# The Day of Uniting/Chapter 7

pp. 19–23.

### CHAPTER VII.

Jimmy drove back to the house, his heart like lead. He went straight to his study, locked the door and, throwing himself down on the sofa, wept as he never thought it possible for a grown man to weep. He had loved Jerry.
Presently he got up with an aching head and going to his room, took a cold shower. Moses brought him a cup of strong tea and made no comment upon his appearance. Jimmy now realized that, as the household knew of the tragedy, it would be difficult to keep the news from the girl. On the whole, after consideration, he thought she had better know.
He was at breakfast when she came down and, as she passed him to her place, she laid her hand for a moment on his shoulder, and there was something so eloquent in that expression of sympathy that Jimmy nearly broke down again.
“I've been blubbing like a kid all the morning. What do you think of that for a grown man?” he asked with self-contempt.
“I should have expected you to,” she said quietly, and then he remembered her own little worry.
“Your father hasn't returned yet?”
“No, but I have had a note from him. It came down from London by messenger. He has been at work at his office most of the night, and he said he would fetch me this evening.”
“He couldn't stay here, I suppose?” asked Jimmy. “It's rather far from his office, but he could go up by car every morning and we could fetch him every night.”
She was silent, knowing that it was a woman's presence he needed, and that woman, she.
“I'll ask him when he comes, to-night,” she said.
A little after breakfast a detective called at the house and then Jimmy learned the details of the tragedy, which were very few. A constable on patrol duty had seen a man lying on the heath in the early light of dawn and, going toward him, was horrified to discover that he was bleeding from four or five wounds. He had been shot at close range by an automatic pistol, in the hands of somebody who was not used to the employment of firearms, said the detective, and gave reasons for his conclusion. The body had been found at the point where Blake had seen the ambulance, about fifty yards from the postern gate of the Warden's Lodge.
It was when he accompanied the detective to Gerald's study that he realized how useful the girl might be if she could give the time to the service. The desk and innumerable pigeonholes were littered with sheets and scraps of closely written memoranda, and when these came to be examined, Gerald found that they were written in Dutch. There was, too, a great deal of correspondence in French and German, for poor old Gerald had been in touch with the leading scientists of both countries.
Schaffer's letter! Jimmy remembered the last words of the dying man, which he had almost believed, were spoken in delirium.
“I was a fool, I ought to have shown them Schaffer's letter!”
After the detective had left, he began a search of the desk. There were several letters in German. Some were signed with names, some with initials. Jimmy went in search of the girl and found her in his study. He told her what had happened at the hospital.
“I thought the poor old chap wasn't right in his head, and I didn't attach much notice to what he said; but he distinctly said, 'Schaffer's letter,' and he asked me to show it to them. Who 'them' are—Heaven knows!”
“It was in German, you say?” she said as she accompanied him back to Gerald's room.
He sat watching her as she went quickly and systematically through the papers which covered the big writing table. At the end of her search she shook her head.
“There are several letters from Germans here,” she said, “but there is nothing from Schaffer. Do you remember where he lived?”
“In Leipzig, I think.”
“There is only one letter from Leipzig and that is from a Doctor Bohn. Perhaps it is in his room.”
Jimmy went up to his cousin's room and conducted a careful search, but there was no sign of correspondence. In the fireplace were ashes and these Jimmy brought to the light. The writing was still visible, a queer black glaze upon a duller black, and he carried the portions of the ashes he could retrieve to the study.
“This is from Mr. Schaffer.” She pointed to a scrawl at the end of the burned paper. “But it's almost impossible to read, except this little bit.”
She carried the shovel on which he had laid the ashes, to the big window of the study.
“I can read something:
    “I cannot believe that the Herr Maggerson could have made so——
“But that is all I can read,” she said disappointedly. “I wish I could have read more of it for you.”
“Poor old Jerry must have burned it,” said Jimmy, “and then forgot he burned it! I wonder what it was all about?”
Delia had an appointment in London that morning, but resolutely refused to accept the use of the car.
“I can go by train,” she said, “and I can come back to-night, can't I?”
“You've got to come back,” he said almost brusquely. “I want you to tackle this correspondence of Jerry's, and give me a translation of all the foreign letters. Will you accept that as a commission? And as to your staying here, Delia—well, I'll see your father.”
He walked with her to the station and returned, but not to the house. He made his way toward the place where the body had been found, and he had no difficulty in locating the exact spot, for two detectives were taking measurements under the eyes of a small crowd.
The afternoon papers made a feature of the murder. Gerald van Roon had a European reputation; the terrible nature of his end, the mystery which surrounded it, and the absence of all clews gave the case an additional importance.
Reporters came to the priory, but Jimmy, acting on the advice of the police, said nothing about the curious circumstances which attended Gerald's going out on the previous night. When he had got rid of them he went to his room to think. He connected the summons to Gerald with the equally inexplicable summons to Joe Sennett. When Sennett came that evening, preceding his daughter by half an hour, he had little or nothing to tell.
“The only thing I can tell you is this, Mr. Blake,” he said. “I was called out on government service. We print all the confidential circulars for the ministries and it was not unusual, especially during the war, for me to be turned out of bed in the early hours to set up and 'pull'—that is to say print with a hand press—secret documents.”
“Do you set them up yourself?”
“Either myself or one other man, invariably,” said the printer.
“What were those instructions?” Jimmy knew it was a foolish question before he had finished the sentence.
“Well, I can hardly disclose that,” smiled the other, “but I'll tell you this much, Mr. Blake, that they were for the military and seemed to me to be sufficiently important to justify arousing an elderly and respectable printer from his bed.”
“Where did you go for your instructions, last night?” persisted Jimmy, and Joe Sennett's face became blank.
“That is another of the questions I can't answer, Mr. Blake. I'm very sorry. I can only tell you that I had to go to a certain house, interview a member of the government who gave me a certain document, written by his own hand, and that I prepared three hundred copies by this morning—as Mr. van Roon will tell you.”
Jimmy's eyes opened wide.
“Mr. van Roon?” he said incredulously. “Haven't you heard? Haven't you seen the papers?”
“No, sir,” said the startled old man. “Has anything happened?”
“Mr. van Roon was murdered in the early hours of this morning, and his body was found near the Warden's Lodge,” said Jimmy slowly.
The effect upon Joe Sennett was remarkable. He turned white and fell back against the paneled wall of the study.
“Near the Warden's Lodge?” he said in a hollow voice. “Murder! Impossible! He was alive at three o'clock. I saw him!”
Jimmy uttered a cry.
“You saw him at three! Where?” he demanded, but Joe's lips were set.
“That I cannot tell you, sir,” he said, “but when I saw him he was in good company.”
There was a silence.
“Mr. Sennett, you will have to tell the police that,” said Jimmy quietly, and the old man nodded. “But can't you tell me some more?”
“I'm afraid I can't, sir,” said Joe in a low voice. “I was fond of Mr. van Roon, and I'd do anything in the world to bring his murderers to justice, but I saw him in circumstances where my lips are sealed.”
Jimmy nodded.
“I won't worry you any more about it,” he said sadly. “If you promise to see the police and tell them all you know, I must be satisfied.”
And then by way of turning the conversation Jimmy made his suggestion that Sennett and his daughter should stay at the house. To his surprise, Joe accepted almost without hesitation.
“If you don't mind putting us up, and I shan't be in your way, I shall be glad, sir, and I shall be more glad for Delia's sake, too. If I'm liable to be called out in the middle of the night, and I think that this won't be the only time I shall be away from home, I should be worried about the girl.”
She came in soon after and learned of his decision. She went to bed early and Jimmy, who was beginning to feel the reaction of the day, dozed in his chair. The night was a little chilly and the fire had gone out when he woke with a shiver. It was twelve o'clock, twenty-four hours from the time Gerald van Roon had left the house, never to return.
Jimmy was wide awake now and less inclined for bed than ever. He found Stephens, the butler, smoking his pipe in the porch, a nightcap pipe which, as he had truly said, was the habit of half a lifetime.
“I'm going for a stroll across the heath,” said Jimmy shortly. “Wait up till I come back.”
The man was concerned.
“Do you think it's wise to go out at night, sir?”
“Don't be silly, Stephens,” snapped Jimmy. “Bring me a walking stick.”
It had clouded up again and the night was dark. Something led him irresistibly to the spot where Gerald had been found. In the darkness it was difficult to locate the exact position, and he stood as near as he could guess and tried to reconstruct the crime. He was fifty yards from the roadway, a little more than that distance from the dark wall which hid the Warden's Lodge. The detective had told him casually in conversation, that morning, that the Warden's Lodge was untenanted and had been so for fifteen years.
Jimmy heard the whir of an engine, saw a pair of motor-car lights coming along the park road. It stopped a quarter of a mile from him, and he heard the slam of a door. Then the car turned about and went back the way it had come. Who had alighted so far from a house, he wondered? He heard a brisk footstep coming along the road, and it occurred to him that the pedestrian, who- ever he might be, would, if he had some knowledge of the tragedy that had occurred the night before, be considerably alarmed to see a figure standing in the place where the body was found. It was out of consideration for the walker's feelings rather than for any other reason that he sat down on the grass.
Nearer came the man and, when opposite Jimmy, stopped and turned—toward the postern door of the Warden's Lodge! Jimmy heard a key grate in the lock, the snap of the wards, and the door opened and closed softly. One of the park wardens, he told himself, at first. But a park keeper would not come in a car, nor dismiss it a quarter of a mile from his destination!
Jimmy waited. Again came the drone of a motor, this time it was unmistakably a taxi. This vehicle also stopped, a little farther away than had the first car, and again Jimmy heard the bang of a door and saw the taxi turn and its red tail lights vanishing over the hill.
The second man walked much slower than the first and he carried a walking stick. In the still night Jimmy heard the tap of it as he came nearer. He walked more in the shadow of the wall than had the other, and the watcher did not see him until he was against the postern door. Again a key was inserted, again came the snap of the lock. Almost on the heels of the second man came a third. This time the car stopped at about the same place as the first had come to a standstill and then continued on its way, flashing past Jimmy in the direction of Woolwich.
Whether it was empty or not he could not see, but after a while he heard the third man's feet on the road and the same thing occurred as before. This man also passed through the postern gate, locking the door behind him.
A fourth man arrived on a cycle. Jimmy saw the light far away and then it appeared to be suddenly extinguished. It looked as though the man had stopped for the purpose of blowing it out. At any rate, the machine came on noiselessly and invisibly and the first intimation Jimmy received of the stranger's arrival was when he jumped from the bicycle and trundled it across the path to the gate. He, too, passed through and was the last arrival Jimmy saw, although he waited until the church clocks were striking two.
He walked across to the priory with his head swimming. Stephens was waiting for him at the entrance of the drive.
“Make me some coffee or tea or something,” said Jimmy, but when Stephens came back with a steaming cup, he found Jimmy curled up on the sofa fast asleep and, finding he could not rouse his master, loosened his collar, took off his boots and, covering him with a rug, left him, in return for which service he was heartily cursed the next morning by a stiff and weary Jimmy, since when he woke up, Delia had gone to town.
After he had bathed and changed he went across the heath to make a closer inspection of the Warden's Lodge.
The Warden's Lodge stood back from the road and all view of the house was entirely obstructed by a wall, a continuation of the main wall of Greenwich Park. Entrance to the house and its grounds was obtained through a heavy postern gate, painted sage green. The lodge was government property, and in earlier days had housed a royal “ranger” but was now, apparently, empty. Crossing the roadway after inspecting the gate, Jimmy had to walk a considerable distance over the heath before he could as much as catch a glimpse of the lodge proper, and then the only view presented was a corner of a parapeted and presumably flat roof and a portion of a chimney. The rest was hidden behind four leafy chestnut trees.
On the top of the wall was a chevaux-de-frise of steel spikes, mounted on a rod which probably revolved at a touch. The other entrance to the lodge was from Greenwich Park, upon which its grounds impinged and this could only be reached through the park gates, a few hundred yards farther along.
Jimmy was baffled. In the first place the lodge was royal property and, although neglected and untenanted, would be all the time under the observation of the park keepers and officials. Obviously, it could not be in the occupation of unauthorized persons for any length of time. And yet it was being used almost openly by a mysterious party of men, each of whom possessed a key which opened the green gate.
Stephens had gone to Woolwich to the hospital to make the final arrangements for Gerald's funeral and this last ordeal and service Jimmy rendered to his cousin that afternoon. He and a dozen men, most of whom were elderly professors, were the chief mourners at that melancholy function. Maggerson he did not expect, nor was there any message of any kind from him or from the prime minister.
Jimmy got back to the house about five o'clock, very sick at heart, and found that Delia had not returned. There was an evening paper lying on his study table and, opening it, he looked for news about the murder. There was a column of matter, but nothing that he did not already know. A tramp had been arrested at Charlton, but had accounted for his movements on the night of the outrage.
What seemed strange to Jimmy was the fact that the police had not been again to the house. He had written a note making reference to Schaffer's letter and his cousin's last words, and he had anticipated the early arrival of the police officers, but they seemed satisfied with the possibility he had suggested, that Gerald might have been delirious at the moment he spoke. The house was strangely empty and Jimmy was as unhappy as he could be. He loafed upstairs to his room and then remembered that Gerald had had a little workroom, a tiny observatory he had built at a time when he was preparing a series of lectures on the moon's rotation.
The priory had a flat roof, and upon this, on Gerald's instructions, there had been built a small hut of galvanized iron. It was empty with the exception of a table, a chair, three or four sheets of dusty paper, and a large telescope on a tripod, which poor Jerry had used for his lunar observations.
“By Jove!” said Jimmy.
It was not any discovery he had made in the hut which had startled him to this exclamation, but the fact that from one of the three windows of the hut he had a fairly clear view of a part of the warden's house. From here, the view dodged two trees and showed at least three windows and a length of parapet of this mysterious lodge. He decided to go down for his glasses and then his eyes lit on the telescope. He dragged the tripod forward and, sitting down at the eyepiece, he focused the instrument upon the house. Such was its high magnification that it brought the lodge so close that Jimmy had the illusion that by putting out his hand he could touch the windows.
He got up and cleaned the lenses which were dusty, then came back and carefully scrutinized as much of the building as was visible. One of the windows was open at the top. He wished it were open at the bottom, for in the present state of the light he could not see through the reflecting surfaces of the glass.
He was looking at the window when he saw something that made him jump. Through the silvery reflection, loomed a face. At first it was blurred and indistinct, but as it approached the glass every line and curve of the face was visible. It was the face of Maggerson, the mathematician! He was haggard, untidy, his hair was all awry and a stray lock fell over his forehead, giving him a comically dissolute appearance; but it was Maggerson—staring almost into Jimmy's eyes. Only for a second did it show, and then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.