Trent Intervenes. E. C. Bentley

seen a few before, and I have painted one, with a man inside it, when Richmond Herald wanted his portrait done in the complete get-up. Everything about it is right. Such things are hard to come by. Until recent times, I believe, a herald’s tabard remained his property, and stayed in the family, and if they got hard up they might perhaps sell it privately, as this was sold to you. It’s different now—so Richmond Herald told me. When a herald dies, his tabard goes back to the College of Arms, where he got it from.’

      Langley drew a breath of relief. ‘I’m glad to hear you say my tabard is genuine. When you asked me if you could see it, I got the impression you thought there might be something phony about it.’

      Mrs Langley, her keen eyes on Trent’s face, shook her head. ‘He thinks so still, George, I believe. Isn’t that so, Mr Trent?’

      ‘Yes, I am sorry to say it is. You see, this was sold to you as a particular tabard, with an interesting history of its own; and when Mrs Langley described it to me, I felt pretty sure that you had been swindled. You see, she had noticed nothing odd about the Royal Arms. I wanted to see it just to make sure. It certainly did not belong to Garter King of Arms in the year 1783.’

      A very ugly look wiped all the benevolence from Langley’s face, and it grew several shades more pink. ‘If what you say is true, Mr Trent, and if that old fraud was playing me for a sucker, I will get him jailed if it’s my last act. But it certainly is hard to believe—a preacher—and belonging to one of your best families—settled in that lovely, peaceful old place, with his flock to look after and everything. Are you really sure of what you say?’

      ‘What I know is that the Royal Arms on this tabard are all wrong.’

      An exclamation came from the lady. ‘Why, Mr Trent, how you talk! We have seen the Royal Arms quite a few times, and they are just the same as this—and you have told us it is a genuine tabard, anyway. I don’t get this at all.’

      ‘I must apologize,’ Trent said unhappily, ‘for the Royal Arms. You see, they have a past. In the fourteenth century Edward III laid claim to the Kingdom of France, and it took a hundred years of war to convince his descendants that that claim wasn’t practical politics. All the same, they went on including the lilies of France in the Royal Arms, and they never dropped them until the beginning of the nineteenth century.’

      ‘Mercy!’ Mrs Langley’s voice was faint.

      ‘Besides that, the first four Georges and the fourth William were Kings of Hanover; so until Queen Victoria came along, and could not inherit Hanover because she was a female, the Arms of the House of Brunswick were jammed in along with our own. In fact, the tabard of the Garter King of Arms in the year when he proclaimed the peace with the United States of America was a horrible mess of the leopards of England, the lion of Scotland, the harp of Ireland, the lilies of France, together with a few more lions, and a white horse, and some hearts, as worn in Hanover. It was a fairly tight fit for one shield, but they managed it somehow—and you can see that the Arms on this tabard of yours are not nearly such a bad dream as that. It is a Victorian tabard—a nice, gentlemanly coat, such as no well-dressed herald should be without.’

      Langley thumped the table. ‘Well, I intend to be without it, anyway, if I can get my money back.’

      ‘We can but try,’ Trent said. ‘It may be possible. But the reason why I asked to be allowed to see this thing, Mr Langley, was that I thought I might be able to save you some unpleasantness. You see, if you went home with your treasure, and showed it to people, and talked about its history, and it was mentioned in the newspapers, and then somebody got inquiring into its authenticity, and found out what I have been telling you, and made it public—well, it wouldn’t be very nice for you.’

      Langley flushed again, and a significant glance passed between him and his wife.

      ‘You’re damn right, it wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘And I know the name of the buzzard who would do that to me, too, as soon as I had gone the limit in making a monkey of myself. Why, I would lose the money twenty times over, and then a bundle, rather than have that happen to me. I am grateful to you, Mr Trent—I am indeed. I’ll say frankly that at home we aim to be looked up to socially, and we judged that we could certainly figure if we brought this doggoned thing back and had it talked about. Gosh! When I think—but never mind that now. The thing is to go right back to that old crook and make him squeal. I’ll have my money out of him, if I have to use a can-opener.’

      Trent shook his head. ‘I don’t feel very sanguine about that, Mr Langley. But how would you like to run down to his place tomorrow with me and a friend of mine, who takes an interest in affairs of this kind, and who would be able to help you if anyone can?’

      Langley said, with emphasis, that that suited him.

      The car that called for Langley next morning did not look as if it belonged, but did belong, to Scotland Yard; and the same could be said of its dapper chauffeur. Inside was Trent, with a black-haired, round-faced man whom he introduced as Superintendent Owen. It was at his request that Langley, during the journey, told with as much detail as he could recall the story of his acquisition of the tabard, which he had hopefully brought with him in a suitcase.

      A few miles short of Abingdon the chauffeur was told to go slowly. ‘You tell me it was not very far this side of Abingdon, Mr Langley, that you turned off the main road,’ the superintendent said. ‘If you will keep a lookout now, you might be able to point out the spot.’

      Langley stared at him. ‘Why, doesn’t your man have a map?’

      ‘Yes; but there isn’t any place called Silcote Episcopi on his map.’

      ‘Nor,’ Trent added, ‘on any other map. No, I am not suggesting that you dreamed it all; but the fact is so.’

      Langley, remarking shortly that this beat him, glared out of the window eagerly; and soon he gave the word to stop. ‘I am pretty sure this is the turning,’ he said. ‘I recognize it by these two hay-stacks in the meadow, and the pond with osiers over it. But there certainly was a signpost there, and now there isn’t one. If I was not dreaming then, I guess I must be now.’ And as the car ran swiftly down the side road he went on, ‘Yes; that certainly is the church on ahead—and the covered gate, and the graveyard—and there is the vicarage, with the yew trees and the garden and everything. Well, gentlemen, right now is when he gets what is coming to him. I don’t care what the name of the darn place is.’

      ‘The name of the darn place on the map,’ Trent said, ‘is Oakhanger.’

      The three men got out and passed through the lych-gate.

      ‘Where is the gravestone?’ Trent asked.

      Langley pointed. ‘Right there.’ They went across to the railed-in grave, and the American put a hand to his head. ‘I must be nuts!’ he groaned. ‘I know this is the grave—but it says that here is laid to rest the body of James Roderick Stevens, of this parish.’

      ‘Who seems to have died about thirty years after Sir Rowland Verey,’ Trent remarked, studying the inscription; while the superintendent gently smote his thigh in an ecstasy of silent admiration. ‘And now let us see if the vicar can throw any light on the subject.’

      They went on to the parsonage; and a dark-haired, bright-faced girl, opening the door at Mr Owen’s ring, smiled recognizingly at Langley. ‘Well, you’re genuine, anyway!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ellen is what they call you, isn’t it? And you remember me, I see. Now I feel better. We would like to see the vicar. Is he at home?’

      ‘The canon came home two days ago, sir,’ the girl said, with a perceptible stress on the term of rank. ‘He is down in the village now; but he may be back any minute. Would you like to wait for him?’

      ‘We surely would,’ Langley declared positively; and they were shown into the large room where the tabard had changed hands.

      ‘So he has been away from home?’ Trent asked. ‘And he is a canon, you say?’

      ‘Canon Maberley, sir; yes, sir, he was in Italy for a month.