“Let me have the copy,” said Drayton. “I don’t suppose anything will come of it from your point of view, but it strikes me as an interesting case which is at least worth elucidating. Do you know Dr Thorndyke?”
“We know one another by repute,” said Thorndyke. “Miss Blake used to board with Polton’s sister. You were speaking of the curious circumstances that Miss Blake mentioned in reference to the cat’s eye pendant.”
“Yes,” said Drayton. “I was saying that it would be worth while to get the facts of the case sorted out.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Thorndyke. “The same idea had occurred to me when Miss Blake was giving her evidence. Do I understand that there are documents available?”
“I have a full resume of the facts relating to the change in the succession,” said Miss Blake, “and a copy which I am going to hand to Sir Lawrence.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I shall crave your kind permission to look through that copy. I am not much of an authority on property law, but—”
“Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit,” I murmured, quoting Johnson’s famous epitaph on the versatile “Goldie.”
“Quite right, Anstey,” Drayton agreed warmly. “All knowledge is Thorndyke’s province. Then you will let me have that copy at your convenience, Miss Blake?”
“Thank you, yes, Sir Lawrence,” she replied. “You shall have it by tomorrow. Oh, and there is something else that I have to give you, and I may as well give it to you now. Did Mr. Anstey tell you that I had found the missing locket? I have brought it tied round my neck for safety. Has any one got a knife?” As she spoke she unfastened the top button of her dress and drew out the little gold volume which was attached to a silken cord.
“Don’t cut the cord,” said Drayton. “I want you to keep the locket as a souvenir of my poor brother. Now don’t raise objections. Anstey has told me that the little bauble has found favour in your eyes, and I very much wish you to have it. It was a great favourite of my brother’s. He used to call it ‘the little Sphinx’ because it always seemed to be propounding a riddle; and it will be a great satisfaction to me to feel that it has passed into friendly and sympathetic hands instead of going to a museum with the other things.”
“It is exceedingly kind of you, Sir Lawrence,” she began, but he interrupted: “It is nothing of the kind. I am doing myself a kindness in finding a good home for poor Andrew’s little favourite. Are you going by train or tram?”
“I shall wait for the tram,” she replied.
“Then we part here. Dr Thorndyke and I are taking the train to Broad Street. Goodbye! Don’t forget to send me that copy of the documents.”
The two men swung off down the road to the station, and as a tram appeared in the offing, a resolution which had been forming in my mind took definite shape.
“I don’t see,” said I, “why I should be left out in the cold in regard to this family romance of yours. Why shouldn’t I come and collect the copy to deliver to Sir Lawrence and have a surreptitious read at it myself?”
“It would be very nice of you if you could spare the time,” she replied. “I will even offer special inducements. I will give you some tea, which you must be wanting by this time, I should think, and I will show you not only the copy but the original documents. One of them is quite curious.”
“That settles it then,” said I. “Tea and documents, combined with your society and that of your ingenious brother, form what the theatrical people would call a galaxy of attractions. Here is our tram. Do we go inside or outside?”
“Oh, outside, please. There is quite a crowd waiting.”
I was relieved at this decision, for I was hankering for a smoke; and as soon as we had taken our places in a front seat on the roof, I began secretly to feel in the pocket where the friendly pipe reposed and to debate within myself whether I might crave permission to bring it forth. At length the tobacco-hunger conquered my scruples and I ventured to make the request.
“Oh, of course,” she replied. “Do smoke. I love the smell of tobacco, especially from a pipe.”
Thus encouraged, I joyfully produced the calumet and felt in my pocket for my pouch. And then came a dreadful disappointment. The pouch was there, sure enough, but its lean sides announced the hideous fact that it was empty. There were not even a few grains wherewith to stave off imminent starvation.
“How provoking!” my companion exclaimed tragically. “I am sorry. But you shan’t be deprived for long. You must get down at a tobacconist’s and restock your pouch, and then after tea you shall smoke your pipe while I show you the documents, as you call them.”
“Then I am comforted,” said I. “The galaxy of attractions has received a further addition.” Resignedly I put away the pipe and pouch, and reverting to a question that had occurred to me while she was giving her evidence, I said: “There was one statement of yours that I did not quite follow. It was with regard to the man whom you were trying to hold. You said that you were quite confident that you would recognise him and that you could call up quite a clear and vivid mental picture of his face, but yet you thought that, if you were to draw a memory portrait of him, that portrait might be misleading. How could that be? You would know whether your portrait was like your recollection of the man, and if it was, surely it would be like the man himself?”
“I suppose it would,” she replied thoughtfully. “But there might be some false details which wouldn’t matter to me but which might mislead others who might take those details for the essential characters.”
“But if the details were wrong, wouldn’t that destroy the likeness?”
“Not necessarily, I think. Of course, a likeness is ultimately dependent on the features, particularly on their proportion and the spaces between them. But you must have noticed that when children and beginners draw portraits, although they produce the most frightful caricatures—all wrong and all out of drawing—yet those portraits are often unmistakable likenesses.”
“Yes, I have noticed that. But don’t you think the likeness is probably due to the caricature? To the exaggeration of some one or two characteristic peculiarities?”
“Very likely But that rather bears out what I said. For those caricatures, though easily recognisable, are mostly false; and if one of them got into the hands of a stranger who had never seen the subject of the portrait, for purposes of identification, he would as probably as not look for some one having those characteristics which had been quite falsely represented.”
“Yes; and then he would be looking for the wrong kind of person altogether.”
“Exactly. And then my drawing would probably be far from a correct representation of my recollection of the face. It isn’t as if one could take a photograph of a mental image. So I am afraid that the idea of a memory drawing for the purpose of identification must be abandoned. Besides, it would be of no use unless we could get hold of the man.”
“No. But that is not impossible. The police have apparently identified one of the men and expect to have him in custody at any moment. He may give information as to the other, but even if he does not, the police may be able to find out who his associates were, and in that case a memory drawing which was far from accurate might help them to pick out the particular man.”
“That is possible,” she agreed. “But then if the police could get hold of this man’s associates and let me see them, I could pick out the particular man with certainty and without any drawing at all. Isn’t that a tobacconist’s shop that we are approaching?”
“It is. I think I will get off and make my purchase and then come along to the studio.”
“Do,” she said, “and I will run on ahead and see that the preparations for tea are started.”
I ran down the steps and dropped off the tram without stopping it, but by this time we had passed the shop by some little distance and I had to walk back. I secured the new supply, and having stuffed it into my pouch, came out of the shop just in time to see the tram stop nearly a quarter of a m
ile ahead and Miss Blake get off, followed by a couple of other passengers, and walk quickly into Jacob Street. I strode forward at a brisk pace in the same direction, but when I reached the corner of the street she had already disappeared. I was just about to cross to the side on which the studio was situated when my attention was attracted by a woman who was walking slowly up the street on my side. At the first glance I was struck by something familiar in her appearance and a second glance confirmed the impression. She was smartly—and something more than smartly—dressed, and in particular I noted a rather large, elaborate, and gaudy hat. In short, she was very singularly like the woman who had jostled me in the doorway of the hall in which the inquest was held.
I slowed down to avoid overtaking her, and as I did so she crossed the road and walked straight up to the gate of the studio. For an instant I thought she was going to ring the bell, for after a glance at the number on the gate she turned to the side and read the little nameplate, leaning forward and putting her face close to it as if she were near-sighted. At that moment the wicket opened and Master Percy stepped out on to the threshold; whereupon the woman, after one swift, intense glance at the boy, turned away and walked quickly up the street. I was half disposed to follow her and confirm my suspicion as to her identity; but Master Percy had already observed me, and it seemed, perhaps, more expedient to get out of sight myself than to reveal my presence in attempting to verify a suspicion of which I had practically no doubt, and which, even if confirmed, had no obvious significance. Accordingly I crossed the road, and having greeted my host, was by him conducted down the passage to the studio.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Jacobite Romance
In the minds of many of us, including myself, there appears to be a natural association between the ideas of tea and tobacco. Whether it is that both substances are exotic products, adopted from alien races, or that each is connected with a confirmed and accepted drug habit, I am not quite clear. But there seems to be no doubt that the association exists and that the realisation of the one idea begets an imperative impulse to realise the other. In conformity with which natural law, when the tea-things had been, by the joint efforts of Miss Blake and her brother, removed to the curtained repository—where also dwelt a gas ring and a kettle—I proceeded complacently to bring forth my pipe and the bulging tobacco-pouch and to transfer some of the contents of the latter to the former.
“I am glad to see you smoking,” said Miss Blake as the first cloud of incense ascended. “It gives me the feeling that you are provided with an antidote to the documents. I shall have less compunction about the reading.”
“You think that the ‘tuneless pipe’ is similar to the tuneful one in its effects on the ‘savage breast.’ But I don’t want any antidote. I am all agog to hear your romance of a cat’s eye, that is, if you are going to read out the documents.”
“I thought I would read the copy aloud and get you to check it by the originals. Then you can assure Sir Lawrence that it is a true copy.”
“Yes. I think that is quite a good plan. It is always well to have a copy checked and certified correct.”
“Then I will get the books and we will begin at once. Do you want to hear the reading, Percy, or are you going on with your building?”
“I should like to come and listen, if you don’t mind, Winnie,” he replied; and as his sister unlocked the cabinet under the window, he seated himself on a chair by the now vacant table. Miss Blake took from the cabinet three books, one of which—an ordinary school exercise-book—she placed on the table by her chair.
“That,” she said, “is the copy of both originals. This”—handing to me a little leather-covered book, the pages of which were filled with small, clearly-written, though faded, handwriting—“is the abstract of which I spoke. This other little book is the fragmentary original which is referred to in the abstract. If you are ready I will begin. We will take the abstract first.”
I provided myself with a pencil with which to mark any errors, and having opened the little book announced that I was ready.
“The abstract,” said she, “was written in 1821, and reads as follows:
“A SHORT HISTORY OF THE BLAKES OF BEAUCHAMP BLAKE NEAR WENDOVER IN THE COUNTY OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, FROM THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1708.
“This history has been written by me for the purpose of preserving a record of certain events for the information of my descendants, to whom a knowledge of those events may prove of great importance; and its writing has become necessary by the circumstance that, whereas the only existing written record has been reduced by Time and ill-usage to a collection of disconnected fragments, the traditions passed on orally from generation to generation become year by year more indistinct and unreliable.
“I shall begin with the year 1708, at which time the estate of Beauchamp Blake was held by Harold Blake. In this year was born Percival Blake, the only son of Harold aforesaid. Seven years later occurred a rising in favour of the Royal House of the Stuarts, in which act of rebellion the said Harold Blake was suspected (but never accused) of having taken part. In the year 1743, Harold Blake died and his only son, Percival, succeeded to the property.
“In or about the year 1742, Percival Blake married a lady named Judith Weston (or Western). For some unknown reason this marriage took place secretly, and was, for a time at least, kept secret. Possibly the marriage would not have been acceptable to Percival’s father, or the lady may have been a Papist. This latter seems the more probable, inasmuch as the marriage was solemnised, not at the church of St Margaret at Beauchamp Blake, but at a little church in London near to Aldgate, called St Peter by the Shambles, the rector of which, the Reverend Stephen Rumbold, an intimate friend of Percival’s, became subsequently not only a Papist but a Jesuit. In the next year, 1743, a son was born and was christened James. No entry of this birth appears in the registers of St Margaret’s, so it is probable that it was registered at the London church. Unfortunately, this register is incomplete. Several pages have been torn out, and as these missing pages belong to the years 1742 and 1743, it is to be presumed that they contained the records of the marriage and the birth.
“About the year 1725 Percival came to London to study medicine; and about 1729 or 1730 he completed his studies and took his degree at Cambridge, of which University he was already a Bachelor of Arts. From this time onwards he appears to have practised in London as a physician, and it was probably at this period that he made the acquaintance of Judith Western and Stephen Rumbold. Even after the death of his father and his own succession to the property, he continued to practise his profession, making only occasional visits to his estate in Buckinghamshire.
“Like his father, Percival Blake was an ardent supporter of the Stuarts, and it is believed that he took an active part in the various Jacobite plots that were heard of about this time; and when, in 1745, the great rising took place, Percival was one of those who hastened to join the forces of the young Pretender, a disastrous act, to which all the subsequent misfortunes of the family are due.
“On the collapse of the Jacobite cause, Percival took immediate measures to avert the consequences of his ill-judged action from his own family; and in these he displayed a degree of foresight that might well have been exhibited earlier. From Scotland he made his way to Beauchamp Blake and there, in one of the numerous hiding-places of the old mansion, concealed certain important documents connected with the property. It is not quite clear what these documents were. Among them appear to have been some of the title-deeds, and there is no doubt that they included documents proving the validity of his marriage with Judith and the legitimacy of his son James. Meanwhile, he had sent his wife and child, with a servant named Jenifer Gray, to Hamburg, where they were to wait until he joined them. He himself made his way to a port on the East Coast, believed to have been King’s Lynn, where he embarked, under a false name, on a small vessel bound for Hamburg; but while he was waiting for the vessel to sail, he circulated a very circumstantial account of his own
death by drowning while attempting to escape in an open boat.
“This was at once a fortunate and unfortunate act; fortunate inasmuch as it completely achieved his purpose of preventing the confiscation of the property; unfortunate inasmuch as it effectually shut out his own descendants from the succession. On the report of his death (unmarried, as was believed, and so without issue) a distant cousin, of unquestionable loyalty to the reigning house, took possession of the estate without opposition and without any suggestion of confiscation.
“One thing only, appertaining to the inheritance, Percival took with him. Among the family heirlooms was a jewel consisting of a small pendant set with a single cymophane (vulgarly known as a cat’s eye) and bearing an inscription, of which the actual words are unknown, but of which the purport was that whosoever should possess the jewel should also possess the Blake estate; a foolish statement that seems to have been generally believed in the family and to which Percival evidently attached incredible weight. For not only did he take the jewel with him but, as will presently appear, he made careful provision for its disposal.
“From this time onward the history becomes more and more vague. It seems that Percival joined his wife and child at Hamburg, and thereafter travelled about Germany, plying his profession as a physician. But soon he was overtaken by a terrible misfortune. It appears that a robbery had been committed by a woman who was said to be a foreigner, and suspicion fell upon Judith. She was arrested, and on false evidence, convicted and sent, as a punishment, to labour in the mines somewhere in the Harz Mountains. Percival made unceasing efforts to obtain her release, but it was three years before his efforts were crowned with success. But then, alas, it was too late. The poor lady came back to him aged by privation and broken by long-standing sickness, only to linger on a few months and then to die in his arms. On her release he carried her away to France, and there, at Paris, about the year 1751, she passed away and is believed to have been buried in the cemetery of Pere Lachaise.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 28