
first and talk afterwards. It was all unreal, anyhow,
and he felt that he would be immensely glad when the
whole business was ended. So long as Ann was kept
270


272 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
ter." There was a postscript, written evidently in agita-
tion: "It would be much better if we could meet in
London, not here."
Culver gazed at this odd, old-fashioned little note in
wonder. Coming as it did so swiftly after his experience
of Clement Foster's latest roguery, it appealed to him as
pathetic. This queer, loyal spinster—how hard it would
hit her when she learned, as she must do in a few days'
time, the true history of her one-time, parson hero.
There would be staring headlines in the papers. Cul-
ver visualised them: he had written them himself in his
time. "Ex-London Vicar's Career of Crime," was the
sort of thing, or, if Foster turned out to be Friend, and
there seemed little doubt of that now: "Parson turns Mas-
ter Criminal."
Poor Miss Cupper. The story of Wandle End would
undoubtedly be dragged from the past now. This case
of a renegade priest and his accomplice wife was going
to provide one of the biggest newspaper sensations of the
age. With his Fleet Street training, Culver could assess
it at its true news value. It would be a great "story."
And it would probably break quiet little Miss Cupper's
heart.
What she had to say about the parson, he was curious
to know. It could not affect the march of fate at all, but
he determined, instantly, to see the faded lady, and felt
glad, too, that he would have the chance to prepare her
for the impending shock. That seemed only common
humanity. He would hear what she had to say, then
tell her, sympathetically, that: she had been deceived. It
would be a rotten job. But then pretty well everything
he had touched lately had been unpleasant.
He went across to the post-office and telegraphed Miss
Cupper to meet him at his rooms in Bloomsbury the


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 273
next day, and when he went back to the hotel he found
that Parry had returned.
Parry was showing signs of strain, too. He looked
haggard and listless. But he seemed really interested in
Miss Cupper's letter.
"You'll go, old man, of course," he urged. "I wonder
what she has heard. It looks to me as if this slimy scoun-
drel was trying to re-establish his identity. Just the sort
of thing he would do. It's the criminal's egotism. I
wouldn't wonder a bit if he'd written to this fool woman.
He's up to some other crooked game, you bet."
Dick Culver took the dinner-car train up to London
that night and found a wire waiting for him: "Calling ten-
thirty to-morrow. Cupper."
11
Culver slept like a log that night. He was so sound
asleep when they brought him his morning tea that,
as Mrs. Saunders expressed it:
"You give me a regular fright, you did, Mr. Culver.
You must a' been late 'ome last night."
Culver grinned sleepily.
"That's all right, Mrs. Saunders," he said. "Only it
was the night before. What's the time?"
"It's near ten, sir. You never rung." Mrs. Saunders
became instinctively defensive.
"Ten!" Culver gasped. "Good Lord! And I've got
a visitor in half an hour. Wash out breakfast. No time
for that. I must dress." He jumped from the bed, and
Mrs. Saunders fled, more certain than ever that Mr.
Culver had been making a night of it. Gentlemen were
always funny in the morning when they had. But Mrs.
Saunders thought Mr. Culver a nice gentleman, if queer


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 275
I have explained the circumstances. They are very pain-
ful to me. So sad. So tragic. . . ."
Culver was puzzled and embarrassed. The woman ap-
peared to be suffering. Tears were very near to the sur-
face of those big, frightened blue eyes that seemed to
belong to a woman twenty years younger than she was.
Miss Cupper looked, then, like a scared, pathetic child,
bewildered and craving sympathy.
"I'm sure there's nothing to explain, Miss Cupper,"
he said, with an attempt at indifference. "How have we
misunderstood each other? Something about Mr. Foster,
I think you said. I—er—I suppose you've not heard of
him for years."
Miss Cupper bit her lips, and her face screwed up
again in that childish manner.
"No, no. Indeed, I wish I had. He went away—so—
so completely. Went away bearing another's shame. But
—I—I "She bent down with a jerky movement
and fumbled with her case. "I said I—I lied to you. I
did. I told you I had no photograph of poor Mr. Foster.
It was false—I had. Look."
She pushed a framed picture into Culver's eager hands.
It was a cabinet photograph, faded with years, and set
in a cheap silver farme, clumsily embossed. Culver's eyes
went to the portrait in serious wonder.
He had the bland, rubicund Clement Foster whom he
knew, in mind; the portly, complacent man of Bidely
Rectory. And although there was something very remi-
niscent about the youthful face at which he gazed, he could
not at the moment reconcile the features of the two men.
Something called to his memory, something to which his
memory would not immediately respond.
The Clement Foster of a quarter of a century ago was
a clean-looking man with thin, grave face and kindly, sad


276 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
eyes. His clerical collar was abnormally high and gave
him a stiff, old-fashioned appearance. But he was a
handsome man, an attractive man, and there was sym-
pathy, if weakness, in the mouth.
"So this was your friend?" Culver said, scarcely aware
that he was speaking.
Miss Cupper abandoned all reserve. The tears had
won now, and she dabbed at her eyes angrily.
"That was my dear friend," she answered, leaning for-
ward. "You said you had seen him, Mr. Culver. Has
he altered much? Oh, tell me, please tell me all you can
about him. He was happy, I hope; he had triumphed
over his terrible cares"
Culver flung his head back with a quick, jerky move-
ment. That elusive memory for which he had been
searching, he had captured. He knew now. This was
not the face of Clement Foster of Bidely; never had that
man looked like this. It was the face of Jean Malet, the
Jean Malet he had seen for those few minutes at the very
end of his life, when the merciful fingers of Death had
so inexplicably smoothed the rugged cheeks of the old
man and revealed something of his vigour and youth.
Culver could see again those wondering brown eyes
which closed so slowly, almost contentedly, as the quiet
words "Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy
kingdom" were spoken. The same wondering eyes were
there in the photograph.
For the moment Culver felt 6tunned by the extraor-
dinary significance of his discovery. He met Miss Cup-
per's questioning gaze unwillingly.
"Oh! You haven't bad news to tell me?" she whis-
pered. She was staring at him in pitiable distress. "I
would rather he were dead than"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 277
Culver bent towards her, his keen, grey eyes alight
with understanding and sympathy.
"He is dead, Miss Cupper," he said quietly. "I was
with him when he died. It was last August, in a little
Belgian seaside town. But you may be assured that he
died in peace. He died with a prayer on his lips, and I
know that he was content."
"Then you, too, were a friend of his?" the woman
exclaimed. She was fighting hard to control her feelings,
and her mouth was twitching with emotion. "Please tell
me some more. Really I won't—won't make a fool of
myself."
"Yes, I was a friend of his," Culver answered simply,
"but when I knew him he had changed his name. We
always called him Jean Malet. If you like, I'll show you
a picture I drew of him a few years ago."
"Please do." Adelaide Cupper clasped her hands ner-
vously together and crushed her sodden handkerchief into
a tiny wet ball.
Culver went across to a portfolio by his desk.
"You must be prepared for a change, a—tremendous
change," he said kindly. "Poor Mr. Foster had a hard
time towards the end of his life. A very hard time." He
fumbled among a batch of sketches and drew out "The
Pirate." 'That was how I knew him," he added softly.
For a full minute Miss Cupper gazed at the graphic
picture. She looked frightened, angry, rebellious, as if
in her own heart she suffered all the hardship and injus-
tice she believed the dead man to have endured. And
then, in a queer, hardly audible voice, as if she spoke to
Jean Malet himself, she murmured:
"Yes, it's you. But what you must have suffered! And
it was my fault; I know it now. I've known it for years
... for years. . . ."


278 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
III
Culver moved across to the window. His own thoughts
were chaotic, but he was aware of this faded woman's
suffering, and he tried hard to efface himself. It seemed
indecent to be witness of so poignant a grief.
Miss Cupper seemed indifferent to his presence.
Clearly, she had gone back through the years, and was
living again the tragedy of her life.
She stared like a woman hypnotised at the picture,
never taking her eyes from it, her lips moving in sound-
less speech. Culver grew almost as unconscious of her
presence.
After the first shock of surprise had passed, he found
himself suddenly glad, glad that the priest of Llanhurst
and of Wandle End was not that furtive hypocrite of
Bidely. And old Jean Malet's death was understandable
now. Indeed, he must have suffered much, but his end
had been peace. Whatever his sins may have been, he
must have atoned for much in those last drab years of
his life.
But there remained the woman, his wife. The problem
of Bill Coke took upon itself a new and startling form.
She and the false Clement Foster! It was only at
that moment that Culver appreciated the hideous outrage
of the position at Oldford. It was not human.
Was the Bidely man a dupe of hers, forced, perhaps,
to adopt her own husband's identity to further her own
evil designs? The thought brought fear. Culver feared
Mrs. Coke then, and hated her. With a pitiless, con-
scienceless woman of that kind, what chance of escape
could there be for Ann Gray, if she were in her power?
Miss Cupper broke the trying silence. Her voice was
hard and dry, and her face set and very old. The vagrant


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 279
traces of a past youth were wiped clean out of her vacant
expression, and she spoke like a soured, self-centred old
maid.
"Was that evil woman, his wife, with him when you
knew him?" she asked.
Culver shook his head. "No, no. He was living alone.
I never heard him speak of his wife."
"That's a blessing. That woman was worse than a
murderer; she killed a good man's soul." Miss Cupper's
tone was vindictive to the point of cruelty. "You know
the scandal about Mr. Foster, of course. Well, I'm going
to tell you the truth now, Mr. Culver, and God forgive me
that I never told it before."
Culver came back to his chair. Miss Cupper stared
straight through him, her lips compressed and her cheeks,
seeming to have shrivelled, pale with deep anger.
"They said he was a thief," she went on. "It was a
lie, but he wanted them to believe the lie—for that
worthless woman's sake. I knew the truth—I saw it
all, but he wouldn't let me tell. He made me swear not
to tell. It was at the Capes, at a dinner-party; I was
companion to Mrs. Cape then, and I used to come in
to dinner if I was wanted to make up the party. But I
wasn't wanted that night. . . ."
She stopped for a few moments, and Culver could
tell that her mind was far away from his Bloomsbury
rooms, back in Wandle End in its early suburban days.
"I admired Mr. Foster," she said more quietly. "I
thought him a great and very good man. He was very
kind to me, and I knew what he suffered from his wife.
Half the parish did. It was common talk." She flashed
a look of indignation at Culver as though he were re-
sponsible.
"Yes," he agreed, to bring her back to her story.


280 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"She lived a—a dissolute life—Maude Foster."
The name, spoken so naturally, rang strange in Cul-
ver's ears. He had never thought of Bill as Maude
Foster.
"Who was she, Miss Cupper?" he asked.
Miss Cupper bristled.
"That's what we all would have liked to know," she
said with a wealth of contemptuous implication. "She
was Irish—or she said so. She used to talk about her
father's estate, but we never heard where it was—no,
never." Miss Cupper shook her head primly. "Nor were
we ever certain of the aristocratic friends she was so
fond of boasting about. There was one—Lord Kerramore
—she used to talk of. Mrs. Cape met him soon after
poor Mr. Foster went away, and he said he'd never heard
of Maude Foster—or her rich father."
Culver was thinking of Bill Coke of The Pines, the
restrained, correct woman of the world. Certainly Maude
Foster had travelled far since those Wandle End days.
Adelaide Cupper went back to her story. She told
it well, but with an abundance of detail, recalling unes-
sential incidents that had impressed themselves indelibly
in her mind. She named every person present at that
fateful dinner, and she spoke with real feeling, despite the
passage of years, of her disappointment at not being at it.
"And I had a new dress for it too," she said, with
a wan smile. "I remember it so well. And it was only
after seven o'clock that Mrs. Cape told me that Maude
Foster was coming after all, so I shouldn't be wanted.
That was her way—that woman's. You never knew what
she would do. It tried poor Mr. Foster so; he was al-
ways having to make excuses for her."
And then came the confession, told in hard, bitter
phrases. She was in her own room, "trying not to mind,"


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 281
as she put it, "and crying like a ninny." She had heard
someone coming out of the dining-room, and presently
somebody moving in Mrs. Cape's bedroom.
"I thought it was Mrs. Cape looking for something,"
she explained, "and I dried my eyes and went to her, pre-
tending everything was all right. And I saw that
woman," Miss Cupper added in a voice of intense loath-
ing. "She was opening drawers and looking back over
her shoulder all the time. Oh, I knew what she was after,
but I watched, and I saw her take Mrs. Cape's pearls.
And then suddenly Mr. Foster came. I hadn't heard him.
But he knew, too. Oh, it was terrible, Mr. Culver! He
stood at the door, looking like some wretched, whipped
creature, and I'll never forget the way he spoke. It was
like a man being tortured. He said: 'Maudie! And you
promised me!' That was all, but I can hear him saying
it now. I thought he was going to die. . . ."
Culver was leaning forward fascinated by her words.
"And what did she say?" he asked sharply.
Miss Cupper's face blazed with anger.
"She swore at him," she gasped. "She used dreadful
words. And then the others came. I don't really remem-
ber what happened—then. I ran away. I was shocked.
I knew the woman was bad, but that—to swear at her
husband—and a priest!"
Miss Cupper lived again the shame of that moment.
Then she told how she had gone to the vicarage late that
night, after she had been told something of the aftermath.
She had faced Mr. Foster with what she had seen. Her
voice shook as she added:
"He was angry with me, Mr. Culver. I had never seen
him angry before. It was real passion. He told me—he
told me—that what I said was untrue. He said it was
wicked of me to say it. But I didn't care. I wasn't


282 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
going to see him ruined for that—person." Miss Cupper
shirked a stronger epithet. "I vowed I would tell, no
matter what he said. Then he begged me not to—so
humbly. It hurt me more than anything else. But he
said it would help him. I was weak. I promised. He
made me swear it. . .
She broke off, with a little sob, which told, as much
as her fevered words, the sorrow of her life.
To Culver there was pathos as well as tragedy in
this story, and for the moment it was the pathos and
tragedy of Adelaide Cupper's life that most affected him.
She was there before him, a quivering, suffering woman,
proclaiming a deep and absorbing love which the years
could not banish. Culver wanted to console her.
"Yet you were right, you know," he said quietly. "You
have nothing to reproach yourself about. Mr. Foster
would have suffered even more if you had shamed his
wife."
"But she would have suffered, too; and she deserved
to suffer. I wish I'd told," Miss Cupper retorted quickly.
Even now her hatred was strong, as strong, perhaps, as
her cherished love. The ferocity of her words startled
Culver; there was something elemental in her passion,
the more impressive since it came from so apparently a
passionless woman.
Sententiously he answered: "But now it's too late. Let
the dead bury its dead, Miss Cupper. I tell you Mr. Fos-
ter died in peace."
Culver lied boldly and deliberately.
"I know nothing of the woman," he stated. "Per-
haps she is long since dead."
Miss Cupper's answer was disconcerting. She shrugged
her shoulders, and gave a contemptuous laugh.
"Probably not," she said. "Women like that always


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 285
in communication with him. The situation was inex-
plicable. Jean, the rough peasant of St. Gules, in regular
touch with Bill Coke, who was his wife.
Did she pay him to keep away, or was he, after all, as
bad as she; one of her gang like the man at Bidely, and
Elsa, and—and Ann?
Miss Cupper, so anxious to leave, yet finding it so hard
to go, noticed his worried expression. She thought his
mind, like hers, was upon the picture.
"You—you're not regretting "she faltered.
"I—oh, dear me, no," he answered, then with a sudden
inspiration, seed of a formless plan, "but would you lend
me your photograph for a day or two? I'll promise to
take great care of it—I—I'd like to have it copied—to
show to another friend of Mr. Foster's."
The art department of Culver's old paper copied that
faded photograph; the original was in the registered post
addressed to Miss Cupper within a few hours, and Culver
left for Oldford with a couple of hastily dried prints in his
bag and an indefinite plan nagging in his brain.
Somehow, he felt, those prints might be useful; how,
exactly, he was painfully uncertain. But they were evi-
dence, proof of his knowledge of Mrs. Coke's past, and
he might have to apply pressure to Mrs. Coke.
It was Ann's position that was at the back of these
wild schemes, for Ann, he was for ever trying to force
himself to believe, was acting under duress. Though
Harris and Parry would undoubtedly have Bill arrested
as a receiver of stolen goods, here was, perhaps, a new
crime of which only Culver was cognisant. The woman
must be a bigamist—or if there had been a divorce the
fact that she had dragged her parson husband to her own
murky level would tell against her. Or it might. At any


286 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
rate, she wouldn't want the facts known. Perhaps Ann
could make use of the knowledge
Further than that he could not crystallise his ideas,
though he wrestled with them during the three hours'
journey through the placid, rolling country of East Anglia,
from London to Oldford.


288 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
he would not see her again for a month or two, and Bill
was uncommonly useful. She had ideas. And, like him-
self, she kept a sane balance between money and danger.
Bill, too, was fond of the good things of life, but she didn't
take fool chances unless she had to.
He told Ellis to overhaul the car, with a view to their
impending journey to London, and decided to walk the
mile and a bit between the rectory and the cross-roads,
where he could pick up the Oldford bus.
His start was delayed by a young man on a bicycle,
a friend of Mr. Britain's, who rode up just as he was
leaving, and the Rev. Clement Foster greeted him
most genially. He was very young, a curate at a big
church in Manchester, where he had worked with Mr.
Britain's son, and he was nervously polite to his elderly
colleague.
But Foster was charming; he insisted upon showing
the young man round the church, and drew his attention
particularly to the thirteenth-century windows. But he
watched the curate with anxious eyes as he gazed ap-
preciatively at the glass.
"Wonderful! Magnificent!" he exclaimed. "I'd no
idea there were such treasures here. Only a week or two
ago I was in York—you know the old glass there, Mr.
Foster?"
Mr. Foster denied the knowledge. He liked, but knew
nothing of, old glass, he said.
The curate, delighted to have an opportunity of dis-
playing superior knowledge, dilated upon the beauties and
value of the York windows, and Mr. Foster listened with
interest and appreciation.
"Indeed, you surprise me," he commented, in his kindly,
unobtrusive way. "I had never realised that old glass


290 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
II
Mr. Foster ordered lunch at the Palace before he went
to The Pines. He was well known there; he tipped gen-
erously, and the head waiter liked him.
"You shall have your usual table, sir," he said. "I'll
see that everything is as you like it."
"I know you will," the parson beamed.
And he beamed again upon the elderly maid who
opened the door to him at Bill Coke's.
"Please explain, if she's busy, that I can call after
lunch," he said. But Bill herself appeared at the
moment to bid him enter.
"How very curious!" she said, with her slow, engaging
smile. "I was just writing to you, Mr. Foster. Pve found
a vase to replace the one Dirk broke. I think you'll like
it"
"I'm sure I shall," he interrupted, with gentle remon-
strance.
They went up to Bill's office, and the parson dropped
his ingratiating manner as the door closed. He became
brisk and businesslike, and although he still smiled, there
was no benignity in his expression. His whole attitude
suggested that of a man who is very well pleased with
himself, and expects his success to be recognised.
"Well, Bill," he began. "I'm off to-morrow. You'll
have the stuff in to-night, and I'm going to start my holi-
day. If you like to trot up to Town as soon as you've
got it packed and away, we'll have a party. It's been a
good job, and a safe one "He rubbed his hands
with relish.
Bill's face was expressionless, but she did not seem to
share his satisfaction.
"Then I take it I can have a hundred or two before


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 20, t
you go?" she said, as if she were stating an unimportant
fact. Foster's smile withdrew.
"I don't know about that," he parried. "Fifty, if you
like, but we don't share till the stuff's cleared on the other
side. That's the bargain."
"That may be," she persisted, a little peevishly. "But
I've had to pay out a good bit on this business." She
took a cigarette and fitted it carefully into her long holder.
"And it may have been easy for you, but I've had a hell
of a time, one way and another."
"How?" he asked blandly.
"That man Culver," she said, lighting a match. "He's
kept me jumpy the whole time."
The parson gave a callous laugh.
"Well, Bill, you've only got yourself to blame for that,"
he answered. "If you hadn't lost your head in the first
place"
"It's all damned fine for you to talk like that," she
broke in, "you didn't have to decide. You know perfectly
well you were scared yourself at first."
"Only because of your blunder." Foster was truculent.
"That faked letter was childish. You could have told
him a dozen tales better than that. I mean, with the
envelope in one writing and the letter in another, of course
I expected the man to be suspicious. Women always lose
their heads."
Mrs. Coke looked savage. "All right. I've admitted
it was a break," she said. "But it doesn't alter the facts,
And the man's still here; still hanging about. And you
weren't any too clever over that time when they caught
you with the Lowenstein 'Marquise.' I didn't lose my
head when I set Dirk on to them, did I?"
The parson tried to stop these recriminations.
"No, Bill, I'll give you credit for that," he said, looking


292 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
up at her appreciatively. "I wouldn't work with you if I
didn't know you had brains. And the glass was good,
damned good. I tried it on a sucking bishop who called
on old man Britain just before I came away, and he
swallowed it whole, and gave me a short Lenten address
upon its beauty and value." He grinned as he recounted
the incident of the Manchester curate.
But Mrs. Coke was in no mood to be entertained.
"That's another expense," she went on stolidly. "I've
had to pay Elsa and Carl, and Eigen, who did the glass.
He's not cheap, you know, and he wasn't any cheaper be-
cause he thought the stuff was wanted to sell as a fake.
He cost me four thousand marks—real marks mind you;
that's over a couple of hundred."
They argued and wrangled for half an hour. Foster
was fair, but reluctant to pay. He admitted Mrs. Coke's
case, but held to the letter of their agreement, and Bill
never doubted that she would receive her full share of
the proceeds, but she confessed frankly that she was
very hard up.
The parson tried to compromise with a hundred down,
arguing that he had to get to America and wait some weeks
after that before he would sell the windows. They were
destined for an eccentric German-American millionaire in
an Indiana manufacturing town, a man with whom Foster
had often dealt before. Louis Sieger, like Benjamin Wis-
dom, of Seattle, asked no awkward questions when master-
pieces of art were offered to him, and Louis Sieger had re-
cently taken up old glass and armour as decorations for the
huge, castellated mansion he had built himself on the out-
skirts of the town in which he had made his fortune in
Sieger's Non-Drip Bath Taps.
"Honest, Bill, I can't do more," Foster persisted.
"There'll be ten thousand dollars coming to you before


296 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
stained hands—"but if I may just run you to the hotel,
and then push the bus into the garage, I'd be delighted."
"Splendid," the parson beamed. "So good of you to
take pity on a lonely man."
Parry drained the tin, and rescrewed the top.
"And how's that heart of yours now, sir? I was very
worried about it last time we met."
The parson reassured him. He laughed apologetically.
"A poor welcome I gave you then," he said, and added
with an intimate little chuckle, "But I'll try to make up
.for it to-day. And isn't it a curious coincidence," he went
on, a look of childlike amusement spreading over his
plump face, "I have but this minute left Mrs. Coke, when
she insisted upon replacing that vase her ferocious dog
broke. Isn't that odd, now?"
"That is curious," Parry agreed. "I don't know whether
I bring you good or bad luck, Mr. Foster."
"Oh, good. Certainly good. Mrs. Coke has replaced
my shattered treasure with one much better. But I didn't
get off scot-free. No, no." There was a touch of disap-
proval in his smile. "That very business-like lady saw to
it that I bought something else. She has financial genius,
Mrs. Coke, and her prices are for the wealthy."
As they drove to the Palace, the parson recounted,
prosily, how he was leaving a little souvenir behind for
Mr. Britain. In the narrow High Street they passed a
heated-looking young parson bicycling slowly along. Mr.
Foster broke off in the middle of his narrative to wave to
the curate, and forgot the thread of his earlier story, as he
began to tell of his meeting with this young man at the
rectory an hour or so ago.
"Such an interesting young fellow," he described him,
"and quite an authority on old glass. I showed him the
treasures of St. Nicholas, and he was so pleased. He


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 297
taught me quite a lot. He says those windows are worth
a very great deal." The parson looked knowing and im-
pressed.
"I suppose they would be," Parry agreed in the polite
manner of one who has no ideas on the subject whatever.
He left Foster at the door of the hotel with a cheery, "I'll
be back in about ten minutes, sir," and drove to the Blue
Boar, nearly knocking the amiable curate off his bicycle
as he backed into the garage.


CHAPTER XXIII
i
A cold sea-mist, driving in from the sea, enveloped Old-
ford when Dick Culver emerged from the six o'clock train
that evening. Bill Coke had been right: the weather was
breaking.
But despite the harsh, penetrating drizzle, Culver de-
termined to walk to the hotel. He put his bag in the town
omnibus, and set off down the hill welcoming, rather than
resenting, the inclemency of the night. It fitted his mood
of disillusionment and uncertainty; it gave him a per-
verted sort of pleasure to feel the dank rain driving on his
face.
Here was Oldford without the tinselled make-believe of
holiday skies and holiday crowds: a drab, workaday place
open to the pitiless east winds and the hungry sea, which,
each year, stole a yard or two more from the land. Culver
thought that life was very much like that, a cruel, merci-
less business, fighting stubbornly to engulf the peaceful
ideals of comfort and the fitness of things, which man's
foolish mind evolved.
At least it was so to him. A grey thing like that in-
distinguishable medley of sea and sky that showed beyond
the houses. The faint, despondent note of a fog-horn from
a distant lightship drifted through the mist, and he hated
the mournful wail, though it soothed him.
It was not until he turned into the High Street, a few
yards from the Palace Hotel, that he made a sudden
decision. Instinctively he felt that if he saw Parry, he
would fall again under that incomprehensible man's
curious sway. Parry had a numbing effect upon him, he
inspired a false confidence which destroyed initiative. He
was so plausible in manner, in atmosphere, rather than in
298


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 299
words. And Culver wanted, then, to trust to his own in-
stinct rather than to the vague assurances of his friend.
The lights of the hotel, turned on to dispel the gloom
of the evening, blinked at him cheerfully. Ann might be
there. He decided to see Ann if she were, despite Parry's
hints. Parry's interest in her was secondary to his own
scheme of vengeance; Culver's interest was very personal.
They told him at the office that Miss Gray was in, and
that she would be down in a few moments. Culver felt
relieved. He had thought, after he had inquired for her,
that she might refuse to see him, for they had last parted
in unusual circumstances; she driving off, leaving him,
tricked, to walk back to Oldford.
But she came into the lounge, smiling conventionally,
and greeted him without any reference to their last em-
barrassing meeting.
"Rotten night, isn't it?" she said, distinctly self-con-
scious. "I've got the glooms. What brings you here,
Richard Culver?"
She looked terribly tired he noticed, and more mature
than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were dark-circled,
and her manner listless. He thought he traced despair in
the way she blatantly ignored their last meeting, and there
was an intangible something about her which made him
feel that she mistrusted him, but was too weary to fight
any longer.
He reacted to her mood, which was so much akin to his
own. He made no effort at dissembling, but answered
her frankly:
"I have something to tell you that must affect you—
affect your happiness—tremendously. Once, you asked
me to—to justify my slanders." He saw that she was in-
tensely interested. The old, keen alertness was back in
her eyes, but she made no comment.


300 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Well, I can do it, Ann," he continued. "I want to
justify what I said—to you. And I think, perhaps, you
may be glad after all."
She looked about her thoughtfully. They were alone in
the lounge save for a couple of elderly women knitting by
the fireplace. To his relief, Ann answered slowly:
"All right. I'll listen. That's only fair. But—but this
isn't quite the place for serious talking, is it?" She smiled
in an uneasy way. "Wait a minute, I'll get a coat."
Ann was back in a few moments, snuggling into heavy
furs, and they went out into the misty twilight of the
verandah, where cold wisps of drizzle swept in from the
sea and the regular moaning of the distant siren accentu-
ated the dreariness of the evening.
Ann fixed a chair so as to get as much shelter as she
could, and then, with a touch of her old raillery, she said:
"There are not likely to be any other fools in Oldford
who'd sit out here in this weather. We shan't be dis-
turbed. Carry on and be quick. It's cold."
He dropped into a chair beside her, glad now, and de-
termined to sacrifice every other consideration if he could
only persuade her to cut loose from Bill Coke. He knew
she was miserable, he felt that she was frightened, and
she was giving him the opportunity that he had longed for
—to help her.
"Ann," he began very quietly, "have you ever heard
of the Reverend Clement Foster"
"Of course I have," she interrupted. "That old thing
at Bidely."
"No, my dear," he corrected her. "Not that rogue at
all. But a poor devil who died at St. Gules last August.
I was with him when he died. Once he was Bill Coke's
husband."
"Say that all over again," Ann drawled. She was


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 3OI
plainly excited, but she was doing her best to pretend to a
mere casual interest.
Culver elaborated his story.
"I tell you that man at Bidely is an impudent fraud,"
he explained. "The real Clement Foster was a poor
wretch who had sunk right down to the bottom. And his
wife, your friend, was responsible for it. I haven't the
slightest doubt of that."
"I know. I know." Ann put in. "You believe it.
But can you prove it?"
"I can," he answered hastily. "I can give you a pho-
tograph of the man, and you can face Bill Coke with it,
if you like. Or I will. And I've got the whole story of
his fall—and his end. I'll tell you what his end was. I've
told nobody else."
He recounted the last sad scene of old Jean's life, and
Ann listened without a word until he finished.
"Pretty rotten for him," she commented at last. Her
voice sounded trivial, and it jarred on him. "And you
brought this letter to Bill. Did she say what it was
about?"
He told her that part of the story, and something of the
'real Clement Foster's early life as he had heard it at
Llanhurst and at Wandle End.
"But that's not the point, Ann," he went on seriously.
"I'm trying to show you that this woman is bad—
thoroughly bad. And the thing that may help you in
this. If she's got a hold over you, and I believe she has,
this may get you out of it. She married Wilfred Coke,
and he, poor devil! drank himself to death, and I've heard
something of that story, too. I don't believe Bill Coke
was ever divorced. You see what that means. I know
it's rotten to use threats, but you've got to fight these
people in their own way."


302 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Yes," Ann agreed quietly.
"And—and "He was going the whole hog now.
"Ann, haven't you any—any suspicions about how Mrs.
Coke earns her living? I mean this antique business. Is
it genuine? That fellow Mingay, and Elsa Mayer—
they're not straight, you know. And the parson at Bidely.
Don't you think it's funny that he should be here under
that name?"
In the deepening dusk he could not see her face. She
was looking down, her head sunk in the tall collar of her
coat. But her silence encouraged him.
"The crash is bound to come," he urged so gravely.
"And you may be dragged down in it. Don't think for a
minute I blame you, my dear. It is just the excitement
you liked; the playing with danger. The unknown. You
told me as much once. And now perhaps you've gone too
far. So far that you think you can't go back. But you
can. Honestly, you can. Won't you tell me—won't you
confide in me?"
Still she made no answer. He looked up at her, and
she was sitting absolutely motionless, and for once she
appealed to him as weak, unable to look after herself.
"I want you to go away—to-night," he pleaded. "Leave
me to settle with Mrs. Coke. Tell me the truth, and I'll
see to it she doesn't interfere with you. If you'll promise,
I'll go off to her now, and tell her all I know about Wandle
End and old Jean. I'll deal with her. I've no pity left
for the woman after what I have learned in the past few
weeks."
Ann woke suddenly to life.
"No, you mustn't. You mustn't," she said, and she
was really agitated. "That wouldn't do any good. You
must leave me to settle with her."
"But will you?" he asked eagerly.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 3O3
"Yes. I will." She spoke in a slow, uncertain way.
"I really will," she added in a conciliatory tone that did
not quite convince him. She laughed and the laugh rang
false.
"It will be all right now," she went on. "After what
you've told me."
"Then you were mixed up with her—her real life?"
he asked, half in fear, half in relief.
Ann nodded. "Yes," she faltered.
Culver sighed. He was glad to get the confession, but
desperately frightened. Suddenly it came to him that
Harris and Parry might be acting at any moment. Per-
haps they were waiting at this second, at The Pines, to
trap Ann. A dozen hideous possibilities flooded into his
brain.
"Then you mustn't go near her again," he said sharply.
"I know what I'm talking about, my dear, and you must
trust me. That crash is—is closer than perhaps you
think. You must go at once. They are going to—to arrest
her."
The secret was out, but he was reckless now. It did not
weigh a straw with him then, if all of Parry's schemes
should go astray, so long as he could save Ann the de-
gradation that threatened her.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, putting his thoughts
into words the moment he conceived them.
"We'll go, you and I, now," he said. "I'll drive you
to Harwich. We'll get the night boat over. Then I'll
come back and see how things are. Don't worry, dear,
I'll look after you. I don't care what you've done, it
wasn't the real you that did it. You've just got into a
mess—that's all. And it will blow over"
She tried to stop him, but he seemed unconscious of her
protest.


304 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"She may try to implicate you—Bill Coke. But I
think I can stop that. How far have you gone, Ann?
Please be frank. Has she mixed you up in this Bidely
business, I know—pretty well all about it"
"Oh, don't! Don't!" she broke in. "You mustn't talk
like this. It isn't as bad as you think. Honest, it isn't."
Her voice was breaking, and there was anger mingled
with the distress of her words.
"You've done everything, everything," she insisted. "I
see the importance—the enormous importance—of what
you've told me. And Bill will see it, too. She daren't
say a word now—now that I know. You've been wonder-
ful. And so kind "Her words were coming in
quick, jerky effort, so utterly unlike the lazy, confident
manner of the Ann Gray he had known. "You mustn't
worry. I'm tremendously grateful to you. You've—
you've got me out of a horrible mess"
Dick Culver listened, and knew that he had failed. He
had not convinced Ann. She was honestly grateful to
him, he did not doubt—her manner showed that clearly
—but she was trying to placate him; trying to be kind,
as one is kind to a child who has tried to please and
blundered badly in the attempt. Culver was hurt, and
filled with a terrible despondency. Every hope he had a
few moments before had vanished.
"Ann, dear, don't lie to me," he said quiedy. "You
don't mean to go to Bill Coke at all—at least, not as you
say you will. You're only trying to put me off. But I'm
not going to be put off. I had hoped you'd let me help
you; but if you won't—I shall go on and do what I can,
despite you. I don't care if you hate me for it. You see,
Ann, I love you.
He heard her draw in her breath with a little gasp of
pain. He saw her, dimly, saw her effort to jump to her


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 3O5
feet, her hesitancy, and the final effort that succeeded.
And then she was standing before him, her head averted,
and her voice low and muffled.
"Don't make me make a cad of myself, as well as a
fool," she said, and she laughed. And the laugh, more
than her words, suggested to him the utmost depths of
misery. It was tragic; full of mockery and hopelessness.
He was on his feet, too, with a mad idea of taking her
away by force—anywhere. He believed she did care for
him, did appreciate what he had said, but that circum-
stances were stronger than desire. He forced himself to
be calm.
"Ann, you're coming away with me, now," he said.
She stamped her foot.
"Don't! Don't! Don't!" she cried. "Why can't you
be sensible? I'll do all the things you want me to do.
Stay here, stay here for ten minutes while I—I telephone.
Will you do that for me?"
"Perhaps. If you'll promise to come back."
"Of course I will. Only I don't want a scene." She
was recovering herself quickly.
"What are you going to telephone about?"
"About—about what you've told me."
"That—on the telephone?" he queried incredulously.
"Not in so many words, you dear, sweet idiot," she
expostulated. "But I can do what I want to do, if you'll
only leave me alone. You can't understand—it's so com-
plicated. Oh, won't you trust me even that little?"
"Ann, you swear you'll break with that woman?" He
was terribly grave.
"Yes. Yes," she said.
Culver did not believe her. £
"Or are you going to tell her what I have told you?" he
went on. He could not keep the bitterness of defeat out


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 3O9
nable, F. P. I'm sick of it all, I wish I'd never come into
it"
"I know. I know," he said, in a soothing voice. "You
like the hunting, but you don't like the killing. I've
felt like that, too, sometimes."
"It isn't only that," she persisted, her distress surely
getting the upper hand; "I feel such a filthy little beast.
It's all right with Bill Coke's crowd, I'll lie to them to the
last fence—but Mr. Culver—you can't quite understand,
F. P. He's been so infernally decent to me. I mean, when
he does find out—well, if I were him I think I'd want to
kill me." She smiled at her mixed phrase. "You know
what I mean—to find out after you've been playing ab-
solutely fair, that you'd been cheated all the time"
She broke off abruptly, with a tired gesture.
Parry looked worried.
"I'll make it all right, Ann," he said, after a few
moments. "He'll probably take it out on me first—and I
won't blame him."
"You can't make it all right," she argued. "Why the
devil we couldn't have told him in the first place, I don't
see. I wanted to I jolly nearly did once. Harris is
such an old woman. Why, Dick Culver's found out more
than he has—without knowing it." Ann's voice was full
of disgust.
"Perhaps that was Mr. Harris' idea," Parry answered
through a cloud of smoke. "Our Mr. Harris doesn't con-
sider feelings. He makes use of people. Cruel fellow,
Harris; but I like him."
Ann sighed.
"Well, anyhow, what are we going to do now? I tell
you I'm pretty well done. I've got that poor boy waiting
over there for me to go back to him, and I've got to tell
him something. He thinks I'm phoning Bill; he hopes


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 3II
chance to reply, and she seemed content to let him go. To
her, it was easier to allow things to take their course than
to fight against them. Life was so terribly complicated,
and she had grown very tired in the last hours.
in
Parry was back in a few minutes. Ann was sitting in a
stiff, uneasy position, blinking stupidly at the fire. She
seemed hardly conscious of his return.
He had adopted a bluff, alien manner that should have
betrayed to her his uneasiness. But she merely looked
towards him in a docile way, and asked rather bitterly:
"Have you done anything?"
"Lots," he answered laconically. "I'll have our Mr.
Harris here soon. We'll talk to him, Ann. I agree, he's
a little too official—and he prides himself on being un-
conventional."
"But you'll only talk," she said peevishly. "He'll say'
what his experience is, and I don't care a hoot for his
experience. After all, F. P., I haven't sold myself body
and soul to his blessed firm. I've done my job. I don't
think I'll wait till he comes; I'd only be rude to him.
And whatever he says will make no difference. Honestly,
I don't care now whether you get this crowd or not."
"Don't be silly," Parry urged. "You're getting senti-
mental, Ann."
"I'm not," she said defiantly. "I'm just fed up with the
whole business. I've had weeks of it, and I was sup-
posed to be finished now."
"Well, don't blame me," he retorted. "Blame the de-
voted Richard"
"Oh, leave him out of it," Ann said with petulance.
Then ingenuously: "And if I don't get back to him


314 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
twitching and her hands picking feverishly at the fur of her
coat.
Parry nodded.
"Yes, old man, I have rather," he said in a cynical way.
"I had to. You see, Ann had involved herself rather
badly over this Pines business. She's not allowed to tell
you the facts; she's engaged not to." A smile of childlike
innocence was spreading over Parry's lean face. "So have
I, for that matter, but I propose to break my engagement.
Culver, old man, don't worry about Ann; she's one of
Pringle's smartest detectives. She's been after Bill Coke
for months. Now then, Ann, tell him all about it. I really
am going to get on to Harris this time."
IV
Culver gaped stupidly at Ann. For the moment he
could not quite take in the significance of Parry's extra-
ordinary statement.
The door closed, and Ann looked up slowly with distress
and shame plainly showing in her big hazel eyes.
"Well?" she said. "Go on. Say it. I don't care. I
had to fool you; it was part of my job. I'm sorry. I
can't say any more."
But still he gazed at her in silent incredulity. It was
dawning on him now. All his fears and ghastly appre-
hensions were groundless. The growing sense of relief
seemed to numb his brain. What a complete idiot the
girl must have thought him! What a gorgeous fool he
had made of himself over there at the Palace, begging
her so earnestly to escape from a danger that had never
existed!
Ann's mouth was twitching again.
"Oh, gosh! For the Lord's sake say something," she


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 315
broke out hysterically. "I tell you I couldn't help it.
You'd have had to do the same yourself."
Culver found his tongue.
"But what can I say?" he asked vaguely. "I'm glad;
you don't know how glad I am. But please forgive me—
what I said to you earlier. Over there—at the hotel. It
was a pretty rotten thing to suggest. I couldn't bring
myself to believe it—really. Yet it looked so queer. And
I'd have done anything to have helped you out of the
trouble I—I was fool enough to think you were in."
Ann was flaming with humiliation.
"Oh, don't be an ass!" she exclaimed sharply. "It was
awfully decent of you, magnificently decent. I felt such
a devastating cad. Do be generous and forget it all. It
will make it easier for me. Let's pretend it never hap-
pened. Look here, Mr. Culver, I've got to hang about
here till to-morrow, but I'm going to clear off then, honest.
I loathe this place." She shivered, and her words were
coming quickly. "I'm going to Beth, and I'm through
with this rotten trade. I only went into it for fun. It
sounded so much more exciting than other jobs—so
novel"
"But who are you—really?" he asked in bewilderment.
She stamped her foot.
"I'm Ann—Ann Gray," she answered impatiently. "I
never lied to you about that. It was only that I couldn't
tell you what I was up to. Oh, do be sensible and don't
gape at me like that. I don't want you to be kind to me.
But you needn't look your loathing; you might speak it."
She hardly knew what she was saying. Her nerves
were frayed to ribbons, and all the time there were echoing
in her memory his pleading, earnest words, spoken so
honestly in the dusk and mist on the verandah. The way


3l6 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
in which he had offered, quietly, to sacrifice everything for
her. His simple phrase: "You see, Ann, I love you."
And now he must hate her. Quite rightly, too, she
told herself. Only it had gone beyond bearing to see
him standing there looking so hurt and disillusioned.
"I don't loathe you," he protested. "My dear, can't
you understand"
Ann would not let him finish. She read into his tone
merely a chivalrous determination to abide by the con-
fession into which she had tricked him.
"No, I don't," she said roughly. "And I don't want to.
I've said I'm sorry, and I'm sorry. But now the whole
thing's ended. And—and"
She got no further. She could not trust herself another
moment.
"And good-bye," she added, rushing for the door.
Before he could stop her, or expostulate, she had gone,
and he swung round, like a man dazed, to see only the
white panels of the closed door and to hear her hurrying
footsteps fading in the distance.
Franklin Parry found him standing in exactly the same
position when he returned a few minutes later. Parry
glanced quickly about the room.
"Hullo! Where's Ann?" he asked.
"She's gone," Culver answered dully.
"What's up?" Parry queried.
"Oh, I don't know." Culver walked slowly across the
room and dropped on to the sofa. "I didn't imagine
she'd want to have much to say to me after the infernal
idiot I've made of myself. You don't know what I said
to that girl this evening. I told her I knew she was a
crook and—oh, well, it doesn't matter a damn now. You
might explain a bit more if you will. I'd like to know
exactly what sized idiot I've made of myself." He laughed


318 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
because your visit upset Bill. Perhaps you don't remem-
ber that she got out of you when you were going back to
St. Gules." His eyes twinkled. "Anyhow, she did, and I
was over in Antwerp at the time, on the track of Mingay
—I speak that lingo, you know—and they wired me to
pick you up at St. Gules. Actually, I first laid eyes on you
when you came off the Ostend boat that evening; then I
followed you to the Grande at the Plage, and when you
went down to the fishing town the next morning I thought
I'd got a whale in you, old man, particularly when you
went on to the Rue Jan Hoeck in Antwerp, where I had
located my pal Mingay."
Parry chuckled to himself, as much at the memory as
at Culver's blank gaze of indignant amazement.
"I've told you the rest," he said. "And how useful
you've been to us. Harris has a great admiration for
you."
"Oh, damn Harris," Culver interrupted. "I want to
know some more about Ann. You mean to say you've
been in communication with her all the time I've been
down here?"
"I'm afraid I have. I, or Harris," Parry admitted. "It
was she who took the Plomesgate cottage, when she first
came down here. She thought it might be a good funk
hole for herself. And she did in the car, you know, at
Covehaven. That was a useful bit of work, but clumsy.
One of her few failures—your guessing. But it gave us
a good hour to prowl round The Pines with that infernal
dog away. We got some interesting information out of
that boathouse. And another thing, now we're having a
heart to heart talk. Remember a very good dinner we had
here once?" Culver smiled reminiscently.
"I'm afraid I had to make you a bit tight to get you
out of the way that night. You see, Ann had been follow-


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 321
realised that he had gone. He pushed open the door and
spoke quickly, hardly entering the room. There was
animation in his expression for once, the light of excite-
ment.
"Something's gone wrong," he said sharply. "Carry on
with dinner, I may be some time." Then he had dis-
appeared, leaving Dick Culver experiencing yet another
of the wild surprises that fateful day was producing.
The next came swift on its heels. Culver had only
just begun his dinner when he, himself, was called to the
telephone.
He went from the dining-room conscious of much of
that same excitement that had shown in Parry's face. He
had been suffering a strong reaction, a sudden feeling of
disappointment that he was to have no part in the climax
of this work of Parry's and Harris' and Ann's. While
he had been sitting there solemnly at the table his mind
had been straying in curious wonder, trying to imagine
what his associates were doing.
Something had gone wrong, Parry had said. Did that
mean Bill and the parson had escaped? He hoped not.
Now that he had had a chance to sift things out, quietly,
he was able better to appreciate the patience with which
these people had undertaken their laborious task. He
had thought, too, of Bill Coke and Jean, and wondered
that he had made no reference to Miss Cupper's revelation
to Parry. Somehow he seemed to have lost grip of things;
he had been so much absorbed in his own feelings that he
had entirely forgotten the subject which earlier in the day
had dominated the whole of his thoughts.
Would this be Parry on the phone, he asked himself;
Parry to say that it was all over? That they had arrested
Bill—he thought of Mrs. Coke, the smart, attractive, self-
possessed Bill. It seemed incredible that she might now


322 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
be a frantic, despairing woman in custody at the red-brick
police-station a hundred yards along the High Street.
Despite what he knew of her, he hated the thought.
Or would it be Ann? That was a new idea—and a very
welcome one. If it were Ann, recovered from her strain,
to say that she wanted to see him! If she would only give
him a chance, now that he had found his wits again, to tell
her how much she meant to him. The man who had been
fool enough to think that she was mixed up with people
like Carl Mingay and Bill Coke in their felonious life!
"Hallo," he said. "Richard Culver speaking. Who is
that?"
Bill Coke's voice answered. It was harsh and staccato.
"Mr. Culver, please come to The Pines at once. I
must see you. I must. You will come, won't you?
Promise me. It's something extremely important. You
will, please say you will?"
Hardly knowing what he answered, Culver said: "Yes,
I'll come."


324 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
She glanced up, in a scared way, at the clock. It was
getting late. The parson should have been there long
before this; it was after half-past seven. She went to
the door and stood, shivering, gazing into the misty dark-
ness and listening anxiously for the sound of approaching
wheels.
The wind was rising, and it blew slashes of cold rain
on to her face; the trees were soughing and whispering
mournfully. Water was dripping irritatingly from a
choked gutter somewhere in the front of the house, and
that gloomy fog-horn, which Bill had always hated so
intensely, added its share to the dejection of the night.
Bill could not endure this waiting. There was some-
thing terribly ominous about it all—the calm before the
storm. She fancied she saw figures moving in the shrub-
bery, and she went for Dirk and sent him ranging the
garden, but he found nothing. Then the telephone bell
rang, and she cried out in alarm as she started at its
piercing insistence.
But she schooled herself to her normal, quiet "Hallo"
when she answered the call. "Mrs. Coke speaking. Who
is that?" she said in a low, even tone, though her face was
lined and drawn and one hand beat a fretful tattoo upon
her office table.
The exchange answered, demanding her number, then
told her crisply: "Ipswich wants you," and in a moment
later the parson was speaking.
There was a placating geniality about his voice which
brought a swift alertness to Bill's hard eyes. Something
had happened, or Max would not use the telephone, she
knew.
"Oh, Mrs. Coke," he began, as though they were com-
parative strangers. "I shan't be able to send over for


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 327
And then she would get even with Max Schiller. Bill
Coke's hatred was of the cold, passionless type, and she
had hated Schiller for years. But he had been useful
to her; had brought her satisfying profits, and though
that allayed the desire for revenge, it in no way killed it.
And now Max had bolted—she had no doubt of that—
bolted and left her to shift for herself. They always said
of him that he was a coward, more careful of his own skin
than of anything else. And he had always saved that
skin, and had been cunning enough not to incriminate
himself. You never knew what Max was thinking, or what
he would do. In fact, Bill reflected savagely, even she
knew very little at all about Max Schiller, save that he
was the elusive "A Friend." But she would find him, and
the next time he should be left to bear the brunt.
Bill thought of the stormy, uncertain life ahead of her,
and wisely refused, then, to face its gaunt possibilities.
There was much too much to be tackled immediately to
waste time in surmise of to-morrow. There might not
even be a to-morrow, in one sense. Bill had trained
herself well to keep the future in its proper place. It was
not often that she failed herself as badly as she had to-
night.
She was lurking by the door when the ring came, and
there was one ghastly, terrifying moment as she went
forward; a moment of cold fear. Supposing this should be
"them," instead of the simple, sentimental Culver, the
shadowy, ever-dreaded Nemesis? She flung open the
door defiantly.
A gust of raw wind swept in and set the hall lamp swing-
ing, and, unbidden, Dick Culver stepped out of the harsh
night. He blinked in the stronger light and stared at Mrs.
Coke awkwardly.
"How awfully sweet of you!" she said, closing the door.


328 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
She had forced all her old charm of manner to her aid,
yet into it she insinuated a certain reticence and sugges-
tion of personal sorrow.
"You wanted to see me," he answered in a monotone,
more nervous and uncertain than hers.
"I did indeed," she went on, growing graver. "I'd
no right to bother you, I know, but I've had some bad
news, and—I don't know—somehow felt that you—of
all people—would be kindest. My sister is dying, and—I
—I've got to go up to Town at once. I only heard on
the telephone just now—and I rang you immediately. You
see, the last train's gone, and I—I wondered if you'd be
so awfully kind as to take me up. I know it's a lot to
ask, but really—it—it means so much to me, we—we were
very close to one another. And even now it may be too
late. But"
Bill broke down quietly and sedately. She did not
cry; she looked as if she longed to do so, but could not.
She smiled bravely and added: "But of course, I mustn't
ask you. I can hire a car. It was only that I remem-
bered how fast yours was. One does get rather upset."
She had led him into the dining-room, and stood look-
ing at him in embarrassed appeal.
Culver was not prepared for this. He had quickly
regretted his promise to come to her, and on his way to
The Pines had racked his brain to imagine what possible
covert reason Mrs. Coke might have for summoning him
so urgently. It would have to do with that "something"
which had gone wrong, he felt sure, and he had thought,
with some satisfaction, that he might, to the end, play
an important part in the plans of Ann and her asso-
ciates.
But now, faced by this agitated, white-faced woman,
with her convincingly told story, he felt at a loss. She


330 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
if I went. You understand me, Mrs. Coke—perfectly
well."
Then Bill did understand, and the revelation came to
her like a stunning blow. He saw her blunder, and she
saw her immediate danger. A dreadful, haunting, vacant
grin came to her red lips. It made her face look like
some grotesque Oriental mask, Culver thought, a mask
of evil steeped in reckless despair.
"So you were one of them, after all?" she said in a
voice utterly devoid of expression.
"I don't understand quite what you mean by 'one of
them,'" he answered hastily. "But I know: and I don't
want to take any action—any active part at all in—in
anything that may happen. I'm not one of them in that
sense."
She stared straight at him for an instant, and he felt
that her cold eyes were literally reading his thoughts.
Then:
"But you're too much of a coward to want to hear the
truth," she said scornfully. "I know the sort of man
you are. You shut your eyes to unpleasant things and
pretend they don't exist, eh? It isn't quite nice to hound
a woman into gaol, but you'll be just as glad when she's
there."
He flushed.
"I tell you I don't want to go into it at all," he pro-
tested weakly.
"I said you wouldn't," she retorted. "You won't even
be just; you won't even listen. You'd damn me, will-
ingly, unheard." Her voice broke suddenly. "Why do
you think Jean sent you to me?" she added with emotion.
Jean's name broke down Culver's resolution. His de-
sire to solve the riddle of Jean was stronger than he
realised.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM” COOK 331 .
“Why?” he asked, trapped by the subtlety of her
question.
"To help me out of-of the-ghastly position—I'm in
—now," she said slowly.
“Why should I believe that?”
Bill had caught him again, caught him with a last
despairing effort.
"If you're not afraid to listen, I'll tell you," she said.
“You've surely nothing to be nervous about, Mr. Culver.
They don't want you; and anything I tell you, you can
run back with to them as evidence against me—if you
think it is.”
III
Unconsciously he dropped into a chair, his eyes fixed
on her white face, fascinated yet unwilling.
Bill began to crack under the strain. She was not
quite sure of her man, nor of the best method of holding
him. And if she failed now, she knew that everything
was lost. She was thinking feverishly. Cheap sentiment
would not do. Shameless confession might-only an ap-
peal to his chivalry she felt would move him.
"Jean was my husband,” she said suddenly in an at-
tempt at complete surprise.
“I knew it,” he answered, and she gasped.
“His real name was "
“Clement Foster. I know his story and yours pretty
well, to the time you left Wandle End, that is. Who's
your confederate who has been using his name-at
Bidely? Is he Friend?"
To Bill's panic-possessed brain Culver's frank ques-
tion brought a curious satisfaction. If he-they-guessed
that Max Schiller was Friend, then there was a chance of


332 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
his being caught this time. That would make up for
much—for everything, if only she could escape.
She nodded defiantly.
"You're right. Max Schiller's his other name. He's
the devil who brought me to this, and the damned swine
has bolted. I hope your lot have got him. If only he
gets what he deserves. . . ."
Her iron nerves seemed to snap, and she staked every-
thing upon the chance of gaining Culver's sympathy. It
might be done, even now.
Her words came in an unrestrained torrent. To Cul-
ver it did not seem possible that it was the correct, self-
possessed Mrs. Coke who was speaking. Her steel-blue
eyes were larger with terror, her face seemed to shrivel
to some dead-white, skull-like thing in which two red lips
moved ceaselessly. And her story was frank to the
point of brutality.
"I'm not making excuses for myself," she said sav-
agely. "I wanted that necklace of old mother Cape's, and
I got it, got it away in Clem's pocket." The familiarity
of the name sounded fantastic to Culver. "I couldn't
help it. I had to have money; we were degradingly poor,
and the Capes were rolling in it. It wouldn't have hurt
them; the pearls were insured. And money to me is like
—like drink or drugs to some people. I've got to have it.
It's a disease. And I was going to leave Clem that night,
anyhow. I was mad ever to have married him. But he
thought he could cure me. Oh, he knew, poor devil!
He knew all along."
"And what happened to him?" Culver broke in.
"He—I don't know. I heard he went to sea as a com-
mon sailor. I didn't know that for years afterwards.
It was Max who told me, curse him! Max found Clem
somewhere in France. Clem had sunk pretty low then;


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 333
he'd been in prison, and was always drunk, so Max said.
And that devil got his story out of him—about what he'd
been, and me. You don't know the slimy beast that he
is. Max wormed it all out, every bit of it, and then
turned on both of us. That's his way—that's how he gets
people to do his dirty work for him and save his rotten
skin. Oh, Max Schiller doesn't take many chances."
Again Culver checked her. Her shameless candour was
infecting him. It killed, for the moment, his natural
susceptibilities.
"What do you mean, exactly? It's no good putting
all the blame on Friend," he said brusquely.
"I'll tell you what I mean," Bill answered in a low
voice, cruel with anger. "I'd married again then—mar-
ried Wilfred"
"Married?" Culver queried, hardly knowing that he
spoke.
"You needn't sneer," she snapped at him. "Went
through the form of marriage,' if you want to be a police-
man. I'd heard nothing of Clem for four years. And I
thought I had a chance. Wilfred Coke was rich in those
days. But when that devil Max heard about me from
Clem, he found me. He would. It took him five years
to do it, but he found me. Came to a little antique shop
I'd started, as a customer. Oh, he became quite a friend
before I knew what he was after." Bill's voice was inex-
pressibly bitter. "Then he started. I was to sell things
for him, things that would be left at the shop quietly with
no questions asked on either side. And when I objected
he put on the screw."
Culver was listening in rapt amazement to this tale of
villainy. Bill elaborated it with all the graphic intensity
born of years of hatred. Subconsciously she was getting
littie touches of the sham parson's oily voice into her


334 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
narrative as she told how he argued blandly that she must
do what he asked, otherwise the police might object.
That was when he produced the proofs of her bigamous
marriage, irrefutable proofs of Clement Foster's existence
in Belgium then. Bill said in a tone steeped in venom
and a yearning for vengeance:
"I can hear him now. The brute was almost crying
when he whined: 'And if we brought your poor husband
over here, think what a scandal it would cause. Not only
you would suffer, Mrs. Coke.' God! I could kill that
man. But he had me. What could I do? It was better
to go his way and chance it than make sure of it the other
way."
She stressed the "it" in an odd, definite fashion which
left no doubt as to the meaning of the word. "It" had
meant this moment, or what might immediately follow it,
to Bill Coke for years past.
Her tale was so unvarnished, so naked in its crude truth-
fulness, that Culver did not doubt it. It was shameful
bravado, perhaps, but convincing. No woman, not even
so evil a woman as she, could have made up the story.
Yet Culver wanted more proof.
"What has this to do with Jean's letter—your hus-
band's letter?" he asked searchingly.
Bill opened her bag.
"Read it," she said.
IV
She handed him an ordinary buff-coloured business
envelope. It looked as if it might contain some trivial
circular. Her hand was quite steady, but her wild eyes
were on his face as he took it, and she saw the eagerness
there, and was glad.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 339
that devil's power and he was going to get me out of it.
He says he was going to make you promise to do it. And
instead you've done nothing—just gone on trapping me. I
thought at first he couldn't have told you. You said
nothing about it. How cruel of you, to know all the time
•—and never tell me—and"
"I didn't know," he broke in defensively. "He—he
tried to tell me something, but he could not. It was too
late. He made me understand I was to bring the letter.
That's what I thought he made me promise."
Bill started up from her seat.
"But now you know—now you know what he really
meant—you will—won't you? Oh, Mr. Culver, if I hadn't
been so terrified, if I hadn't shown you that false letter, I
would have stopped, really I would. I swear I didn't
know who Jean was until that letter came. I'd never
seen him, never, over there. Elsa knew him. And that
devil Max. I hated Max even more when he started to
use Clem's name. He said it was safe, and he used to
jeer at me about it. You don't know—can't know what
that man has done. His cruelty"
"And what do you want me to do, Mrs. Coke?" Culver
asked abruptly.
He was beyond normal reasoning now. Bill Coke's
frenzied appeal made less impression upon him than his
memory of Jean, and the feeling that perhaps something
of this tragic confusion might have been avoided had he
seen the old man, if only an hour or two, before he did.
In the tenseness of the strain Culver blamed himself il-
logically.
Bill Coke's answer came hard and definite:
"Give me the chance he wanted to give me. You can
do it. I can't get a train, I daren't hire a car. With
Max gone like he has, it means things are pretty bad.


34-0 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
And I've had a warning, too. I only want a chance—
unless you are one of them. If so"—she shrugged her
shoulders—"well, go on. I've given myself away to you."
She saw him frown, almost in pain.
"Suppose I was Ann," she went on. "You wouldn't
hesitate then, would you? Oh, I could see how you'd
fallen for her. But I'll tell you this; Ann might have been
in my position some time; Max had his eye on her; she's
just the wild, reckless sort of girl to get herself into trou-
ble, and Max would have seen that she did. Very useful,
he said she might be; but I swear to God I headed him
off half a dozen times. I tried to keep her away from
him."
Despite the satirical humour of the situation, Culver
believed that part of Bill's story, and it brought just a
glimmer of sympathy with it, and a queer, unsuspected
distaste for Ann's part in this business. The thought was
worrying, and he put it from him.
"Where do you want to get to?" he asked suddenly.
"North," she whispered, and her eyes opened wider in
mingled relief and hope. "North, if you would. It's
safer. Get me to Norwich—it's a big city. I'll look after
myself there. You could do it in an hour. I'll go abroad,
I'll never come back again, I swear."
Culver sighed as he pulled himself to his feet. He was
being a fool, he knew, but somehow he wanted this woman
to get away. It might do some good. And poor old Jean
had wanted it. Perhaps, even more than that, there was
dominating his mind that formless aversion to betraying
—that was how he saw it—a woman he had known, no
matter how evil he knew her to be. He wanted to have
no part in that, and he wanted to keep from Bill Coke
the knowledge of Ann's part in her exposure.
He spoke unnaturally, almost roughly.


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 341
"All right, I'll try," he said. "I've no right to, but
Look here, I oughtn't to come back. Is there anywhere I
can pick you up?"
She nodded; she was almost beyond speech at that
moment.
"I'll come with you now and show you," she murmured.
"I'll wait there. We can get through the garden."


344 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
here to-day; I damned nearly caught him in the shrubs
this afternoon."
"Rot! One of the workmen," Schiller answered, affect-
ing the same indifference.
"Oh, was it?" Ellis sneered. "I know better. Then
what have you got to say to this? There are marks in
the tower, not ours. On the ladder and the floor above—
where the bells are. The dust is an inch deep up there,
except where one of your 'workmen' has been. And
you know they're not allowed up there."
"When did you find that out?" Schiller asked. He
looked really worried now, and no longer affected the scep-
tical manner.
Ellis explained volubly. He was thoroughly fright-
ened, and so was the parson before he had finished.
He was convinced that Ellis' man in the shrubbery had
been real, and immediately his lifelong instinct for self-
preservation possessed him.
Schiller thought quickly. Ellis' suggestion to give Bill
the tip, he brushed aside; Max Schiller knew police meth-
ods. If they suspected her, he would have a much better
chance for his own skin if she remained behind to occupy
their attention. The very fact of her ignorance might
delay police action, and if she started to bolt it would be
certain to be known, and start an alarm.
"All right, Marty," he said at last. "I'll go at once."
"We'll go, you mean," Ellis put in.
"You'll be a fool if you do. You're quite safe—who'd
suspect you? You're asking for trouble—they'll know
at once, if you run, that you're in it."
"And they're welcome to," Ellis said. "You don't
get me staying behind to cover your tracks, Max. I never
did like this job, and I said so. I'm leaving in the car


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 345
inside half an hour, and if you like to come you can; if
not, you can do what you like."
"Very well, Marty, I'll be ready," the parson agreed,
with unusual submission.
II
Ellis dropped the parson near the trolley bus terminus
on the outskirts of Ipswich. Ellis was for pushing straight
on to Harwich and abandoning the car there in a garage,
but Schiller disagreed. He would pick up the boat train
from the North at Ipswich; it was safer that way, he said.
So they parted, and Schiller was not sorry to be rid of
Ellis; in a crisis of this kind, he preferred to work alone.
"The Rev. Clement Foster" had discarded his clerical
attire. That, in a neat parcel deftly weighted with a brick,
went into a road-side pond half a mile the Bidely side of
the London main road, and when he alighted from the
bus in the main street of Ipswich, he had something of
the appearance of a well-to-do farmer in an old rain-coat,
well soaked by the evening downpour, and a dripping, soft
felt hat pulled down over his eyes as protection from the
weather.
He telephoned to Bill from the post-office, then sought
the shelter of a quiet inn for a snack of food while he
killed the time before the train was due. He was very
nervy now, and filled with a growing, sullen anger. This
was the second failure he had had, and money was get-
ting more than a little tight. Very bitterly he regretted
those two hundred pounds he had paid over to Bill that
afternoon.
Supposing this were a false alarm after all, he pon-
dered; supposing they weren't on to Bill! What was
going to happen then? She had half the stuff hidden


350 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK.
fork roads. He was excited now, and apprehensive. From
the darkness where The Pines lay hidden in its trees,
there came the angry baying of a dog. Dirk, perhaps,
discovering himself deserted; dogs had an uncanny sense
of these things. Or The next thought made his
heart beat quicker. Had "they" got to the house at last,
and too late?
Mrs. Coke rose out of the blackness of the hedge almost
before he realised where he was. His faint sidelights
showed up her frantic face. He could see her lips moving,
though he could hear no word she said. But she con-
firmed his fears as he jumped from his seat to help her
into the car.
"They're there, they're there," she said in cold fright.
'They came about five minutes ago—I heard Dirk. I
thought you'd never come. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry."
She sank, almost lifeless, into the back seat, a dark,
wet, quivering bundle of terror, and Culver started, nurs-
ing the car back up the hill, then letting her out on the
tarred main road and taking chances he never would
have considered possible in his sane moments.
All his attention was needed for driving, and he almost
forgot Bill's existence. She made no attempt to com-
municate with him. Once, as they passed through some
market town, he glanced backwards and saw her, by the
street lights, sunk in the same inert mass, crouching, as it
seemed, to escape the notice of hostile eyes.
As they neared Norwich he felt he must rouse her,
and he slowed for a moment and called to her over his
shoulder.
She answered quickly enough, "All right, I shall be all
right when we get there. Go to the station; I'll take a
cab there. It would be less conspicuous."
And in the semi-darkness of the station yard he left


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK. 353
"Packed up their little tents and silently stole away. But
we've got most of them."
Culver forced himself to appear surprised.
"You've got them?" he said, blinking.
"All but the fair Bill; she was just a little bit too quick
for us. They'll probably get her yet, but when the local
bobbies went to The Pines, all they found was your old
friend the dog. From what I hear, that dog had two of
Suffolk's smartest tecs chasing round the garden for their
lives. No fool, Bill Coke." He grinned appreciatively.
"But what about the rest?" Culver asked, genuinely
interested.
"The parson and Ellis they nabbed at Harwich, trying
to make the night boat. Our Mr. Harris is walking on
air to-day; the amiable parson is his pal Friend. Mr.
Harris will tell you all about it when you see him. He's
like a cat with two tails."
"And Ellis, too, you say?"
"Yes, he's landed. And sweet Marie—the charming
Elsa. She's got a pretty murky record, old man. They
got her in Paris. That's what started the rout. But the
gallant captain, he's loose, and Bill. I'm sorry about Bill,
I'd rather concentrated on her; I'd hoped to get on the
track of some of my stuff. But there you are, I can't
say I'll cry now the job's over. It isn't half the fun you'd
think."
Franklin Parry proceeded to seek solace in his inevit-
able pipe, and Culver crawled stiffly from the bed.
"Oh, well! I'm glad it's all over," he said. "It's out of
my line of country."
Parry nodded agreement.
"Well, it'll soon be finished," he said. "I don't think
you'll see much of me to-day, though. You'll find me at
The Pines this morning, if you want me. They're going


354 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
through the place with a fine-tooth comb. We started last
night, but Bill was cute. We hadn't found a single in-
criminating thing up to about one o'clock this morning.
I wonder she left. She could have stopped and bluffed it
out, I believe."
Culver was stropping a razor.
"It's too much for me," he said, non-committally, and
Parry went to the door.
"I'll try and be back for lunch," he said, "but if you
like to come along and see what's doing—come." He
hesitated for a moment. "You'll find Harris and Ann
there," he added casually.
Ill
At first, Dick Culver vowed to himself that nothing
should drag him to The Pines that morning. He was
not going back into the sordid atmosphere he hoped
to have escaped for ever. And he did not want to see
Ann—there.
But human curiosity conquered aversion. It was a
nerve-fretting job sitting about in the almost empty hotel,
with nothing to do, and nothing to distract his thoughts.
He couldn't shift them from The Pines, and ceaseless
speculation of what was happening there.
Soon after eleven he surrendered with ill grace, and
tramped through the rain towards the river.
Ann's car stood in the drive of The Pines. A uniformed
policeman let him into the house. That was grim to
start with. Somehow, he had not expected to see the
law openly in charge of Bill's home.
The constable nodded in an intimate way.
"Mr. Parry said you'd be coming," he said. "He's
in the studio; you know the way?"


356 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
"Where is Ann?" Culver asked, with an unfamiliar
gruffness.
"I don't know, old man; she was about just now. She's
pretty sick, after all her work. She was down here last
night putting the plain-clothes men wise before they sent
down with the warrant. But the fair Bill slipped through
their fingers. She was a great woman."
Ann came into the room at the moment. She was
looking terribly tired and sad, Culver thought. She
gave him a casual little nod, and addressed Parry.
"Oh, gosh! I'm fed up with it, F. P.," she said. Then
to Culver: "He's told you, I suppose? Bill's won. Short
of taking the floor up, I think we've searched every inch
of the house. And I was supposed to know!"
Parry moved away to answer some question of the
man at the corner cupboard, and Ann and Culver walked
slowly to the top of the room. He sensed her self-con-
sciousness and tried to talk easily, but she answered him
in a despondent tone of bravado.
They sat down for a moment on the chest, Bill's
treasured Flemish dower chest, and Ann asked for a
cigarette.
"You do some guessing, Richard Culver," she said,
more in her old lazy way. "You seem to have been
spotting winners all along. I've backed a dud this time."
He was glad to note the friendlier tone of her voice,
and he wanted to continue it.
"No, Ann. Things fell at me; I didn't guess much
—not even your part." She flushed and, to cover what
he felt to be a blunder, he went on wildly: "What about
this thing?" He kicked the chest. But his idle remark
started a train of thought. Bill had always been curious
about that chest. He looked down at it with sudden


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 357
awakened interest. "Hop up a second, Ann," he con-
tinued, "let's have a look."
Ann's face was intent; she seemed already to have ab-
sorbed something of his thoughts. Together they raised
the cumbersome lid, and Culver tapped the massive tim-
bers. "It might," he murmured, speaking as much to
himself as to Ann. He bent down and lifted one end of
the great thing, and it felt as heavy as it looked.
Ann called crisply across the room: "F. P., come here
a minute. Richard Culver's got another brain-wave."
Parry came over to them.
"I don't know," Culver said, now in the toils of his
own imagination. "But I was thinking—it's heavy, of
course, but then with all this ironwork—and the timbers.
Did you ever see anything quite so thick in a piece of
furniture? Suppose—yes, and there was a dud end when
I first saw it." He was down on his knees running his
fingers carefully over the repaired end. He shook it, and
it moved slightly.
Culver looked up excitedly. Ann and Parry were re-
garding him with tense interest.
"By Gad! it is, Parry," he said. "She stowed the stuff
away in here somehow."
Franklin Parry, less gentle than Culver, stooped with-
out a word and gave a great wrench to the end which
Culver had been examining. It slid upwards. The next
moment it was free and on the floor, and Bill Coke's hid-
ing-place was discovered.
The thick timbers of that huge chest had been hol-
lowed out with infinite care. Even so, on either side of
the cavities there was a good half-inch of wood. Bill
must have had the whole thing in pieces to carry out
her work. The bottom, a rough board of oak, had been
split flatways and cunningly glued together. And it was


358 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
there they found, packed delicately in a safe nest of thick,
brown felt, a jig-saw puzzle of things that looked like
pieces of slate until you held them to the light. And
then the rich colours of one of Bidely's thirteenth-century
windows glowed in them.
The glass had been entirely removed from its lead—
that had found a resting-place in the mud of Oldford's
river—and Culver fingered the serrated edges of the pre-
cious stuff reverently. Scraps of lichen clung to it in
places; other pieces were bitten deep with the corrosion
of seven hundred years. There was a quaint little pink-
faced saint, with his head set stiffly awry. Culver felt
uncommonly glad he was not going into alien hands after
so many years in this peaceful land of heather and marsh.
One of the policemen engaged in the search laughed:
"Don't look worth while pinching to me. Now this—this
is the stuff."
He had come upon the Lowenstein miniature in its glit-
tering jewelled frame, stowed away in a neat little cell
of its own. Parry took it from the man's hands and
passed it to Culver.
"I think we've seen this before, old man," he said
solemnly.
Culver smiled absent-mindedly. He was still amazed
at his own fortunate discovery.
"All this was going to America," he said. "You're
right, Parry, she had big brains, that woman."
Parry laughed inconsequendy, and tapped his forehead.
"'Got it here all right,' as Mr. Harris says. Poor
old Harris! he's over in some stuffy police-court today
dealing with his pal Friend. He'd like to have been in
on this."
They pulled the ancient chest to pieces, and tore from
it all its treasures, and a treasure chest, indeed, it was,


THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK 359
with precious relics of a score of robberies, cunningly
secreted in its timbers.
Certainly Bill had entrusted many eggs to one basket,
but if that basket had got through the American Cus-
toms, there was rich gleaning to come from the harvest.
Parry and the policemen were filled with admiration for
the cleverness of it all. Ann seemed dazed. She spoke
very little, and appeared wrapped in her own gloomy
thoughts. Culver watched her frequently, and read in
her face the bitterness of defeat, and despite his gladness
of that failure, most eagerly he longed to soothe the bit-
terness. And he could conceive but one way of doing it.
IV
Reaction followed swiftly the excitement of Culver's
discovery. The studio was littered with the treasures
of the Flemish chest, and the policemen were at work
upon the mechanical, official inventorying of the find.
Parry had gone off to telephone, and Culver and Ann
stood gazing silently at the steady downpour from the
leaden sky.
Ann was frankly depressed, but to his joy, not averse
to his company, Culver thought. He was trying to
rally her with inconsequent talk, and told her of his
night in the tower of Bidely Church.
She answered very little, and interrupted once with
a characteristic:
"Oh, Lord! Let's get out of this. I can't stand this
house any longer."
"Come to lunch," he said quickly.
"If you like," she replied, without much enthusiasm.
"But where? I don't want to go back to the Palace."


360 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
An idea came to him, but he expressed it fearfully.
It was too much to hope she would agree.
"Keep an old promise and come to Salthithe," he said.
He saw her start, and some of the despondency went
from her tired eyes.
"You're full of bright ideas," she answered mockingly.
"It's just on two now, and by the time we get there"
"You said tea, you know," he broke it.
"Oh, all right—come on," she agreed, and sent a great
surge of thankfulness through Culver's heart.
They drove through the rain across the bleak common-
land, cold and sad under the grey sky, with only the ever-
faithful gorse to lend a touch of bright colour to the
sodden autumn landscape.
Ann was still bitter and moody, but as they passed the
signpost at the road to Pryke, she said, with a hard laugh:
"That's as far as we got last time. Remember that
day? You were being nursed then, Richard Culver:
taken out of Oldford so that you shouldn't run up against
Carl Mingay. I saw to it that the tyre went and we had
no spare wheel. I used to think I was fooling you and
Bill Coke beautifully. But you both won in the end.
You'd be sick, too, wouldn't you?"
Culver took this Heaven-sent chance, to find which he
had been puzzling throughout the drive.
"Bill didn't fool you," he said quietly. "I did."
"I know you did," she nodded.
"I mean about her getting away," he went on stub-
bornly.
Ann slowed the car, and looked at him incredulously.
There was something in her expression that almost made
him lose his nerve, and he rushed the words to get them
over.
"What do you mean?" she said sharply.


362 THE STRANGE CASE OF "WILLIAM" COOK
Start the thing, please "She was still fighting hard
with herself. "We'll talk about it later."
But Dick Culver knew then, knew that he could say
what he had been longing to say for weeks past; and he
laughed confidently.
"We'll talk about it now, an it please you, my dear.
And I don't care how long the car stays here. Come, Ann,
be a dear, sentimental idiot yourself—won't you?" His ,
arms went out to her in instinctive appeal.
She still looked mystified, but her face no longer be-
trayed any bitterness.
"Richard Culver, don't be an ass," she said slowly.
"You mustn't—not here. Look, there are people coming."
He glanced up swiftly, to see a plodding farm-cart in
the distance.
"I don't care how many people are coming," he replied. |
"Ann, you want someone to look after you—always. I'm
the someone. Please—dear"
"But I'm a sneak, and a busybody, and a prying pro-
fessional, and a—a—failure," she answered suddenly.
"Ann, I love you," he said simply. Then impulsively
he took her in his arms: "And you've got to love me—
got to, do you hear?" he repeated. "Got to."
"Gosh! But we are a couple of soppy idiots," she whis-
pered huskily. And they never knew when that creaking
cart passed them by.
THE END








UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

3 9015 06392 3687
BOUND
NOV 18 1940