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Updated: August 24, 2024
These are only a few of the treasures contained in the museum, which was built chiefly through the generosity of the late Lord and Lady Armstrong, Colonel John Joicey of Newton Hall, Stocksfield, and Mr. Edward Joicey of Whinney House. The new Victoria Infirmary, on the Leazes, is a magnificent building, and was opened by King Edward VII. in 1906.
A long silence followed upon his words, and Joicey mopped his face with his handkerchief, breathing hard through his nose, his hands shaking as though he was caught by an ague fit. "I'm in a corner," he said at last; "you've got the whip-hand of me, Coryndon, but when I said I was not in Mangadone that night, I was speaking the truth." "You were splitting a hair," suggested Coryndon.
Had there been a friendly house near, Hartley would have gone in on the chance of finding someone at home, but as there was not, he made the best of existing circumstances and took his way along the road towards his own bungalow. He could not deny that his walk with Joicey had only served to depress his spirits, and he was sorry to think that his friend was so obviously in bad health.
When they got back to the Club it was already late, and the hall of the bar was crowded with men, standing together in groups, or sitting in long, uncompromising chairs under the impression that they were comfortable seats. "Hullo, Joicey," said the Barrister, as he fell over his legs. "I'm dog-beat. Been doing the Pagoda with Coryndon.
Hartley was so occupied with his trouble of mind on the subject of Absalom that he very nearly forgot that he had invited Joicey to dinner the following Saturday. The police had discovered nothing whatever, and he had received another visit at his house from the curio dealer.
Hartley did not reply for a moment, and just as he was about to speak, Mrs. Wilder's car passed, and Mrs. Wilder leaned forward to smile at the Head of the Police; a small buggy followed with some more friends of Hartley's, and then another car, and the road was clear again. "I believe I am on the right track, but I don't like it, Joicey. I'm damned if I do." "Why not?"
"I put it to you that you made a mistake," went on Coryndon, "and that in the interests of justice you will now be able to tell me that you remember where you were and what you were doing on that night." Joicey thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his heavy shoulders bent, and his face dogged. "I am prepared to swear on oath that I was not in Mangadone on the night of July the twenty-ninth."
Pools of afternoon rain still lay here and there in the depressions, but Joicey took no heed of them, and splashed on, staining his white trousers with liquid mud. "By the way," he said, clearing his throat as though his words stuck there, "have you heard anything more in connection with the disappearance of that boy you were talking of the other evening?"
He went back after he had gone a mile along the road, but Joicey was no longer there.
A plethoric man, Joicey, a man who got up and sat down heavily, a man who looked at his business and not beyond it, and never troubled Society. He probably knew that Heath lived in Mangadone, that was if Heath banked with him; otherwise, he might easily not have known it. He knew of the Wilders. He knew what Draycott Wilder owned, and he knew that Mrs.
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