The Pothunters - P. G. Wodehouse (free ebook novel .txt) 📗

sunlight beat full on his face, which wore the intensely solemn expression of the man who, knowing his own condition, hopes, by means of exemplary conduct, to conceal it from the world. The Head handed the photograph back without further comment.

“I gave the man back his money,” went on Mr. Roberts, “and saw him safely started again, and then I set to work to shadow him. Not a difficult job. He walked very slowly, and for all he seemed to care, the whole of Scotland Yard might have been shadowing him. Went up the street, and after a time turned in at one of the cottages. I marked the place, and went home to develop the photograph. Took it to show the man who looks after the cricket field.”

“Biffen?”

“Just so, Biffen. Very intelligent man. Given me a good deal of help in one way and another all along. Well, I showed it to him and he said he thought he knew the face. Was almost certain it was one of the men at work on the grounds at the time of the robbery. Showed it to friend of his, the other ground-man. He thought same. That made it as certain as I had any need for. Went off at once to the man’s cottage, found him sober, and got the whole thing out of him. But not the cups. He had been meaning to sell them, but had not known where to go. Wanted combination of good price and complete safety. Very hard to find, so had kept cups hidden till further notice.”

Here the Head interrupted.

“And the cups? Where are they?”

“We-e-ll,” said the detective, slowly. “It is this way. We have only got his word to go on as regards the cups. This man, Stokes, it seems is a notorious poacher. The night after the robbery he took the cups out with him on an expedition in some woods that lie in the direction of Badgwick. I think Badgwick is the name.”

“Badgwick! Not Sir Alfred Venner’s woods?”

“Sir Alfred Venner it was, sir. That was the name he mentioned. Stokes appears to have been in the habit of visiting that gentleman’s property pretty frequently. He had a regular hiding place, a sort of store where he used to keep all the game he killed. He described the place to me. It is a big tree on the bank of the stream nearest the high road. The tree is hollow. One has to climb to find the opening to it. Inside are the cups, and, I should say, a good deal of mixed poultry. That is what he told me, sir. I should advise you, if I may say so, to write a note to Sir Alfred Venner, explaining the case, and ask him to search the tree, and send the cups on here.”

This idea did not appeal to the Head at all. Why, he thought bitterly, was this wretched M.P. always mixed up with his affairs? Left to himself, he could have existed in perfect comfort without either seeing, writing to, or hearing from the great man again for the rest of his life. “I will think it over,” he said, “though it seems the only thing to be done. As for Stokes, I suppose I must prosecute⁠—”

The detective raised a hand in protest.

“Pardon my interruption, sir, but I really should advise you not to prosecute.”

“Indeed! Why?”

“It is this way. If you prosecute, you get the man his term of imprisonment. A year, probably. Well and good. But then what happens? After his sentence has run out, he comes out of prison an ex-convict. Tries to get work. No good. Nobody will look at him. Asks for a job. People lock up their spoons and shout for the police. What happens then? Not being able to get work, tries another burglary. Being a clumsy hand at the game, gets caught again and sent back to prison, and so is ruined and becomes a danger to society. Now, if he is let off this time, he will go straight for the rest of his life. Run a mile to avoid a silver cup. He’s badly scared, and I took the opportunity of scaring him more. Told him nothing would happen this time, if the cups came back safely, but that he’d be watched ever afterwards to see he did not get into mischief. Of course he won’t really be watched, you understand, but he thinks he will. Which is better, for it saves trouble. Besides, we know where the cups are⁠—I feel sure he was speaking the truth about them, he was too frightened to invent a story⁠—and here is most of the money. So it all ends well, if I may put it so. My advice, sir, and I think you will find it good advice⁠—is not to prosecute.”

“Very well,” said the Head, “I will not.”

“Very good, sir. Good morning, sir.” And he left the room.

The Head rang the bell.

“Parker,” said he, “go across to Mr. Merevale’s, and ask him to send Thomson to me.”

It was with mixed feelings that he awaited Jim’s arrival. The detective’s story had shown how unjust had been his former suspicions, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the apology which he felt bound to make to him. On the other hand, this feeling was more than equalled by his relief at finding that his faith in the virtue of the genus School prefect, though at fault in the matter of Plunkett, was not altogether misplaced. It made up for a good deal. Then his thoughts drifted to Sir Alfred Venner. Struggle with his feelings as he might, the Head could not endure that local potentate. The recent interview between them had had no parallel in their previous acquaintance, but the Head had always felt vaguely irritated by his manner and speech, and he had always feared that matters would come to a head sooner or later. The prospect of opening communication with him once