“How?” I asked eagerly.
“I can’t say off-hand; but Jervis will be going away for his holiday almost at once—in fact, he will go off actual duty tonight. There is very little doing; the long vacation is close upon us, and I can do without him. But if you would care to come down here and take his place, you would be very useful to me; and if there should be anything to be done in the Bellinghams’ case, I am sure you would make up in enthusiasm for any deficiency in experience.”
“I couldn’t really take Jervis’s place,” said I, “but if you would let me help you in any way it would be a great kindness. I would rather clean your boots than be out of it altogether.”
“Very well. Let us leave it that you come here as soon as Barnard has done with you. You can have Jervis’s room, which he doesn’t often use nowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know. I may as well give you my latchkey now. I have a duplicate upstairs, and you understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment.”
He handed me the latchkey and I thanked him warmly from my heart, for I felt sure that the suggestion was made, not for any use that I should be to him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly finished speaking when a quick step on the paved walk caught my ear.
“Here is Jervis,” said Thorndyke. “We will let him know that there is a locum tenens ready to step into his shoes when he wants to be off.” He flashed the lantern across the path, and a few moments later his junior stepped up briskly with a bundle of newspapers tucked under his arm.
It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly when he recognised me in the dim light; also that he was a trifle constrained in his manner, as if my presence were an embarrassment. He listened to Thorndyke’s announcement of our newly made arrangement without much enthusiasm and with none of his customary facetious comments. And again I noticed a quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, and wholly puzzling to me.
“That’s all right,” he said when Thorndyke had explained the situation. “I daresay you’ll find Berkeley as useful as me, and, in any case, he’ll be better here than staying on with Barnard.” He spoke with unwonted gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude for me that attracted my notice and that of Thorndyke as well, for the latter looked at him curiously, though he made no comment. After a short silence, however, he asked: “And what news does my learned brother bring? There is a mighty shouting among the outer barbarians, and I see a bundle of newspapers under my learned friend’s arm. Has anything in particular happened?”
Jervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. “Well—yes,” he replied hesitatingly, “something has happened—there! It’s no use beating about the bush; Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from those yelling devils outside.” He took a couple of papers from his bundle and silently handed one to me and the other to Thorndyke.
Jervis’s ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed me not a little. I opened the paper with a nameless dread. But whatever my vague fears, they fell far short of the occasion; and when I saw those yells from without crystallised into scare headlines and flaming capitals I turned for a moment sick and dizzy with fear.
The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it through in less than a minute:
“THE MISSING FINGER—DRAMATIC DISCOVERY AT WOODFORD.
“The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a mutilated human body, portions of which have been found in various places in Kent and Essex, has received a partial and very sinister solution. The police have, all along, suspected that these remains were those of a Mr. John Bellingham who disappeared under circumstances of some suspicion about two years ago. There is now no doubt upon the subject, for the finger which was missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup has been discovered at the bottom of a disused well together with a ring, which has been identified as one habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham.
“The house in the garden of which the well is situated was the property of the murdered man, and was occupied at the time of the disappearance by his brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latter left it very soon after, and it has been empty ever since. Just lately it has been put in repair, and it was in this way that the well came to be emptied and cleaned out. It seems that Detective-Inspector Badger, who was searching the neighbourhood for further remains, heard of the emptying of the well and went down in the bucket to examine the bottom, where he found the three bones and the ring.
“Thus the identity of the body is established beyond all doubt, and the question that remains is, Who killed John Bellingham? It may be remembered that a trinket, apparently broken from his watch-chain, was found in the grounds of this house on the day that he disappeared, and that he was never again seen alive. What may be the import of these facts time will show.”
That was all; but it was enough. I dropped the paper to the ground and glanced round furtively at Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toes of his boots. It was horrible; It was incredible! The blow was so crushing that it left my faculties numb, and for a while I seemed unable even to think intelligibly.
I was aroused by Thorndyke’s voice—calm, businesslike, composed:
“Time will show, indeed! But meanwhile we must go warily. And don’t be unduly alarmed, Berkeley. Go home, take a good dose of bromide with a little stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been rather a shock to you.”
I rose from my chair like one in a dream and held out my hand to Thorndyke; and even in the dim light and in my dazed condition I noticed that his face bore a look that I had never seen before: the look of a granite mask of Fate—grim, stern, inexorable.
My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway at the top of Inner Temple Lane, and as we reached the entry a stranger, coming quickly up the Lane, overtook and passed us. In the glare of the lamp outside the porter’s lodge he looked at us quickly over his shoulder, and though he passed on without halt or greeting, I recognised him with a certain dull surprise which I did not understand then and do not understand now. It was Mr. Jellicoe.
I shook hands once more with my friends and strode out into Fleet Street, but as soon as I was outside the gate I made direct for Nevill’s Court. What was in my mind I do not know; only that some instinct of protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious of the hideous menace that hung over her. At the entrance to the court a tall, powerful man was lounging against the wall, and he seemed to look at me curiously as I passed; but I hardly noticed him and strode forward into the narrow passage. By the shabby gateway of the house I halted and looked up at such of the windows as I could see over the wall. They were all dark. All the inmates, then, were in bed. Vaguely comforted by this, I walked on to the New Street end of the court and looked out. Here, too, a man—a tall, thick-set man—was loitering; and, as he looked inquisitively into my face, I turned and reentered the court, slowly retracing my steps. As I again reached the gate of the house I stopped to look up once more at the windows, and turning, I found the man whom I had last noticed close behind me. Then, in a flash of dreadful comprehension, I understood. These two men were plain-clothes policemen.
For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane impulse urged me to give battle to this intruder; to avenge upon his person the insult of his presence. Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and I recovered myself without making any demonstration. But the appearance of those two policemen brought the peril into the immediate present, imparted to it a horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood on my forehead, and my ears were ringing when I walked with faltering steps out into Fetter Lane.
THE EYE OF OSIRIS (1911) [part 3]
CHAPTER XVIII
JOHN Bellingham
The next few days were a very nightmare of horror and gloom. Of course, I repudiated my acceptance of the decree of banishment that Ruth had passed upon me. I was her friend, at least, and in time of peril my place was at her side. Tacitly—though thankfully enough, poor girl!—she had recognised the fact and made me once more free of the ho
use.
For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper boys yelled the news up and down Fleet Street from morning to night; soul-shaking posters grinned on gaping crowds; and the newspapers fairly wallowed in the “Shocking details.” It is true that no direct accusations were made; but the original reports of the disappearance were reprinted with such comments as made me gnash my teeth with fury.
The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory until my dying day. Never can I forget the dread that weighed me down, the horrible suspense, the fear that clutched at my heart as I furtively scanned the posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives who prowled about the entrances to Nevill’s Court became grateful to my eyes, for, embodying as they did the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady, their presence at least told me that the blow had not yet fallen. Indeed, we came, after a time, to exchange glances of mutual recognition, and I thought that they seemed to be sorry for her and for me, and had no great liking for their task. Of course, I spent most of my leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more there than elsewhere; and I tried, with but poor success, I fear, to maintain a cheerful, confident manner, cracking my little jokes as of old, and even essaying to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment was a dead failure; and when she had suddenly broken down in a stream of brilliant repartee to weep hysterically on my breast, I abandoned the attempt and did not repeat it.
A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old house. Poor Miss Oman crept silently but restlessly up and down the ancient stairs with dim eyes and a tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentary petition (demanding, if I remember rightly, the appointment of a female judge to deal with divorce and matrimonial causes) which lay on her table languidly awaiting signatures that never came. Mr. Bellingham, whose mental condition at first alternated between furious anger and absolute panic, was fast sinking into a state of nervous prostration that I viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the only really self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth herself, and even she could not conceal the ravages of sorrow and suspense and overshadowing peril. Her manner was almost unchanged; or rather, I should say, she had gone back to that which I had first known—quiet, reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter humour showing through her unvarying amiability. When she and I were alone, indeed, her reserve melted away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it wrung my heart to look at her, to see how, day by day, she grew ever more thin and haggard; to watch the growing pallor of her cheek; to look into her solemn grey eyes, so sad and tragic and yet so brave and defiant of fate.
It was a terrible time; and through it all the dreadful questions haunted me continually: When will the blow fall? What is it that the police are waiting for? And when they do strike, what will Thorndyke have to say?
So things went on for four dreadful days. But on the fourth day, just as the evening consultations were beginning and the surgery was filled with waiting patients, Polton appeared with a note, which he insisted, to the indignation of Adolphus, on delivering into my own hands. It was from Thorndyke, and was to the following effect:—
“I learn from Dr. Norbury that he has recently heard from Herr Lederbogen, of Berlin—a learned authority on Oriental antiquities—who makes some reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman’s name, but there are certain expressions in the letter which make Dr. Norbury suspect that he is referring to John Bellingham.
“I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to my chambers this evening at 8:30, to meet Dr. Norbury and talk over this letter; and in view of the importance of the matter, I look to you not to fail me.”
A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was still possible that this Gordian knot might be cut; that the deliverance might come before it was too late. I wrote a hasty note in reply to Thorndyke and another to Ruth, making the appointment; and having given them both to the trusty Polton, returned somewhat feverishly to my professional duties. To my profound relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practice sank into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able, without base and mendacious subterfuge, to escape in good time to my tryst.
It was near upon eight o’clock when I passed through the archway into Nevill’s Court. The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer was running out apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down in the narrow court the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners. I was due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar scene and the well-known friendly faces.
The day’s work was drawing to a close. The little shops were putting up their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.
Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his dahlias. There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning out the gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.
All these good, homely folk were Nevill’s Courtiers of the genuine breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for generations. And of such to a great extent was the population of the place. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the sweet-faced Moravian lady next door—a connection of the famous La Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James the First.
On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court: on the strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.
My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her hand.
“You are punctual,” said she. “St. Dunstan’s clock is striking now.”
“Yes,” I answered. “But where is your father?”
“He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn’t feel well enough to come, and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense will kill him if it goes on much longer.”
“Let us hope it won’t,” I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in my tone. It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less manifest.
We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us with a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raised his cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we passed through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion paused and looked about her.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“The detective,” she answered quietly. “It would be a pity if the poor man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don’t see him”; and she turned away towards Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise to me that her sharp eyes had detected the secret spy upon her movements; and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained
me, too, recalling, as it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the early days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not but admire the cool unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril.
“Tell me a little more about this conference,” she said, as we walked down Fetter Lane. “Your note was rather more concise than lucid; but I suppose you wrote it in a hurry.”
“Yes, I did. And I can’t give you any details now. All I know is that Doctor Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, an Egyptologist, as I understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to an English acquaintance of his and Norbury’s whom he saw in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman’s name, but from some of the circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your Uncle John. Of course, if this should turn out to be really the case, it would set everything straight; so Thorndyke was anxious that you and your father should meet Norbury and talk it over.”
“I see,” said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but by no means enthusiastic.
“You don’t seem to attach much importance to the matter,” I remarked.
“No. It doesn’t seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive—and behaving like an imbecile, which he certainly was not—when his dead body has actually been found?”
“But,” I suggested lamely, “there may be some mistake. It may not be his body after all.”
“And the ring?” she asked, with a bitter smile.
“That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your uncle. Besides,” I added, with more conviction, “we haven’t seen the ring. It may not be his at all.”
She shook her head. “My dear Paul,” she said quietly, “it is useless to delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised that the police have made no move yet.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 70