“Do you think,” Thorndyke asked, “that we should be able to get a look at the house? Just the outside, I mean?”
“I’ll see what can be done, sir,” the landlord replied “I’ll have a few words with the lodge-keeper. I was butler to the last squire but one, so they know me pretty well. I’ll just run across while you are finishing your lunch. But you’d better wait until the squire has gone out, because, if he sees you on the drive, like as not he’ll order you out, and that wouldn’t be pleasant for gentlemen like you.”
“I think we’ll take the risk,” said Thorndyke. “If he tells us to go, we can go, but I don’t like sneaking in behind his back.”
“No, sir, perhaps you are right,” the landlord agreed, a little dubiously, and departed on his errand, leaving us to finish our lunch—which, in fact, we had practically done already.
In this long conversation I had taken no part. But I had been an interested listener. Not that I cared two straws for the small beer that our host had been retailing. What had interested, and a good deal puzzled me was Thorndyke’s amazing inquisitiveness respecting the private and domestic affairs of a man whom neither of us knew and with whom we really had no concern. For the question of the succession to the property was a purely legal one—and pretty shadowy at that—on which the personal qualities and habits of the present tenant had no bearing whatever. And yet my experience of Thorndyke told me that he certainly had not been asking these trivial and impertinent questions without some reasonable motive. No man was less inquisitive about things that did not concern him.
But the discrepancy between his character and his conduct did not end here. As soon as the landlord had gone and we had filled and lit our pipes, he began to explore his waistcoat pockets and presently produced therefrom Polton’s reproduction of Mr. Halliburton’s ridiculous mascot, which he laid on the table and regarded fondly.
“Do you usually carry that thing in your pocket, Thorndyke?” I asked.
“Not usually,” he replied, “but this is a special occasion. We are on holiday, and moreover, we are seeking our fortune, or at least, hoping that something may turn up,”
“Are we?” I said. “I am not conscious of any such hope, and I don’t know what you expect.”
“Neither do I,” he replied. “But I feel in an optimistic mood. Perhaps it is the beer,” and with this he picked up the mascot, and opening the split gold ring with a knife-blade, attached it to his watch-chain, closing the ring with a squeeze of his finger and thumb.
It was a singular proceeding. What made it especially so was Thorndyke’s openly-expressed contempt of the superstition which finds expression in the use of charms, mascots and other fetishistic objects and practices. However, we were on holiday, as he had said, and perhaps it was admissible to mark the occasion by playing the fool a little.
In a few minutes the landlord returned and announced that he had secured the consent of the lodge-keeper to our making an inspection of the house, with the proviso that we were not to go more than a couple of hundred yards down the drive. “I’ll just step across with you,” he added, “so that he can see that you are the right parties.”
Accordingly, when we had paid the modest reckoning, we picked up our hats and sticks and as our host held open the parlour door, we passed out into the courtyard, glancing up with renewed interest at the historic sign which creaked in the breeze. Crossing the road, we passed through the wicket of the closed gate, under the detached observation of the lodge-keeper; and here our host wished us adieu and returned to the inn.
A short walk down the drive brought us to a turn of the road where we came in sight of the house across a stretch of meadows in which a small herd of cows made spots of vivid colour. It was not a large mansion, but what it lacked in size it made up for in character and interest. The two parts were clearly distinct, the newer portion being a Jacobean brick building with stone dressings and quaint corbie-step gables, while the older part—not later than the sixteenth century—was a comparatively low structure showing massive timbers with pargetted plaster fillings, a high roof with wide-spreading eaves and a long row of picturesque dormer windows and large, clustered chimneys.
“It is a grand old house,” I said. “What a pity it is that Blake is such a curmudgeon. The inside ought to be even more interesting than the outside.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “it is a splendid specimen of domestic architecture, and absolutely thrown away, if our host was not exaggerating. One could wish for a more appreciative tenant—such as our young friend Percy, for instance.”
I glanced at Thorndyke, surprised, not for the first time, at the way in which he tended to harp on this very unresonant string. To me, Percy’s claim to this estate was simply a romantic instance of the might-have-been, and none too clear at that. His chance of ever inheriting Beauchamp Blake was a wild dream that I found myself unable to take seriously. But this was apparently not Thorndyke’s view, for it was evident that he had considered the matter worth inquiring into, and his last words showed that it still hovered in his mind. I was on the point of reopening the discussion when two men appeared round the corner of the house, each leading a saddled horse. Opposite the main doorway they halted and one of them proceeded to mount—from the off-side, as I noticed. Then they apparently became aware of our presence, for they both looked in our direction; indeed they continued to stare at us with extraordinary attention, and by their movements appeared to be discussing us anxiously.
Thorndyke chuckled softly. “There must be something uncommonly suspicious in your appearance, Anstey,” he remarked. “They seem to be in a deuce of a twitter about you.”
“Why my appearance?” I demanded. “They are looking at us both. In fact I think it is you who are the real object of suspicion. I expect they think you have come back for that silver plate.”
As we spoke, the discussion came to an end. The one man remained, holding his horse and still looking at us, while the other turned and advanced up the drive at a brisk trot, sitting his mount with that unconscious ease that distinguishes the lifelong, habitual equestrian. As he approached, he looked at us inquisitively and with undissembled disapproval, but seemed as if he were going to pass without further notice. Suddenly, however, his attention became more intense. He slowed down to a walk, and as he drew near to us he pulled up and dismounted. And again I noticed that he dismounted from the off-side.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Squire and the Sleuth-Hound
As Mr. Blake approached with the evident intention of addressing us, it was not unnatural that I should look at him with some interest. Not that such interest was in any way justified by his appearance, which was quite commonplace. He was a tall man, strongly built, and apparently active and muscular. His features were somewhat coarse, but his expression was resolute and energetic, though not suggestive of more than average intelligence. But at the moment, as he bore down on us, leading his horse by the bridle-rein, with his eyes fixed on Thorndyke’s face, suspicion and a certain dim suggestion of surprise were what I principally gathered from his countenance.
“May I ask what your business is?” he demanded somewhat brusquely, but not rudely, addressing Thorndyke and looking at him with something more than common attention.
“We really haven’t any business at all,” my colleague replied. “We were walking through the district and thought we should like to have a glance at your very picturesque and interesting house. That is all.”
“Is there anything in particular that you want to know about the house?” Mr. Blake asked, still addressing Thorndyke.
“No,” the latter replied. “Our interest in the place is merely antiquarian, and not very profound at that.”
“I see,” said Mr. Blake. He appeared to reflect for a few moments and seemed to be on the point of moving away when he stopped suddenly and a quick change passed over his face. At the same moment I noticed that his eyes were fixed intently on Thorndyke’s ridiculous mascot.
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��I take it,” said he, “that you had the lodge-keeper’s permission to come inside the gates?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “He gave us permission—through the inn-keeper, who asked him—to come in far enough to see the house. As far as we have come, in fact.”
Mr. Blake nodded, and again his eyes wandered to the object attached to Thorndyke’s watch-chain.
“You are looking at my mascot,” the latter said genially. “It is a curious thing, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Blake agreed gruffly. “What is it?”
Thorndyke pulled the soft wire ring open, and detaching it from his chain, handed the little object to the other, who examined it curiously and remarked:
“It seems to be made out of a bone.”
“Yes; the bone of a porcupine ant-eater.”
“Ha. You got it somewhere abroad. I suppose?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I found it in London, and, of course, it isn’t really mine. It belongs to a man named Halliburton. But I don’t happen to have his address at the moment, so I can’t return it.”
Mr. Blake listened to this explanation with a sort of puzzled frown, wondering, perhaps, at my colleague’s uncalled-for expansiveness to an utter stranger. But his wonder was nothing to mine, as I heard the usually secretive Thorndyke babbling in this garrulously confidential fashion.
When he had examined the mascot, Mr. Blake handed it back to Thorndyke with an inarticulate grunt, and as my colleague hooked the ring on his watch-chain, he turned away, walked round his horse to the off-side, mounted lightly to the saddle and started the horse forward at a trot. As he disappeared round a bend of the tree-bordered road, I glanced at Thorndyke, who was once more gazing calmly at the house.
“Mine host was right,” I observed. “Squire Blake is a pretty considerable boor.”
“His manners are certainly not engaging,” Thorndyke agreed.
“I didn’t notice that he had any manners,” said I, “and it seemed to me that you were most unnecessarily civil, not to say confidential.”
“Well, you know,” he replied, “we are on his premises, and not only uninvited, but contrary to his expressed wishes. We could hardly be otherwise than civil. And after all, he didn’t eject us. But I suppose we may as well retire now.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he is probably waiting to see us off his confounded land, and possibly speaking his mind to the lodge-keeper.”
Both these surmises appeared to be correct, for when we came round the clump of trees at the turn of the road, I saw the squire in earnest conversation with the keeper, who was standing at attention, holding the gate open, and, I thought, looking somewhat abashed. We passed out through the wicket, which was still unfastened, but though the lodge-keeper looked at us attentively, and even a little curiously, Blake gave no sign of being aware of our existence.
“Well,” said I, “he is an unmannerly hog. But he has one redeeming feature. He is a man of taste. He did admire you, Thorndyke. While you were talking he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
“Possibly he was trying to memorise my features in case I should turn out to be a swell cracksman.”
I laughed at the idea of even such a barbarian as this mistaking my distinguished-looking colleague for a member of the swell mob. But it was not impossible. And certainly the squire had scrutinised my friend’s features with an intensity that nothing but suspicion could justify.
“Perhaps,” said I, “he suffers from an obsession on the subject of burglars. Our host’s remarks seemed to suggest something of the kind. I wonder what he was saying to the lodge-keeper. It looked to me as if the custodian was receiving a slight dressing-down on our account.”
“Probably he was,” replied Thorndyke. “But I think that, if my learned friend had happened to be furnished with eyes in the back of his head—”
“As my learned senior appears to be,” I interjected.
“—he would already have formed a more definite opinion as to what took place. In the absence of the retrocephalic arrangement, I suggest that we slip through this opening in the hedge and sit down under the bank.”
Stooping to avoid the thick upper foliage, he dived through the opening and I followed, with no small curiosity as to what it was that my extraordinarily observant colleague had seen. Presumably some one was following us, and if so, as the opening occurred at a sharp bend of the road, our disappearance would have been unobserved.
“It is my belief, Thorndyke,” I said, as we sat down under the bank, “that your optical arrangements are like those of the giraffe. I believe you can see all round the horizon at once.”
Thorndyke laughed softly. “The human field of vision, Anstey,” said he, “as measured by the perimeter, is well over a hundred and eighty degrees. It doesn’t take much lateral movement of the head to convert it into three hundred and sixty. The really important factor is not optical but mental. That earnest conversation with the gatekeeper suggested a possibility, though a rather remote one. Ordinary human eyesight, used with the necessary attention, was quite sufficient to show that the improbable had happened, as it often does. Hush! Look through that chink in the hedge.”
As he concluded in a whisper, rapid footfalls became audible. Nearer and nearer they approached, and then, through my spy-hole, I saw a man in cord breeches and leggings and a velveteen coat walk swiftly past. The gatekeeper had been dressed thus, and presumably the man was he, though I had not observed him closely enough to be able to recognise him with certainty.
“Now, why is he following us?” I asked, taking the identity for granted.
“We mustn’t assume that he is following us at all with a definite intent, though I suspect he is. But he may be merely going the same way. He may have business in Wendover.”
“It would be rather amusing to dodge him once or twice and see what his game is,” I said with the schoolboy instinct that lingers on, if atavistically, in the adult male.
“It would be highly amusing,” Thorndyke agreed, “but it wouldn’t serve our purpose, which is to ascertain his purpose and keep our knowledge to ourselves. We had better move on now if he is out of sight.”
He was out of sight, having reached and turned down the Tring Road. We followed at a sharp walk, and as we came out into the Tring Road, behold him standing in the footway a couple of hundred yards towards Wendover, looking about him with a rather foolish air of bewilderment. As soon as he saw us, he lifted his foot to the bank and proceeded to attend to his bootlace.
“We won’t notice him,” said Thorndyke. “He is evidently an artless soul and probably believes that he has not been recognised. Let us encourage that eminently desirable belief.”
We passed him with an almost aggressive appearance of unconsciousness on both sides, and pursued our way along the undulating road.
“I don’t think there is much doubt now that he is following us,” said I, “and the question is, why is he doing it?”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “that is the question. He may have had instructions to see us safely out of the district, or he may have had further instructions. We shall see when we get to the station. Meanwhile I am tempted to try a new invention of Polton’s. It is slightly fantastic, but he made me promise to carry it in my pocket and try it when I had a chance. Now, here is the chance, and here is the instrument.”
He took from his pocket a leather case from which he extracted a rather solidly-made pair of spectacles. “You see,” he said, “Polton has long had the idea that I ought to be provided with some means of observing what is going on behind me, and he has devised this apparatus for the purpose. Like all Polton’s inventions, it is quite simple and practicable. As you see, it consists of a rigid spectacle-frame fitted with dummy glasses—clear, plain glass—at the outer edge of which is fixed a little disc of speculum-metal worked to an optically true plane surface and set at a minute angle to the glass. As the disc is quite close to the eye, it enables the wearer, by the very slightest turn of the head, to get a cl
ear view directly behind him. Would you like to try it?”
I took the spectacles from him and put them on, and was amazed at their efficiency. Although the discs were hardly bigger than split peas, they gave me a perfectly clear view along the road behind us—as if I had been looking through a small, round hole—and this with a scarcely appreciable turn of the head. Viewed from behind, I must have appeared to be looking straight before me.
“But,” I exclaimed, “it seems a most practical device, and I shall insist on Polton making me a pair.”
“That will please him,” said Thorndyke, and he added, reflectively “if only there were a few thousand more Poltons—men who found their satisfaction in being useful and giving pleasure to their fellows—what a delightful place this world would be!”
I continued to wear the magic spectacles all the way to Wendover, finding a childish pleasure in watching the unconscious gatekeeper who was dogging our footsteps and taking ludicrous precautions to keep—as he thought—out of sight. Only as we descended the long hill into the beautiful little town did I take them off, the better to enjoy the charm of the picturesque approach with its row of thatched cottages and the modest clock-turret, standing up against the background of the wooded heights that soared above Ellesborough. At the station we had the good fortune to find a train due and already signalled, but we delayed taking our tickets until our follower arrived, which he did, in evident haste, a couple of minutes later, being, no doubt, acquainted with the times of the trains. As soon as he appeared, Thorndyke sauntered to the booking-office wicket and gave him time to approach before demanding in clear, audible tones, two firsts to Marylebone. The gatekeeper followed, and thrusting his head and shoulders deep into the opening, as if he were about to crawl through, made his demand in a muffled undertone.
“We need not trouble ourselves about him any more,” said Thorndyke, “until we get to London. Then we shall know whether he is or is not trying to shadow us.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 38