The Crow's Inn tragedy

The offices of Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner took up the whole of the first floor of the corner house of Crow's Inn Square. Bechcombe and Turner was one of the oldest legal firms in London. Their offices were dingy, not to say grimy-looking. The doors and windows had evidently not had a coat of paint for years. There were no lifts in Crow's Inn. Any such modern innovation would have been out of place in the tall, narrow-casemented houses that stood square round the grass—grass which was bound and crossed by stone flagged walks. The front door of the corner house stood open; the tessellated floor of the hall was dulled by the passing of numberless footsteps. The narrow, uncarpeted stairs went up just opposite the door.

A tall, grey-haired clergyman, who was carefully scrutinizing the almost illegible doorplate, glanced round in some distaste as he went up the worn stairs. At the top he was faced by a door with the legend “Inquiries” written large upon it. After a moment's hesitation he knocked loudly. Instantly a panel in the middle of the door shot aside and a small, curiously wrinkled face looked out inquisitively.

“Mr. Bechcombe?” the caller said inquiringly. “Please tell him that Mr. Collyer has called, but that he will wait.”

The message was repeated by a boyish voice, the panel was pushed into its place again, a door by the side opened and Mr. Collyer was beckoned in. He found himself in a small ante-room; a door before him stood open and he could see into an office containing a row of desks on each side and several clerks apparently writing busily away. Nearer to him was another open door evidently leading into a waiting-room, furnished with a round centre-table and heavy leather chairs—all with the same indescribable air of gloom that seemed to pervade Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.

The boy who had admitted Mr. Collyer now stood aside for him to pass in, and then departed, vouchsafing the information that Mr. Bechcombe would be at leisure in a few minutes.

With a sigh of relief the clergyman let himself down into one of the capacious arm-chairs, moving stiffly like a man afflicted with chronic rheumatism. Then he laid his head against the back of it as if thoroughly tired out. Seen thus in repose, the deep lines graven on his clean-shaven face were very noticeable, his mouth had a weary droop, and his kind, grey eyes with the tiny network of wrinkles round them were sad and worried.

The minutes were very few indeed before a bell rang close at hand, a door sprang open as if by magic and the same boy beckoned him into a farther room.

Luke Bechcombe was standing on the hearthrug with his back to the open fireplace. The head, and in fact the sole representative, of the firm of Bechcombe and Turner, since Turner had retired to a villa at Streatham, Luke Bechcombe was a small, spare man with grey hair already growing very thin near the temples and on the crown, and a small, neatly trimmed, grey beard. His keen, pale eyes were hidden from sight by a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. His general appearance was remarkably spick and span.

He came forward with outstretched hand as the clergyman entered somewhat hesitatingly.

“Why, Jim, this is an unexpected pleasure! What has brought you up to town?”

The clergyman looked at him doubtfully as their hands met.

“The usual thing—worry! I came up to consult you, to ask if you could help me.”

The solicitor glanced at him keenly, then he turned to the revolving chair before his desk and motioned his visitor to the one opposite.

“Tony again?” he questioned, as his visitor seated himself.

The clergyman waited a minute, twirling his soft hat about in his hands as he held it between his knees.

“Tony again!” he assented at last. “It isn't the lad's fault, Luke, I truly believe. He can't get a job that suits him. Those two years at the War played ruination with the young men just beginning life. Tony would make a good soldier. But he doesn't seem to fit in anywhere else.”

“Then why doesn't he enlist?” Luke Bechcombe snapped out.

“His mother,” Mr. Collyer said quietly. “She would never have a moment's peace.”

Luke Bechcombe pushed back his glasses and stared at his brother-in-law for a moment. Then he nodded his head slowly. The Rev. James Collyer's statement was true enough he knew—none better. Mrs. Collyer was his sister; the terrible anxiety of those last dreadful days of the Great War, when her only son had been reported wounded and missing for months, had played havoc with her heart. Tony Collyer had had a hot time of it in one of the prisoners' camps in Germany; he had been gassed as well as badly wounded, and he had come back a shadow of his old self. His mother had nursed him back to health and sanity, but the price had been the invalid couch that had stood ever since in the Rectory morning-room. No. Tony Collyer could never enlist in his mother's lifetime. The same applied to emigration. Tony must get a job at home, and England, the home of heroes, had no use for her heroes now.

There had been times when Tony envied those comrades of his whose graves lay in Flanders' soil. They, at any rate, had not lived to know that they were little better than nuisances in the land for which they had fought and died. He had had several jobs, but in every one of them he had been a square peg in a round hole. They had all been clerkships of one kind or another and Tony had hated them all. Nevertheless he had conscientiously done his best for some time. Latterly, however, Tony had taken to slacking. He had met with some of his old companions of the Great War and had spent more money than he could afford. Three times already his father had paid his debts, taxing his resources to the utmost to do so. Each time Tony had promised reformation and amendment, but each time the result had been the same. Small wonder that the rector's hair was rapidly whitening, that every day seemed to make new lines on his fresh-coloured, pleasant face.

His brother-in-law glanced at him sympathetically now.

“What is Tony doing just at present?”

“Nothing, most of the time,” his father said bitterly. “But I hear this morning that he has been offered a post as bear leader to the younger brother of a friend of his. I gather the lad is a trifle defective.”

“Must be, I should think. His friends too, I imagine,” Luke Bechcombe barked gruffly.

The implication was unmistakable. The rector sighed uneasily.

“I have faith, you know, Luke, that the boy will come right in the end. He is the child of many prayers.”

“Umph!” Mr. Bechcombe sat drumming his fingers on the writing-pad before him. “Why don't you let him pay his debts out of his salary?”

The clergyman stirred uneasily.

“He couldn't. And there are things that must be met at once—debts of honour, he calls them. But that is enough, Luke. I mean to give the boy a clean start this time, and I think he will go straight. He has an inducement now that he has never had before.”

“Good heavens! Not a girl?” Luke Bechcombe ejaculated.

Mr. Collyer bent his head.

“Yes, I hope so. A very charming girl too, I believe.”

“Who is she?”

“I do not suppose I shall be betraying confidence if I tell you,” the clergyman debated. “You will have to know soon, I expect. Her name is Cecily Hoyle.”

“Good heavens!” The lawyer sat back and stared at him. “Do you mean my secretary?”

“Your secretary,” Mr. Collyer acquiesced. “She is a nice girl, isn't she, Luke?”

“Niceness doesn't matter in a secretary,” the lawyer said gruffly. “She types and takes shorthand notes very satisfactorily. As for looks she is nothing particular. Madeline took care of that—always does! In fact she engaged her for me. Still, she is a taking little thing. How the deuce did Tony get hold of her?”

The clergyman shook his head.

“I don't know. He only spoke of her the other day. But it will be good for the lad, Luke. I believe it is the genuine thing.”

“Genuine thing! Good for the lad!” Luke Bechcombe repeated scornfully. “Tony can't keep himself. How is he going to keep my secretary?”