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

by R. Austin Freeman

  “But it isn’t lost completely,” Katharine reminded him, “for this ingenious ‘American scholar’ seems to have got on the track of it; and the question is how are we to get on his track?”

  “Do you know who owns the third house—Bartholomew Grange?” Fittleworth asked.

  “Yes,” replied Katharine. “I own it.”

  “You do!” exclaimed Fittleworth, staring at her incredulously.

  “Yes. I thought you knew. My father was the last male of this branch of the family and I am actually the last descendant. The little house in Thanet is all that remains of the family estates, and the rent of it is what I live on—that and my copying.”

  “Then you could get access to it?

  “Of course I could. The present lease runs out next year, I am sorry to say—for my rent will cease then and I shall have to pay the wages of the housekeeper, who is an old servant of our family. So I could easily ask to make a survey of the premises. But of what use would it be? We have no evidence that the mysterious ‘it’ is hidden there, and if we had, we don’t know what it is or where it is concealed.”

  “No, my dear, that is perfectly true. But you are forgetting that we are in search of three men who probably believe (and perhaps with good reason) that they have the clue; and who almost certainly have the stolen gold box with them. If Bartholomew Grange is the only house remaining in the family, those gentlemen will undoubtedly look round there first; and if we are not too late, there we shall find them; and if we can’t make them disgorge by fair means I shall have them arrested for the robbery of the picture. Remember, the gold box is our immediate object; the rest of the inquiry can wait.”

  “And what do you propose to do next?” Katharine asked, as a flush of pleasurable excitement mounted to her cheek.

  “I propose that you send a letter to your tenant tonight and that we start for town the first thing tomorrow morning and from there go straight on to Thanet. We can talk over details as we go.”

  Katherine gazed at her lover admiringly. “What a clever old thing you are, Joe!” she exclaimed.

  “I should think I am!” laughed Fittleworth. “If it hadn’t been for my expert knowledge of Rich’s shorthand and the neat way in which I deciphered that—”

  “Oh, go along, you old humbug!” Katharine exclaimed, making not very alarming hostile demonstrations. And, in a symbolical and strictly Pickwickian sense, he went along.

  PART IV

  The Isle of Thanet has a certain peculiar charm which lingers even to this day, despite the too-successful efforts of the speculative builder to annihilate it. A few years ago—at the date of this history, for instance—before the unlovely suburban streets had arisen to disfigure it, the north-eastern quarter of the island wore a pleasant air of remoteness that disguised its proximity to busy Margate and prosperous Broadstairs. It was in this quarter that the business of our adventurers lay, and, having risen with the lark and been fortunate in the matter of trains, they reached it quite early in the day.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Fittleworth, sniffing the salt air with the joy of an escaped Londoner, as they left the outskirts of Margate behind, and took their way along the broad path by the cliff’s edge; “your worthy ancestor wasn’t such a bad judge, Katie. I shouldn’t mind living here myself. By the way, I suppose there is no chance of your tenant objecting to our looking over the house?”

  “She can’t; and if she could, she would not. She is quite a nice person, a widow lady with two daughters. I told her in my letter who you were, and that we wanted to see what would have to be done to the place if the tenancy was not renewed. I also mentioned that you were an artist, and greatly interested in old houses; which is perfectly true, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly, my dear. But I am a good deal more interested just now in three very ingenious gentlemen and a small gold box.”

  “It will be frightfully disappointing if they haven’t been here after all,” said Katharine.

  “It will be much more frightful if they have been here and gone away. That’s what I am afraid of. They have had a pretty long start.”

  “They have; but they couldn’t have ransacked the place without the consent of Mrs. Matthews, my tenant. But we shall soon know everything; that is the house, in among those trees.”

  The sight of their goal stimulated them to quicken their steps. Soon they came to a high flint wa;l enclosing thickly wooded grounds, and, skirting this reached a gate on the landward side. Entering, and advancing along a moss-grown path, they presently came in sight of the house, a smallish building of cut flint and brick, with the quaint, curved Flemish gables that are so characteristic of this part of the world.

  “What a jolly old house!” exclaimed Fittleworth, halting to run his eye admiringly over the picturesque building with its time-softened angles and its rich clothing of moss, lichen, and house-leek. “Sixteen-thirty-one, I see,” he added, glancing at the date-tablet over the porch, “so it was a nearly new house when Sir Andreas had it.”

  He rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a staid-looking middle-aged maidservant, who was evidently expecting them, and who greeted Katharine affectionately and cast an interested glance at Fittleworth.

  “I am sorry, Miss Kate,” she said, “that Mrs. Matthews is not at home. She had to take the young ladies up to town this morning, and she won’t be back for a week or more; but she left all the keys for you, and this note, and she said that you were to make yourself quite at home and do whatever you please. There are three gentlemen looking over the place, but they won’t be in your way.”

  At the last sentence, Fittleworth’s eyes lighted with a warlike gleam, and he glanced at Katharine. “Do you know what these three gentlemen are, Rachel, and why they are looking over the place?

  “I heard Mrs. Matthews say, sir, that they are architects, whatever that may be. But they are wonderfully interested in the house. They have been about the place for more than a week, making sketches of the rooms and staircases, drawing plans of the grounds, tapping at the walls, and looking up the chimneys. I never saw such goings-on. They spent two whole days in the cellars, making sketches, though what they can see in a plain brick cellar beats me, sir. They went all round them tapping the walls with a mallet, and they even wanted to take up some of the floor, but, of course, Mrs. Matthews told them she couldn’t allow that without the landlady’s permission. Perhaps you’d like to see them, miss.”

  “Are they here now?” asked Katharine.

  “One of them is—Mr. Simpson. He is in the Chancellor’s Parlour, making sketches of the wood work.”

  Katharine glanced at Fittleworth. “I think we had better see Mr. Simpson,” said he; and on this, the maid ushered them through a long corridor to a remote wing of the building, where, at a massive door she halted and turned the handle.

  “Why, he’s bolted himself in!” she exclaimed; and added under her breath, as she applied somewhat peremptory knuckles to the door: “Like his impudence!

  The knocking evoked no response, nor was there any answering sound from within when it was repeated and reinforced by loud rapping with Fittleworth’s walking-stick. Rachel listened at the keyhole, and, as still no sound was audible, she exclaimed indignantly:

  “Well, I’m sure! It’s a pretty state of things when strangers come to bolt people out of their own rooms.”

  “But,” said Fittleworth, “the odd thing is that there doesn’t seem to be anybody in there. Can we see in through any of the windows?

  “Oh, yes, sir,” answered Rachel. “The window looks out on the Chancellor’s Garden, a little garden closed in by a yew hedge. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show it to you; though, of course, Miss Kate knows the way.”

  As they followed the maid out into the grounds, Fittleworth asked: “Why is this room called the Chancellor’s Parlour?”

  “It is named after the great Lord Clarendon, the head of the family, you know,” Katharine replied. “The tradition is that he used sometimes to com
e down here for rest and quiet, and that he occupied this wing which is cut off from the rest of the house and has its own separate garden. This is the garden, and that is the window of the parlour, fortunately not fastened.”

  The old-fashioned leaded casement was slightly open, so that Rachel could reach in and unhook it from the strut. As she threw it wide open, she announced:

  “There’s no one in the room, but I can see that the bolt is shot. He must have got out of the window. I call that pretty cool, in another person’s house. And why wasn’t the door good enough for him, I should like to know?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want his work disturbed,” suggested Fittleworth. “I see he has a large drawing on an easel. However, I will step in through the window and unbolt the door, while you go round.”

  He climbed in easily through the window, and, having unbolted the door cast an inquisitive glance at the absent Simpson’s arrangements. On a sketching-easel was a large drawing board covered with a sheet of Whatman, on which was the earliest beginning of a drawing of the carved mantelpiece. A table close by bore one or two pencils, a water-colour palette, a jar of water, a slab of rubber, and a number of brushes. The drawing—what there was of it—was expertly done, but represented, at the most, half an hour’s work.

  “How long had Mr. Simpson been in this room?” he asked, as Rachel and Katharine entered.

  “The three gentlemen came here yesterday and made some sketches, but Mr. Simpson didn’t bring his things till this morning. He came about nine, and at half-past eleven he came to me for a jar of water.”

  Fittleworth reflected, with a cogitative eye on the drawing.

  “Well,” he said at length, with a glance at Katharine; “I think we can manage without Mr. Simpson. As we are here, we may as well begin our survey with this room. Don’t you think so?

  Katharine agreed; and when she had explained to the hospitable Rachel that they had lunched in the train, the maid said:

  “Then I will leave you now. If you want anything you have only to ring. It’s an old room, but it has an electric bell. And if I might make a suggestion, it would be as well to close the window, so that Mr. Simpson will have to come in by the door in a proper and decent way.”

  As soon as she was gone, Fittleworth and Katharine looked at one another significantly, and the latter exclaimed: “What an extraordinary thing, Joe. Do you really think he got out of the window?”

  I doubt it very much, Katie. But, at any rate, we will adopt Miss Rachel’s suggestion, and see that he doesn’t come back that way; and then we will have a good look round.”

  He closed and fastened the window, and stood awhile surveying the room. It was a smallish apartment, rather barely furnished with five carved walnut hairs, an oaken livery cupboard, and a ponderous draw-table with the thick foot-rests and massive melon-bulb legs of the period. A wide fireplace with a richly-carved mantel, and a door—apparently that of a built-in cupboard—were the only constructive features that presented themselves for consideration, excepting the panelling, which extended over the whole of the walls.

  “There’s evidently something queer about Mr. Simpson’s proceedings, as we might expect,” said Fittleworth. “According to Rachel, he was in this room from nine o’clock until at least half-past eleven. Now, what was he doing? He wasn’t drawing. If you look at the work on his board you can see that either you or I could have done it in ten minutes. But the handling shows that he is not a duffer. Then it being eleven-thirty, he went to the kitchen for a jar of water. What did he want that water for? He wasn’t going to colour. He had barely begun his outline, and there is a good day’s drawing in that mantelpiece.”

  “Yes,” said Katharine, “that is rather suspicious. It looks as if he had gone there to see what the servants were about.”

  “Yes. Or to make a demonstration of being at work before he bolted himself in. That would suggest that he had already made a discovery. I wonder, by the way, what he has in that bag. Would it be improper to look into it?”

  Whether it was improper or not, he did so, and as he opened the flap of the large sketching bag, which hung by its strap from a chair back, Katharine approached and peered in.

  “That’s rather a queer outfit for a water-colour artist,” she remarked, as he fished out a leather roll-up case of tools.

  “Very quaint,” replied Fittleworth. “So is this: what ironmongers describe as a case opener, and Mr. Sikes would call a jemmy. And what might this coil of rope be for? It is thin stuff—what sailors call a ‘lead-line,’ I think—’but it is too thick for an easel-guy, and there’s too much of it. There seems to be about a dozen yards. But there! It’s of no use looking at his appliances; we know what Mr. Simpson was after. The question now is: Where is Mr. Simpson?

  “I suppose,” said Katharine, “he couldn’t be in that cupboard?”

  Fittleworth stepped across and gave a pull at the projecting key. “Locked,” he announced. “He couldn’t very well have locked himself in and left the key outside. I wonder if there is anything to be seen in the chimney. These wide old chimneys were favourite places for hiding-holes.”

  He slid the old dog grate out of the way, and, stooping under the lintel, stood up inside the roomy chimney. It was evident that the flue was not straight, for no light came from above, and, as very little light was reflected up from the floor, the cavity was in almost total darkness. Fittleworth struck a wax match, and, by the aid of its feeble light, explored that part of the interior that was within the range of vision. But closely as he examined it, nothing met his eye but the uninterrupted surface of blackened brickwork. Reflecting, however, that hiding-holes would not be made ostentatiously conspicuous, he stooped, and, reaching out to the andirons, picked up the poker.

  “You are not going to hit him with that poker, I hope, Joe,” laughed Katharine, who had unlocked the cupboard, and was now standing with the open door in her hand. Fittleworth reassured her as to his intentions, and, ducking under the lintel, stood up once more in the dark chimney. Having lit another match he began systematically to sound the brick work, comparing critically the notes given out by the successive blows of the poker, and noting the resistance and feeling of solidity. But the result was no more encouraging than that of the ocular inspection; the “percussion note” exhibited a disappointing uniformity, and the sense of resistance conveyed through the poker was that of a very solid brick wall.

  He had been working several minutes, his attention concentrated on the unresponsive mass of brickwork, when he was startled by the slamming of a door. He stopped to listen, and then, after a brief interval, he was aware of a muffled cry and the sound of thumping on hollow woodwork. Instantly he stooped to look out, blinking at the unaccustomed light, and as he looked he uttered a cry of amazement.

  The room was empty.

  He sprang out across the hearth, and as he reached the floor the muffled call was repeated in a familiar voice, framing the word “Joe!” and the thumping recommenced, both sounds clearly proceeding from the cupboard. Striding across to the latter, he seized the key and pulled at it vigorously, but the door refused to yield. Then he gave the key a turn, where upon the lock clicked, the door flew open, and out stepped Katharine, laughing heartily, and yet not a little agitated.

  “Oh, my dear Joe!” she exclaimed, “that wretched door gave me such a fright. I believe it is possessed with a devil. It seemed to entrap me with intelligent, calculating malice.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” said Fittleworth. “How did you get in there?”

  “I walked in, of course, you old absurdity. You see, while you were rummaging about in the chimney, I stood here with the door open, looking at all that clutter on the shelves. Then my eye caught that delightful old jar on the top shelf, and I stepped in to reach it down; but no sooner was I inside than that miserable door slammed to, and the wretched lock snapped, and there I was, like a mouse in a trap. It’s a mercy you were at hand.”

  “It is, indeed. But now that we�
��ve got you out, I think we will have a good look at that trap. It’s a queer arrangement for a cupboard. It has a spring lock, and you notice that the very solid brass hinges are of the skew pattern to make the door self-closing. I don’t see any reason for either.”

  “No; that was what I was thinking when I was inside. You want to keep people out of a cupboard, not to fasten them in.”

  “Exactly. So we will just prop this door open with a chair and examine this singular cupboard, or closet, minutely.”

  He pulled the door wide open, and, having fixed it in that position by means of an elbow chair, began his investigations, taking the door itself as the first item. Having tried the lock and examined the exterior, he ran his eye critically over the inner surface, and then he made a discovery. Near the top of the door was a small, square patch of wood, which yielded to pressure, and on pressing which the bolt of the lock slid back.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed, “I smell a fox, Katie. Do you see? This is an internal release. Now what could that be for?

  “Why, obviously, to enable a person who was shut in to let himself out. It is a hiding-place, Joe. Don’t you see? A fugitive who was closely pursued could step in and the door would shut behind him. Then the pursuers would come and give a pull at the key, and say, as you did, that a man couldn’t lock himself in a cupboard and leave the key outside. And then they’d go away.”

  Fittleworth smiled, and shook his head. “That is all very well, my dear girl, but suppose there happened to be a Katie among them who would have the curiosity to turn the key and open the door? That wouldn’t do. No, my dear, you may take it as practically certain that there is a way out of this cupboard. Your inquisitive pursuer would open the door and find the cupboard empty, and then the outside key would be highly convincing. Let us investigate.”

  He stepped into the cupboard which was about four feet deep and of which the back was occupied by five massive but rather narrow shelves, and looked inquisitively around. The whole interior—sides, floor and ceiling—was lined with solid oak boards, and the shelves were occupied by various articles that, to judge by their appearance, had slowly accumulated in the course of years. It was to these shelves that Fittleworth specially directed his attention and that Katharine.