When he had gone, I drew the Windsor arm-chair close to the fire and made myself as comfortable as I could, dividing my attention between my hat and my boots, which called for careful roasting, and the contents of the room. The latter appeared to be a sort of store for the reserve stock-in-trade and certainly this was a most amazing collection. I could not see a single article for which I would have given sixpence. The array on the shelves suggested that the shop had been stocked with the sweepings of all the stalls in Market Street, with those of Shoreditch High Street thrown in. As I ran my eye along the ranks of dial-less clocks, cracked fiddles, stopperless decanters and tattered theological volumes, I found myself speculating profoundly on how Mr. Morris made a livelihood. He professed to be a ‘dealer in antiques’ and there was assuredly no question as to the antiquity of the goods in this room. But there is little pecuniary value in the kind of antiquity that is unearthed from a dust-bin.
It was really rather mysterious. Mr. Morris was a somewhat superior man and he did not appear to be poor. Yet this shop did not seem capable of yielding an income that would have been acceptable to a rag-picker. And during the whole of the time in which I sat warming myself, there was not a single visitor to the shop. However, it was no concern of mine; and I had just reached this sage conclusion when Mr. Morris returned with my clothes.
“There,” he said, “they are very creased and disreputable but they are quite dry. They would have had to be cleaned and pressed in any case.”
With this he went out into the shop and resumed his filing while I put on the stiff and crumpled garments. When I was dressed, I followed him and thanked him effusively for his kind offices, leaving also a grateful message for his wife. He took my thanks rather stolidly, and having wished me ‘good night,’ picked up his file and fell to work again.
I decided to walk home; principally, I think, to avoid exhibiting myself in a public vehicle. But my self-consciousness soon wore off, and when, in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, I perceived Dr. Usher on the opposite side of the street, I crossed the road and touched his arm. He looked round quickly, and recognizing me, shook hands cordially. “What arc you doing on my beat at this time of night?” he asked. “You are not still at Cornish’s, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but not for long. I have just made my last visit and signed the death certificate.”
“Good man,” said he. “Very methodical. Nothing like finishing a case up neatly. They didn’t invite you to the funeral, I suppose?”
“No,” I replied, “and I shouldn’t have gone if they had.”
“Quite right,” he agreed. “Funerals are rather outside medical practice. But you have to go sometimes. Policy, you know. I had to go to one a couple of days ago. Beastly nuisance it was. Chappie would insist on putting me down at my own door in the mourning coach. Meant well, of course, but it was very awkward. All the neighbours came to their shop-doors and grinned as I got out. Felt an awful fool, couldn’t grin back, you see. Had to keep up the farce to the end.”
“I don’t see that it was exactly a farce,” I objected.
“That is because you weren’t there,” he retorted. “It was the silliest exhibition you ever saw. Just think of it! The parson who ran the show actually got a lot of school-children to stand round the grave and sing a blooming hymn: something about gathering at the river—I expect you know the confounded doggerel.”
“Well, why not?” I protested. “I daresay the friends of the deceased liked it.”
“No doubt,” said he. “I expect they put the parson up to it. But it was sickening to hear those kids bleating that stuff. How did they know where he was?—an old rip with malignant disease of the pancreas, too!”
“Really, Usher,” I exclaimed, laughing at his quaint cynicism, “you are unreasonable. There are no pathological disqualifications for the better land, I hope.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed with a grin. “Don’t have to show a clean bill of health before they let you in. But it was a trying business, you must admit. I hate cant of that sort; and yet one had to pull a long face and join in the beastly chorus.”
The picture that his last words suggested was too much for my gravity. I laughed long and joyously. However, Usher was not offended; indeed I suspect that he appreciated the humour of the situation as much as I did. But he had trained himself to an outward solemnity of manner that was doubtless a valuable asset in his particular class of practice and he walked at my side with unmoved gravity, taking an occasional quick, critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our ways, he once more shook my hand warmly and delivered a little farewell speech.
“You’ve never been to see me. Gray. Haven’t had time, I suppose. But when you are free you might look me up one evening to have a smoke and a glass and talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going, you know.”
I promised to drop in before long, and he then added:
“I gave you one or two tips when I saw you last. Now I’m going to give you another. Never neglect your appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself with respect and the world will respect you. No need to be a dandy. But just keep an eye on your tailor and your laundress, especially your laundress. Clean collars don’t cost much, and they pay; and so does a trousers-press. People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now, you mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I want you to get on. So long, old chap. Look me up as soon as you can,” and without giving me the opportunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off, swinging his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words served as a reminder which caused me to pursue the remainder of my journey by way of side-streets neither too well lighted nor too much frequented.
As I let myself in with my key and closed the street-door, Cornish stepped out of the dining-room.
“I thought you were lost. Gray,” said he. “Where the deuce have you been all this time?” Then, as I came into the light of the hall-lamp, he exclaimed: “And what in the name of Fortune have you been up to?”
“I have had a wetting,” I explained. “I’ll tell you all about it presently.”
“Dr. Thorndyke is in the dining-room,” said he; “came in a few minutes ago to see you.” He seized me by the arm and ran me into the room, where I found Thorndyke methodically filling his pipe. He looked up as I entered and regarded me with raised eyebrows.
“Why, my dear fellow, you’ve been in the water!” he exclaimed. “But yet your clothes are not wet. What has been happening to you?”
“If you can wait a few minutes,” I replied, “while I wash and change, I will relate my adventures. But perhaps you haven’t time.”
“I want to hear all about it,” he replied, “so run along and be as quick as you can.”
I bustled up to my room, and having washed and executed a lightning change, came down to the dining-room, where I found Cornish in the act of setting out decanters and glasses.
“I’ve told Dr. Thorndyke what took you to Hoxton,” said he, “and he wants a full account of everything that happened. He is always suspicious of cremation cases, as you know from his lectures.”
“Yes, I remember his warnings,” said I. “But this was a perfectly commonplace, straightforward affair.”
“Did you go for your swim before or after the examination?” Thorndyke asked.
“Oh, after,” I replied.
“Then let us hear about the examination first,” said he.
On this I plunged into a detailed account of all that had befallen since my arrival at Market Street, to which Thorndyke listened, not only patiently but with the closest attention and even cross-examined me to elicit further details. Everything seemed to interest him, from the construction of the coffin to the contents of Mr. Morris’s shop. When I had finished, Cornish remarked:
“Well, it is a queer affair. I don’t understand that rope at all. Ropes don’t uncleat themselves. They may slip, but they don’t come righ
t off the cleat. It looks more as if some mischievous fool had cast it off for a joke.”
“But there was no one there,” said I. “The shed was empty when I examined it and there was not a soul in sight on the tow-path.”
“Could you see the shed when you were in the water?” Thorndyke asked.
“No. My head was below the level of the tow-path. But if anyone had run out and made off, I must have seen him on the path when I came out. He couldn’t have got out of sight in the time. Besides, it is incredible that even a fool should play such a trick as that.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But every explanation seems incredible. The only plain fact is that it happened. It is a queer business altogether; and not the least queer feature in the case is your friend Morris. Hoxton is an unlikely place for a dealer in antiques, unless he should happen to deal in other things as well—things, I mean, of ambiguous ownership.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Cornish. “Sounds uncommonly like a fence. However, that is no business of ours.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, rising and knocking out his pipe. “And now I must be going. Do you care to walk with me to the bottom of Doughty Street, Gray?”
I assented at once, suspecting that he had something to say to me that he did not wish to say before Cornish. And so it turned out; for as soon as we were outside he said:
“What I really called about was this: it seems that we have done the police an injustice. They were more on the spot than we gave them credit for. I have learned—and this is in the strictest confidence—that they took that coin round to the British Museum for the expert’s report. Then a very curious fact came to light. That coin is not the original which was stolen. It is an electrotype in gold, made in two halves very neatly soldered together and carefully worked on the milled edge to hide the join. That is extremely important in several respects. In the first place it suggests an explanation of the otherwise incredible circumstance that it was being carried loose in the waistcoat pocket. It had probably been recently obtained from the electrotyper. That suggests the question, is it possible that D’Arblay might have been that electrotyper? Did he ever work the electrotype process? We must ascertain whether he did.”
“There is no need,” said I. “It is known to me as a fact that he did. The little plaquettes that I took for castings are electrotypes, made by himself. He worked the process quite a lot and was very skilful in finishing. For instance, he did a small bust of his daughter in two parts and brazed them together.”
“Then, you see. Gray,” said Thorndyke, “that advances us considerably. We now have a plausible suggestion as to the motive and a new field of investigation. Let us suppose that this man employed D’Arblay to make electrotype copies of certain unique objects with the intention of disposing of them to collectors. The originals, being stolen property, would be almost impossible to dispose of with safety, but a copy would not necessarily incriminate the owner. But when D’Arblay had made the copies, he would be a dangerous person, for he would know who had the originals. Here, to a man whom we know to be a callous murderer, would be a sufficient reason for making away with D’Arblay.”
“But do you think that D’Arblay would have undertaken such a decidedly fishy job? It seems hardly like him.”
“Why not?” demanded Thorndyke. “There was nothing suspicious about the transaction. The man who wanted the copies was the owner of the originals, and D’Arblay would not know or suspect that they were stolen.”
“That is true,” I admitted. “But you were speaking of a new field of investigation.”
“Yes. If a number of copies of different objects have been made, there is a fair chance that some of them have been disposed of. If they have and can be traced, they will give us a start along a new line which may bring us in sight of the man himself. Do you ever see Miss D’Arblay now?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite one of the family at Highgate. I have been there every Sunday lately.”
“Have you!” he exclaimed with a smile. “You are a pretty locum tenens. However, if you are quite at home there you can make a few discreet inquiries. Find out, if you can, whether any electros had been made recently and, if so, what they were and who was the client. Will you do that?”
I agreed readily, only too glad to take an active part in the investigation; and having by this time reached the end of Doughty Street, I took leave of Thorndyke and made my way back to Cornish’s house.
THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY (1926) [Part 2]
CHAPTER X
MARION’S PERIL
The mist, which had been gathering since the early afternoon, began to thicken ominously as I approached Abbey Road, Hornsey, from Crouch End station, causing me to quicken my pace so that I might make my destination before the fog closed in; for this was my first visit to Marion D’Arblay’s studio and the neighbourhood was strange to me. And in fact I was none too soon; for hardly had I set my hand on the quaint bronze knocker above the plate inscribed Mr. J. D’Arblay,—when the adjoining houses grew pale and shadowy and then vanished altogether.
My elaborate knock—in keeping with the distinguished knocker—was followed by soft, quick footsteps, the sound whereof set my heart ticking in double-quick time; the door opened and there stood Miss D’Arblay, garbed in a most alluring blue smock or pinafore, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with a smile of friendly welcome on her comely face and looking so sweet and charming that I yearned then and there to take her in my arms and kiss her. This, however, being inadmissible, I shook her hand warmly and was forthwith conducted through the outer lobby into the main studio, where I stood looking about me with amused surprise. She looked at me inquiringly as I emitted an audible chuckle.
“It is a queer-looking place,” said I; “something between a miracle-shrine hung with votive offerings from sufferers who have been cured of sore heads and arms and legs and a meat emporium in a cannibal district.”
“It is nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I don’t mind the votive offerings, but I reject the cannibal meat-market as a gross and libellous fiction. But I suppose it does look rather queer to a stranger.”
“To a what?” I demanded fiercely.
“Oh, I only meant a stranger to the place, of course, and you know I did. So you needn’t be cantankerous.”
She glanced smilingly round the studio and for the first time, apparently, the oddity of its appearance dawned on her, for she laughed softly and then turned a mischievous eye on me as I gaped about me like a bumpkin at a fair. The studio was a very large and lofty room or hall with a partially-glazed roof and a single large window just below the skylight. The walls were fitted partly with rows of large shelves and the remainder with ranks of pegs. From the latter hung row after row of casts of arms, hands, legs and faces—especially faces—while the shelves supported a weird succession of heads, busts and a few half-length but armless figures. The general effect was very strange and uncanny, and what made it more so was the fact that all the heads presented perfectly smooth, bare craniums.
“Are artists’ models usually bald?” I inquired, as I noted this latter phenomenon.
“Now you are being foolish,” she replied—“wilfully and deliberately foolish. You know very well that all these heads have got to be fitted with wigs, and you couldn’t fit a wig to a head that already had a fine covering of plaster curls. But I must admit that it rather detracts from the beauty of a girl’s head if you represent it without hair. The models used to hate it when they were shown with heads like old gentlemen’s, and so did poor Dad—in fact he usually rendered the hair in the clay, just sketchily, for the sake of the model’s feelings and his own and took it off afterwards with a wire tool. But there is the kettle boiling over. I must make the tea.”
While this ceremony was being performed, I strolled round the studio and inspected the casts, more particularly the heads and faces. Of these latter the majority were obviously modelled, but I noticed quite a number with closed eyes,
having very much the appearance of death-masks. When we had taken our places at the little table near the great gas-ring, I inquired what they were.
“They do look rather cadaverous, don’t they?” she said as she poured out the tea, “but they are not death-masks. They are casts from living faces, mostly from the faces of models, but my father always used to take a cast from anyone who would let him. They are quite useful to work from, though, of course, the eyes have to be put in from another cast or from life.”
“It must be rather an unpleasant operation:” I said “having the plaster poured all over the face. How does the victim manage to breathe?”
“The usual plan is to put little quills or tubes into the nostrils. But my father could keep the nostrils free without any tubes. He was a very skilful moulder; and then he always used the best plaster, which sets very quickly, so that it only took a few minutes.”
“And how are you getting on; and what were you doing when I came in?”
“I am getting on quite well,” she replied. “My work has been passed as satisfactory and I have three new commissions. When you came in I was just getting ready to make a mould for a head and shoulders. After tea I shall go on with it and you shall help me. But tell me about yourself. You have finished with Dr. Cornish, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I am a gentleman at large for the time being; but that won’t do. I shall have to look out for another job.”
“I hope it will be a London job,” she said. “Arabella and I would feel quite lonely if you went away, even for a week or two. We both look forward so much to our little family gathering on Sunday afternoon.”
“You don’t look forward to it as much as I do,” I said warmly. “It is difficult for me to realize that there was ever a time when you were not a part of my life. And yet we are quite new friends.”
“Yes,” she said; “only a few weeks old. But I have the same feeling. I seem to have known you for years; and as for Arabella, she speaks of you as if she had nursed you from infancy. You have a very insinuating way with you.”
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