The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  “Who found a mare’s nest and got his head thumped,” remarked Jervis.

  “Then,” continued Thorndyke, “look at his behaviour to Marchmont. Evidently he put the case into Marchmont’s hands, but, equally evident, he withheld material facts and secretly tinkered at the case himself. No, Jervis, I give no information to Father Humperdinck until I have this case complete to the last rivet. But, all the same, I am greatly obliged to him, and especially to Marchmont for bringing him here. He has given us a connected story to collate with our rather loose collection of facts and, what is perhaps more important, he has put our investigation on a business footing. That is a great advantage. If I should want to invoke the aid of the powers that be, I can do so now with a definite locus standi as the legal representative of interested parties.”

  “I can’t imagine,” said I, “in what direction you are going to push your inquiries. Father Humperdinck has given us, as you say, a connected story, but it is a very unexpected one, to me, at least, and does not fall into line at all with what we know—that is, if you are assuming, as I have been, that the man whom I saw lying in Millfield Lane was Vitalis Reinhardt.”

  “It is difficult,” replied Thorndyke, “to avoid that assumption, though we must be on our guard against coincidences; but the man whom you saw agreed with the description that has been given to us, we know that Reinhardt was in the neighbourhood on that day, and you found the reliquary on the following morning in the immediate vicinity. We seem to be committed to the hypothesis that the man was Reinhardt unless we can prove that he was someone else, or that Reinhardt was in some other place at the time; which at present we cannot.”

  “Then,” said I, “in that case, the bobby must have been right, after all. The man couldn’t have been dead, seeing that he called on Marchmont the following day and was afterwards traced to Paris. But I must say that he looked as dead as Queen Anne. It just shows how careful one ought to be in giving opinions.”

  “Some authority has said,” remarked Jervis,” that the only conclusive proof of death is decomposition. I believe it was old Taylor who said so, and I am inclined to think that he wasn’t far wrong.”

  “But,” said Thorndyke, “assuming that the man whom you saw was Reinhardt, and that he was not dead how do you explain the other circumstances? Was he insensible from the effects of injury or drugs? Or was he deliberately shamming insensibility? Was it he who passed over the fence? and if so, did he climb over unassisted or was he helped over? And what answers do you suggest to the questions that Marchmont propounded? You answer his first question: ‘Is Reinhardt alive?’ in the affirmative. What about the others?”

  “As to where he is,” I replied. “I can only say, the Lord knows; probably skulking somewhere on the Continent. As to his state of mind, the facts seem to suggest that, in vulgar parlance, he has gone off his onion. He must be as mad as a hatter to have behaved in the way that he has. For, even assuming that he wanted to get clear of the Poor Brothers of Saint Jeremiah Diddler without explicitly saying so, he adopted a fool’s plan. There is no sense in masquerading as a corpse one day and turning up smiling at your lawyer’s office the next. If he meant to be dead, he should have stuck to it and remained dead.”

  “The objection to that,” said Jervis, “is that Marchmont would have proceeded to get permission to presume death and administer the will.”

  “I see. Then I can only suppose that he had got infected by Father Humperdinck and resolved to be artful at all costs and hang the consequences.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “I understand your view to be that Reinhardt is at present hiding somewhere on the Continent and that his mind is more or less affected?”

  “Yes. Though as to his being unfit to control his own affairs, I am not so clear. I fancy there was more evidence in that direction when he was forking out the bulk of his income to maintain the poverty of the Poor Brothers. But the truth is, I haven’t any opinions on the case at all. I am in a complete fog about the whole affair.”

  “And no wonder,” said Jervis. “One set of facts seems to suggest most strongly that Reinhardt must certainly be dead. Another set of facts seems to prove beyond doubt that he was alive, at least after that affair in Millfield Lane. He may be perpetrating an elephantine practical joke on the Poor Brothers; but that doesn’t seem to be particularly probable. The whole case is a tangle of contradictions which one might regard as beyond unravelment if it were not for a single clear and intelligible fact.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “That my revered senior has undertaken to furnish a solution in the course of a month; from which I gather that my revered senior has something up his sleeve.”

  “There is nothing up my sleeve,” said Thorndyke, “that might not equally well be up yours. I have made no separate investigations. The actual data which I possess were acquired in the presence of one or both of you, and are now the common property of us all. I am referring, of course, to the original data, not to fresh matter obtained by inference from, or further examination of those data.”

  Jervis smiled sardonically. “It is the old story,” said he. “The magician offers you his hat to inspect. “You observe, ladies and gentlemen, that there is no deception. You can look inside it and examine the lining, and you can also inspect the top of my head. I now put on my hat. I now take it off again and you notice that there is a guinea pig sitting in it. There was no deception, ladies and gentlemen, you had all the data.”

  Thorndyke laughed and shook his head, “That’s all nonsense, Jervis,” he said. “It is a false analogy. I have done nothing to divert your attention. The guinea pig has been staring you in the face all the time.”

  “Very rude of him,” murmured Jervis.

  “I have even drawn your attention to him once or twice. But, seriously, I don’t think that this case is so very obscure, though mind you, it is a mere hypothesis so far as I am concerned, and may break down completely when I come to apply the tests that I have in view. But what I mean is, that the facts known to us suggested a very obvious hypothesis and that the suggestion was offered equally to us all. The verification may fail, but that is another matter.”

  “Are you going to work at the case immediately?” I asked.

  “No,” Thorndyke replied. “Jervis and I have to attend at the Maidstone Assizes for the next few days. We are retained on a case which involves some very important issues in relation to life assurance, and that will take up most of our time. So this other affair will have to wait.

  “And meanwhile,” said Jervis, “you will stay at home like a good boy and mind the shop; and I suppose we shall have to find you something to do, to keep you out of mischief. What do you say to making a longhand transcript of Father Humperdinck’s statement?”

  “Yes, you had better do that,” said Thorndyke; “and attach it to the original shorthand copy. And now we must really turn in or we shall never be ready for our start in the morning.”

  The transcription of Father Humperdinck’s statement gave me abundant occupation for the whole of the following morning. But when that was finished, I was without any definite employment, and, though I was not in the least dull—for I was accustomed to a solitary life—I suppose I was in that state of susceptibility to mischief that is proverbially associated with unemployment. And in these untoward circumstances I was suddenly exposed to a great temptation; and after some feeble efforts at resistance, succumbed ignominiously.

  I shall offer no excuses for my conduct nor seek in any way to mitigate the judgment that all discreet persons will pass upon my folly. I make no claims to discretion or to the caution and foresight of a man like Thorndyke. At this time I was an impulsive and rather heedless young man, and my actions were pretty much those which might have been expected from a person of such temperament.

  The voice of the tempter issued in the first place from our letter-box, and assumed the sound of the falling of letters thereinto. I hastened to extract the catch, and sorting out the e
nvelopes, selected one, the superscription of which was in Sylvia’s now familiar handwriting. It was actually addressed to Dr. Thorndyke, but a private mark, on which we had agreed, exposed that naively pious fraud and gave me the right to open it; which I did, and seated myself in the armchair to enjoy its perusal at my ease.

  It was a delightful letter; bright, gossipy and full of frank and intimate friendliness. As I read it, the trim, graceful figure and pretty face of the writer rose before me and made me wonder a little discontentedly how long it would be before I should look on her and hear her voice again. It was now getting into the third week since I had last seen her, and, as the time passed, I was feeling more and more how great a blank in my life the separation from her had caused. Our friendship had grown up in a quiet and unsensational fashion and I suppose I had not realized all that it meant; but I was realizing it now; and, as I conned over her letter, with its little personal notes and familiar turns of expression, I began to be consumed with a desire to see her, to hear her speak, to tell her that she was not as other women to me, and to claim a like special place in her thoughts.

  It was towards the end of the letter that the tempter spoke out in clear and unmistakable language, and these were the words that he used, through the medium of the innocent and unconscious Sylvia: “You remember those sketches that you stole for me—’pinched,’ I think was your own expression. Well, I have cleaned off the daubs of paint with which they had been disfigured and put them in rough frames in my studio. All but one; and I began on that yesterday with a scraper and a rag dipped in chloroform. But I took off, not only the defacing marks but part of the surface as well; and then I got such a surprise! I shan’t tell you what the surprise was, because you’ll see, when you come out of the house of bondage. I am going to work on it again tomorrow, and perhaps I shall get the transformation finished. How I wish you could come and see it done! It takes away more than half the joy of exploration not to be able to share the discovery with you; in fact, I have a good mind to leave it unfinished so that we can complete the transformation together.”

  Now, I need not say that, as to the precious sketches, I cared not a fig what was under the top coat of paint, What I did care for was that this dear maid was missing me as I missed her; was wanting my sympathy with her little interests and pleasures and was telling me, half unconsciously, perhaps, that my absence had created a blank in her life, as her absence had in mine. And forthwith I began to ask myself whether there was really any good reason why I should not, just for this once, break out of my prison and snatch a few brief hours of sunshine. The spy had been exploded. He was not likely to pick up my tracks after all this time and now that my appearance was so altered; and I did not care much if he did seeing that he had been shown to be perfectly harmless. The only circumstance that tended to restrain me from this folly was the one that mitigated its rashness—the change in my appearance; and even that, now that I was used to it and knew that my aspect was neither grotesque nor ridiculous, had little weight, for Sylvia would be prepared for the change and we could enjoy the joke together.

  I was aware, even at the time, that I was not being quite candid with myself, for, if I had been, I should obviously have consulted Thorndyke. Instead of which I answered the letter by return, announcing my intention of coming to tea on the following day; and having sent Polton out to post it, spent the remainder of the afternoon in gleeful anticipation of my little holiday, tempered by some nervousness as to what Thorndyke would have to say on the matter, and as to what “my pretty friend,” as Mrs. Samway had very appropriately called her, would think of my having begun my letter with the words, “My dear Sylvia.”

  Nothing happened to interfere with my nefarious plans.

  On the following morning, Thorndyke and Jervis went off after an early breakfast, leaving me in possession of the premises and master of my actions. I elected to anticipate the usual luncheon time by half an hour, and, when this meal was disposed of, I crept to my room and thoroughly cleansed my hair of the grease which Polton still persisted in applying to it; for, since my hat would conceal it while I was out of doors, the added disfigurement was unnecessary. I was even tempted to tamper slightly with my eyebrows, but this impulse I nobly resisted; and, having dried my hair and combed it in its normal fashion, I descended on tiptoe to the sitting-room and wrote a short, explanatory note to Polton, which I left conspicuously on the table. Then I switched the door-bell on to the laboratory, and, letting myself out like a retreating burglar, closed the door silently and sneaked away down the dark staircase.

  Once fairly outside, I went off like a lamplighter, and, shooting out through the Tudor Street gate, made my way eastward to Broad Street Station, where I was fortunate enough to catch a train that was just on the point of starting. At Hampstead Heath Station I got out, and, snuffing the air joyfully, set forth at my best pace up the slope that leads to the summit; and in little over twenty minutes found myself at the gate of “The Hawthorns.”

  There was no need to knock or ring. My approach had been observed from the window, and, as I strode up the garden path, the door opened and Sylvia ran out to meet me. “It was nice of you to come!” she exclaimed, as I took her hand and held it in mine. “I don’t believe you ought to have ventured out, but I am most delighted all the same. Don’t make a noise; Mopsy is having a little doze in the drawing room. Come into the morning room and let me have a good look at you.”

  I followed her meekly into the front room, where, in the large bay window, she inspected me critically, her cheeks dimpling with a mischievous smile. “There’s something radically wrong about your eyebrows,” she said, “but, really, you are not in the least the fright that you made out. As to the beard and moustache, I am not sure that I don’t rather like them.”

  “I hope you don’t,” I replied, “because, off they come at the first opportunity—unless, of course, you forbid it.”

  “Does my opinion of your appearance matter so much then?”

  “It matters entirely. I don’t care what I look like to anyone else.”

  “Oh I what a fib!” exclaimed Sylvia. “Don’t I remember how very neatly turned out you always were when you used to pass me in the lane before we knew one another?”

  “Exactly,” I retorted. “We didn’t know one another then. That makes all the difference in the world—to me, at any rate.”

  “Does it?” she said, colouring a little and looking at me thoughtfully. “It’s very—very flattering of you to say so, Dr. Jardine.”

  “I hope you don’t mean that as a snub,” I said, rather uneasy at the form of her reply and thinking of my letter.

  “A snub!” she exclaimed. “No, I certainly don’t. What did I say?”

  “You called me Dr. Jardine. I addressed you in my letter as ‘Sylvia—My dear Sylvia.’”

  “And what ought I to have said?” she asked, blushing warmly and casting down her eyes.

  “Well, Sylvia, if you liked me as well as I like you, I don’t see why you shouldn’t call me Humphrey. We are quite old friends now.”

  “So we are,” she agreed; “and perhaps it would be less formal. So Humphrey it shall be in future, since that is your royal command. But tell me, how did you prevail on Dr. Thorndyke to let you come here? Is there any change in the situation?”

  “There’s a change in my situation, and a mighty agreeable change, too. I’m here.”

  “Now don’t be silly. How did you persuade Dr. Thorndyke to let you come?”

  “Ha—that, my dear Sylvia, is a rather embarrassing question. Shall we change the subject?”

  “No, we won’t.” She looked at me suspiciously for a moment and then exclaimed in low, tragical tones: “Humphrey! You don’t mean to tell me that you came away without his knowledge!”

  “I’m afraid that is what it amounts to. I saw a loophole and I popped through it; and here I am, as I remarked before.”

  “But how dreadful of you! Perfectly shocking! And whatever will he say to you whe
n you go back?”

  “That is a question that I am not proposing to present vividly to my consciousness until I arrive on the doorstep. I’ve broken out of chokee and I’m going to have a good time—to go on having a good time, I should say.”

  “Then you consider that you are having a good time now?”

  “I don’t consider. I am sure of it. Am I not, at this very moment looking at you? And what more could a man desire?”

  She tried to look severe, though the attempt was not strikingly successful, and retorted in an admonishing tone: “You needn’t try to wheedle me with compliments. You are a very wicked person and most indiscreet. But it seems to me that some sort of change has come over you since you retired from the world. Don’t you think I’m right?”

  “You’re perfectly right. I’ve improved. That’s what it is. Matured and mellowed, you know, like a bottle of claret that has been left in a cellar and forgotten. Say you think I’ve improved, Sylvia.”

  “I won’t,” she replied, and then, changing her mind, she added: “Yes, I will. I’ll say that you are more insinuating than ever, if that will do. And now, as, you are clearly quite incorrigible, I won’t scold you any more, especially as you ‘broke out of chokee’ to come and see me. You shall tell me all about your adventures.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about myself, Sylvia. I came to tell you something—well, about myself, perhaps, but—er—not my adventures you know or—or that sort of thing—but, I have been thinking a good deal, since I have been alone so much—about you, I mean, Sylvia—and—er—Oh! the deuce!”

  The latter exclamation was evoked by the warning voice of the gong, evidently announcing tea, and the subsequent appearance of the housemaid; who was certainly not such a goose as she was supposed to be, for she tapped discreetly at the door and waited three full seconds before entering; and even then she appeared demurely unconscious of my existence. “If you please, Miss Sylvia, Miss Vyne has woke up and I’ve taken in the tea.”