The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “The difficulty is,” said he, “that there were a good many gentlemen in here last Thursday. You say they came about I I.45. If you could tell me what they bought, we could look at the bill-duplicate book and that might help us.”

  “I don’t actually know what they bought,” said Thorndyke. “It might have been a length of rope; a rope, perhaps, say twelve or fourteen fathoms or perhaps more. But I may be wrong.”

  I stared at Thorndyke in amazement. Long as I known him, this extraordinary faculty of instantaneous induction always came on me as a fresh surprise. I had supposed that in this case we had absolutely nothing to go on; and yet here he was with at least a tentative suggestion before the inquiry appeared to have begun. And that suggestion was clear evidence that he had already arrived at a hypothetical solution of the mystery. I was still pondering on this astonishing fact when the manager approached with an open book and accompanied by an assistant.

  “I see,” said he, “that there is an entry, apparently about mid-day on Thursday, of the sale of a fifteen-fathom length of deep-sea lead-line, and my friend, here, remembers selling it.”

  “Yes,” the assistant confirmed, “I remember it because he wanted to get it into his handbag, and it took the three of us to stuff it in. Thick lead-line is pretty stiff when it’s new.”

  “Do you remember what these gentlemen were like and how they were dressed?”

  “One was a rather elderly gentleman, clean-shaved, I think. The other I remember better because he had rather queer-looking eyes—very pale grey. He had a pointed beard and he wore a greenish check coat and a cloth hat. That’s all I remember about him.”

  “It is more than most people would have remembered,” said Thorndyke. “I am very much obliged to you; and I think I will ask you to let me have a fifteen-fathom length of that same lead-line.”

  By this time my capacity for astonishment was exhausted. What on earth could my colleague want with a deep-sea lead-line? But, after all, why not? If he had then and there purchased a Trotman’s anchor, a shark-hook and a set of International code signals, I should have been prepared to accept the proceeding with out comment. Thorndyke was a law unto himself.

  Nevertheless, as I walked homeward by his side, carrying the coil of rope, I continued to speculate on this singular case. Thorndyke had arrived at a hypothetical solution of Mr. Brodribb’s problem; and it was evidently correct, so far, as the entry in the bill-book proved. But what was the connection between a dusty jacket and a length of thin rope? And why this particular length? I could make nothing of it. But I determined, as soon as we got home, to see what new facts Polton’s activities had brought to light.

  The results were disappointing. Polton’s dust extractor had been busy, and the products in the form of tiny heaps of dust, were methodically set out on a sheet of white paper, each little heap covered with a watch-glass and accompanied by its written particulars as to the part of the garment from which it had come. I examined a few samples under the microscope, but though curious and interesting, as all dust is, they showed nothing very distinctive. The dust might have come from anyone’s coat. There was, of course, a good deal of yellowish sandy loam, a few particles of chalk, a quantity of fine ash, clinker and particles of coal—railway dust from a locomotive—ordinary town and house dust and some oddments such as pollen grains, including those of the sow-thistle, mallow, poppy and valerian, and in one sample I found two scales from the wing of the common blue butterfly. That was all; and it told me nothing but that the owner of the coat had recently been in a chalk district and that he had taken a railway journey.

  While I was working with the microscope, Polton was busy with an occupation that I did not understand. He had cemented the little pieces of chalk that we had found in the pockets to a plate of glass by means of pitch, and he was now brushing them under water with a soft brush and from time to time decanting the milky water into a tall sediment glass. Now, as most people know, chalk is largely composed of microscopic shells—foraminifera—which can be detached by gently brushing the chalk under water. But what was the object? There was no doubt that the material was chalk, and we knew that foraminifera were there. Why trouble to prove what is common knowledge? I questioned Polton, but he knew nothing of the purpose of the investigation. He merely beamed on me like a crinkly old graven image and went on brushing. I dipped up a sample of the white sediment and examined it under the microscope. Of course there were foraminifera, and very beautiful they were. But what about it? The whole proceeding looked purposeless. And yet I knew that it was not. Thorndyke was the last man in the world to expend his energies in flogging a dead horse.

  Presently he came up to the laboratory, and, when he had looked at the dust specimens and confirmed my opinion of them, he fell to work on the chalk sediment. Having prepared a number of slides, he sat down at the microscope with a sharp pencil and a block of smooth paper with the apparent purpose of cataloguing and making drawings of the foraminifera. And at this task I left him while I went forth to collect some books that I had ordered from a bookseller in the Charing Cross Road.

  When I returned with my purchases about an hour later I found him putting back in a press a portfolio of large-scale Ordnance maps of Kent which he had apparently been consulting, and I noticed on the table his sheet of drawings and a monograph of the fossil foraminifera.

  “Well, Thorndyke,” I said cheerfully,” I suppose this time, you know exactly what has become of Merrill.”

  “I can guess,” he replied, “and so can you. But the actual data are distressingly vague. We have certain indications, as you will have noticed. The trouble will be to bring them to a focus. It is a case for constructive imagination on the one hand and the method of exclusion on the other. I shall make a preliminary circle-round tomorrow.”

  “Meaning by that?”

  “I have a hypothesis. It is probably wrong. If it is, we must try another, and yet another. Every time we fail we shall narrow the field of inquiry until by eliminating one possibility after another, we may hope to arrive at the solution. My first essay will take me down into Kent.”

  “You are not going into those wild regions alone, Thorndyke,” said I. “You will need my protection and support to say nothing of my invaluable advice. I presume you realise that?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replied gravely. “I was reckoning on a two-man expedition. Besides, you are as much interested in the case as I am. And now, let us go forth and dine and fortify ourselves for the perils of tomorrow.”

  In the course of dinner I led the conversation to the products of Polton’s labours and remarked upon their very indefinite significance; but Thorndyke was more indefinite still, as he usually was in cases of a highly speculative character.

  “You are expecting too much from Polton,” he said with a smile. “This is not a matter of foraminifera or pollen or butterfly-scales; they are only items of circumstantial evidence. What we have to do is to consider the whole body of facts in our possession; what Brodribb has told us, what we know for ourselves and what we have ascertained by investigation. The case is still very much in the air, but it is not so vague as you seem to imply.”

  This was all I could get out of him; and as the “whole body of facts” yielded no suggestion at all to me, I could only possess my soul in patience and hope for some enlightenment on the morrow.

  About a quarter to eleven on the following morning, while Thorndyke was giving final instructions to Polton and I was speculating on the contents of the suitcase that was going to accompany us, footsteps became audible on our stairs. Their crescendo terminated in a flourish on our little brass knocker which I recognised as Brodribb’s knock. I accordingly opened the door, and in walked our old friend. His keen blue eye took in at once our informal raiment and the suitcase and lighted up with something like curiosity.

  “Off on an expedition?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “A little trip down into Kent. Gravesend, in fact.”

  “
Gravesend,” repeated Brodribb with further awakened interest. “That was rather a favourite resort of poor Merrill’s. By the way, your expedition is not connected with his disappearance, I suppose?”

  “As a matter of fact it is,” replied Thorndyke. “Just a tentative exploration, you know.”

  “I know,” said Brodribb, all agog now, “and I’m coming with you. I’ve got a clear day and I’m not going to take a refusal.”

  “No refusal was contemplated,” rejoined Thorndyke. “You’ll probably waste a day, but we shall benefit by your society. Polton will let your clerk know that you haven’t absconded, or you can look in at the office yourself. We have plenty of time.”

  Brodribb chose the latter plan, which enabled him to exchange his tall hat and morning coat for a soft hat and jacket, and we accordingly made our way to Charing Cross via Lincoln’s Inn, where Brodribb’s office was situated. I noticed that Brodribb, with his customary discretion, asked no questions, though he must have observed, as I had, the striking fact that Thorndyke had in some way connected Merrill with Gravesend; and in fact with the exception of Brodribb’s account of his failure to get any news of Mr. Crick, no reference was made to the nature of our expedition until we alighted at our destination.

  On emerging from the station, Thorndyke turned to the left and led the way out of the approach into a street, on the opposite side of which a rather grimy statue of Queen Victoria greeted us with a supercilious stare. Here we turned to the south along a prosperous thoroughfare, and presently crossing a main road, followed its rather sordid continuation until the urban squalor began to be tempered by traces of rusticity, and the suburb became a village. Passing a pleasant looking inn and a smithy, which seemed to have an out-patient department for invalid carts, we came into a quiet lane offering a leafy vista with glimpses of thatched and tiled cottages whose gardens were gay with summer flowers. Opposite these, some rough stone steps led up to a stile by the side of an open gate which gave access to a wide cart-track. Here Thorndyke halted, and producing his pocket map-case, com pared the surroundings with the map. At length he pocketed the case, and turning towards the cart-track, said: “This is our way, for better or worse. In a few minutes we shall probably know whether we have found a clue or a mare’s nest.”

  We followed the track up a rise until, reaching the crest of the hill, we saw stretching away below us a wide, fertile valley with wooded heights beyond, over the brow of which peeped the square tower of some village church.

  “Well,” said Brodribb, taking off his hat to enjoy the light breeze, “clue or no clue, this is perfectly delightful and well worth the journey. Just look at those charming little blue butterflies fluttering round that mallow. What a magnificent prospect And where, but in Kent, will you see such a barley field as that?”

  It was, indeed, a beautiful landscape. But as my eye travelled over the enormous barley field, its tawny surface rippling, in golden waves before the summer breeze, it was not the beauty of the scene that occupied my mind. I was thinking of those three ends of barley beard that we had picked from the skirts of the green jacket. The cart-track had now contracted to a foot path; but it was a broader path than I should have looked for, running straight across the great field to a far-away stile; and half way along it on the left hand side I could see, rising above the barley, the top of a rough fence around a small, square enclosure that looked like a pound—though it was in an unlikely situation.

  We pursued the broad path across the field until we were nearly abreast of the pound, and I was about to draw Thorndyke’s attention to it, when I perceived a narrow lane through the barley—hardly a path, but rather a track, trodden through the crop by some persons who had gone to the enclosure. Into this track Thorndyke turned as if he had been looking for it, and walked towards the enclosure, closely scrutinising the ground as he went. Brodribb and I, of course, followed in single file, brushing through the barley as we went; and as we drew nearer we could see that there was an opening in the enclosing fence and that inside was a deep hollow the edges of which were fringed with clumps of pink valerian. At the opening of the fence Thorndyke halted and looked back.

  “Well,” said Brodribb, “is it going to be a mare’s nest?”

  “No,” replied Thorndyke. “It is a clue, and something more!”

  As he spoke, he pointed to the foot of one of the principal posts of the fence, to which was secured a short length of rope, the frayed ends of which suggested that it had broken under a heavy strain. And now I could see what the enclosure was. Inside it was a deep pit, and at the bottom of the pit, to one side, was a circular hole, black as night, and apparently leading down into the bowels of the earth.

  “That must be a dene hole,” said I, looking at the yawning cavity.

  “It is,” Thorndyke replied.

  “Ha,” said Brodribb, “so that is a dene hole, is it? Damned unpleasant looking place. Dene holes were one of poor Merrill’s hobbies. He used to go down to explore them. I hope you are not suggesting that he went down this one.”

  “I am afraid that is what has happened, Brodribb,” was the reply. “That end of rope looks like his. It is deep-sea lead-line. I have a length of it here, bought at the same place as he bought his, and probably cut from the same sample.” He opened the suitcase, and taking out the coil of line that we had bought, flung it down by the foot of the post. Obviously it was identical with the broken end. “However,” he added,” we shall see.”

  “We are going down, are we?” asked Brodribb.

  “We?” repeated Thorndyke. “I am going down if it is practicable. Not otherwise. If it is an ordinary seventy-foot shaft with perpendicular sides, we shall have to get proper appliances. But you had better stay above, in any case.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Brodribb. “I am not such a back number as you think. I have been a mountain-climber in my time and I’m not a bit nervous. I can get down all right if there is any foothold, and I’ve got a rope to hang on to. And you can see for yourself that somebody has been down with a rope only.”

  “Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “but I don’t see that that somebody has come up again.”

  “No,” Brodribb admitted; “that’s true. The rope seems to have broken; and you say your rope is the same stuff?

  Thorndyke looked at me inquiringly as I stooped and examined the frayed end of the strange rope.

  “What do you say, Jervis?” he asked.

  “That rope didn’t break,” I replied. “It has been, chafed or sawn through. It is quite different in appearance from a broken end.”

  “That was what I decided as soon as I saw it,” said Thorndyke. “Besides, a new rope of this size and quality couldn’t possibly break under the weight of a man.”

  Brodribb gazed at the frayed end with an expression of horror.

  “What a diabolical thing!” he exclaimed. “You mean that some wretch deliberately cut the rope and let another man drop down the shaft! But it can’t be. I really think you must be mistaken. It must have been a defective rope.”

  “Well, that is what it looks like,” replied Thorndyke. He made a ‘running bowline” at the end of our rope and slipped the loop over his shoulders, drawing it tight under his arms. Then he turned towards the pit. “You had better take a couple of turns round the foot of the post, Jervis,” said he, “and pay out just enough to keep the rope taut.”

  He took an electric inspection-lamp from the suit case, slipped the battery in his pocket and hooked the bull’s-eye to a button-hole, and when all was ready, he climbed down into the pit, crossed the sloping floor, and crouching down, peered into the forbidding hole, throwing down it a beam of light from his bull’s-eye. Then he stood up and grasped the rope.

  “It is quite practicable,” said he; “only about twenty feet deep, and good foothold all the way.” With this he crouched once more, backed into the hole and disappeared from view. He evidently descended pretty quickly, to judge by the rate at which I had to pay out the rope, and in quite a sho
rt time I felt the tension slacken and began to haul up the line. As the loop came out of the hole, Mr. Brodribb took possession of it, and regardless of my protests, proceeded to secure it under his arms.

  “But how the deuce am I going to get down?” I demanded.

  “That’s all right, Jervis,” he replied persuasively. “I’ll just have a look round and then come up and let you down.”

  It being obviously useless to argue, I adjusted the rope and made ready to pay out. He climbed down into the pit with astonishing agility, backed into the hole and disappeared; and the tension of the rope informed me that he was making quite a rapid descent. He had nearly reached the bottom when there were borne to my ears the hollow reverberations of what sounded like a cry of alarm. But all was apparently well, for the rope continued to draw out steadily, and when at last its tension relaxed, I felt an unmistakable signal shake, and at once drew it up.

  As my curiosity made me unwilling to remain passively waiting for Brodribb’s return, I secured the end of the rope to the post with a “fisherman’s bend” and let myself down into the pit. Advancing to the hole, I lay down and put my head over the edge. A dim light from Thorndyke’s lamp came up the shaft and showed me that we were by no means the first explorers, for there were foot-holes cut in the chalk all the way down, apparently of some considerable age. With the aid of these and the rope, it appeared quite easy to descend and I decided to go down forthwith. Accordingly I backed towards the shaft, found the first of the foot-holes, and grasping the rope with one hand and using the other to hang on to the upper cavities, easily let myself down the well-like shaft. As I neared the bottom the light of the lamp was thrown full on the shaft-wall; a pair of hands grasped me and I heard Thorndyke’s voice saying: “Look where you are treading, Jervis,” on which I looked down and saw immediately below me a man lying on his face by an irregular coil of rope.

  I stepped down carefully on to the chalk floor and looked round. We were in a small chamber in one side of which was the black opening of a low tunnel. Thorndyke and Brodribb were standing at the feet of the prostrate figure examining a revolver which the solicitor held.