The only person who did not share the universal awe was Miss Dorcas; for she, like the sun-dial, “numbered only the sunny hours.” But she respected him more than any; and, though dimly surprised at the rumours of his doings, gloried in secret over his prowess.
Thus the days rolled on and Mr. Jawley put on flesh visibly. Then came the eventful morning when, on scanning the rector’s Times, his eye lighted on an advertisement in the Personal Column:
“Ten pounds reward. Lost; a small, bronze effigy of a parrot on a square pedestal; the whole two and a half inches high. The Above Reward will be paid on behalf of the owner by the Curator of the Filmographical Department of the British Museum, who has a photograph and description of the object.”
Now Mr. Jawley had become deeply attached to the parrot. But after all it was only a pretty trifle, and ten pounds was ten pounds. That very afternoon, the Curator found himself confronted by a diminutive clergyman of ferocious aspect, and hurriedly disgorged ten sovereigns after verifying the description; and to this day he is wont to recount, as an instance of the power of money, the remarkable change for the better in the clergyman’s manners when the transaction was completed.
It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Jawley re appeared in the village of Bobham. He carried a gigantic paper parcel under one arm, and his pockets bulged so that he appeared to suffer from some unclassified deformity. At the stile, he suddenly encountered Mr. Pegg, who prepared for instant flight, and was literally stupefied when the curate lifted his hat and graciously wished him “good evening.” But Mr. Pegg was even more stupefied when a few minutes later, he saw the curate seated on a doorstep with the open parcel on his knees, and a mob of children gathered around him. For Mr. Jawley, with the sunniest of smiles, was engaged in distributing dolls, peg-tops, skipping-ropes and little wooden horses, to a running accompaniment of bull’s-eyes, brandy balls and other delicacies, which he produced from inexhaustible pockets. He even offered Mr. Pegg, himself, a sugar-stick which the philosophic cordwainer accepted with a polite bow and presently threw over a wall. But he pondered deeply on this wonder and is probably pondering still in common with the other inhabitants of Bobham.
But though, from that moment, Mr. Jawley became once more the gentlest and most amiable of men, the prestige of his former deeds remained; reverential awe attended his footsteps abroad, devilled kidneys and streaky bacon were his portion at home; until such time as Miss Dorcas Shipton underwent a quieter metamorphosis and became Mrs. Deodatus Jawley.
And thereafter he walked, not only amidst reverence and awe, but also amidst flowers and sunshine.
P.S.—The curious who would know more about the parrot, may find him on his appropriate shelf in the West African Section, and read the large, descriptive label which sets forth his history:
“Bronze gold-weight in the form of a parrot. This object was formerly the property of the great Ashanti War Chief, Amankwa Tia, whose clan totem was a parrot. It was worn by him, attached to his wrist, as an amulet or charm and, when on a campaign, a larger copy of it, of gilded wood, was carried by the chief herald, who preceded him and chanted his official motto. It may be explained here that each of the Ashanti generals had a distinguishing motto, consisting of a short sentence, which was called out before him by his heralds when on the march, and repeated, with remarkably close mimicry, by the message drums. Thus, when several bodies of troops were marching through the dense forest, their respective identities were made clear to one another by the sound of the chant on the drums. Amankwa Tia’s motto was: ‘Donköh e didi ma turn. On esse?’ Which may be translated ‘(Foreign) Slaves revile me. Why?’ A somewhat meaningless sentence, but having, perhaps, a sinister significance.”
POWDER BLUE AND HAWTHORN (1918)
PART I
Mr. Henry Palmer looked furtively, but critically, at Dr. Macmuffigan. He had been told that on Friday night he would most probably find the doctor drunk. And so it had turned out. But the question that agitated Mr. Primer was: how drunk was he, and, above all, was he drunk enough?
A delicate and difficult question this. Afflicted persons are apt to spring surprises on one. The near sighted man, with a squint to boot, who ought to be as blind as a bat, will sometimes develop a disconcerting acuteness of vision; one-legged men astonish us with incredible feats of agility; the uncertainty of the deaf is a matter of daily observation; while as to the drunk, proverbial philosophy has actually devised for them a special directing Providence. So Mr. Palmer watched the doctor narrowly and with anxious speculation.
“And how long has this friend of yours been ill?” demanded the latter huskily, and with a slight brogue.
“At intervals, for a week or two,” replied Mr. Palmer; “but the last attack only came on this morning.”
“And I suppose you want me to come this very moment?” said Dr. Macmulligan aggressively.
“If you could,” replied Palmer. “He’s in a very critical state.”
“I know,” growled Macmulligan. “It is the old story. Put off sending for the doctor till the patient’s at the last gasp, and then drag him away from his dinner or out of his bed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Palmer; “but may I take it that you’ll come?”
“I suppose ye may,” replied the doctor. “Juty is juty, though ’tis devilish unpleasant. Give me the name and address, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
He opened a manuscript book, and, dipping his pen in an open jar of cough lozenges, stared interrogatively at Mr. Palmer. The latter noticed the circumstance approvingly, and decided that Dr. Macmulligan would do.
Sheerness Harbour, that is the wide estuary of the Medway, at nine o’clock on an autumn night, with a brisk sou’-wester and driving rain, is no ideal sailing ground. Dr. Macmulligan, hunched up in the stern sheets of the boat, swore continuously, with exacerbations as the spray slapped his face and trickled down the collar of his mackintosh
“It’s a disagreeable journey that I’ve brought you,” Palmer said apologetically; “beastly cold, too. May I offer you a little refresher to keep the weather out?” and here he produced from a locker a large flat bottle and a tumbler.
“’Dade! but you may,” the doctor replied with alacrity; “’tis cold enough to freeze a brass monkey.” He took the flat bottle, and, with unexpected steadiness, poured out half a tumblerful, and, having sniffed at it approvingly, took a quick gulp and drew a deep breath. “’Tis a fine whisky that,” he remarked, with another gulp in verification. “I’d like to know your wine merchant, sir.”
Palmer laughed. “So I suspect,” said he, “would some of the gentlemen at the Custom House.”
The suggestion contained in that last remark so gratified the doctor that he could do no less than pledge the wine merchant anew; and, in fact, by the time the boat’s fore-foot grated on the little hard on the Isle of Grain, the flat bottle contained nothing but convivial memories. Nevertheless, as they fought their way through wind and rain, the doctor’s comparative steadiness of gait filled his conductor with surprise and secret uneasiness. But the thing had to be carried through now, and bracing himself for the final scene, he rapped softly on the door of a lonely house on the marshes.
In a few moments the door was unfastened, and its opening revealed a man, holding a candle in one hand, and, in the other, a handkerchief with which he mopped his eyes. He blinked inquiringly at the newcomers, and asked dejectedly: “Is that the doctor, Henry?”
“Yes,” replied Palmer, “I hope—”
Here he paused, and the other shook his head sadly. “Come in,” said he; and, as they followed him into the dismal room, on the table of which another fiat bottle and three tumblers were set out, he continued: “It happened less than an hour after you left, Henry. I suppose the doctor may as well see him?”
“And phwat for?” demanded the doctor, adding somewhat obscurely: “D’ye take me for Lazarus?”
To this the dejected man made no reply, but, taking up the candle, stole out of the room
on tiptoe and began to ascend the stairs, followed by Palmer and the protesting doctor. Silently they crept up—excepting the doctor, who missed a step half-way up, and commented hoarsely on the circumstance—to a door on the first floor, which their conductor noiselessly opened and beckoned them to enter.
The room was in total darkness save for the light of the candle, which showed a large bed by the wall, and lying on it, on the farther side, a motionless figure covered by a sheet. The man with the candle tiptoed to the bed, and reverently drawing back the sheet, let the flickering light fall on the uncovered face. And a ghastly face it was with its dead-white skin, its bandaged jaws, and the two pennies resting on the eyelids, and looking, in the dim light, like the dark shadows of empty sockets.
Palmer and his friend gazed sadly at the still figure and sighed deeply. But the doctor was less affected. After a single glance at the bed, he turned away with a grunt, remarking: “We’ve had our trip in the wet for nothing. ’Twas an undertaker ye wanted,” and with this he proceeded cautiously to descend the stairs to the more cheerful room below, whither the other two men shortly followed.
“I suppose,” said Palmer, as he mixed the doctor a glass of toddy, “we shall want a certificate?”
Macmulligan nodded.
“You couldn’t write it now and save a journey?”
“No; I don’t carry the forms about with me,” the doctor replied, adding with a bibulous twinkle, “Ye see, me patients are usually alive—to begin with, at any rate. But ye’ll have to put me across in the boat, so ye can come to the surgery and get the certificate. And ye can call on the undertaker and fix up the funeral, too. ’Tis best to get these affairs settled quickly. Ye don’t want a corpse in the house longer than ye can help.”
Having delivered this advice gratis, the medicus emptied his tumbler, and rose. Palmer buttoned his oilskin coat, and the three men went out to the door. The rain had now ceased, but as the two voyagers stepped forth into the night a chilly wind swept across the marshes and the low murmur of breaking waves came up from the shore. The man who was left behind watched the two figures as they receded down the rough path, and, as they disappeared, he stepped into the sitting-room, and, taking a pair of marine glasses from a shelf, went out and followed the other two stealthily down the path. Through the glasses he watched them get into the boat, saw them push off and hoist the sail, and then, as the dim shape of the latter faded into the darkness, he returned to the house and shut the door.
Having replaced the binoculars, he once more took the candle and ascended the stairs. But not on tip toe this time. Taking the stairs two at a time, he walked briskly into the chamber of death, and set the candle on a chest of drawers.
“It’s all clear, Joe,” said he. “I’ve seen ’em start across.”
On this the figure on the bed pushed back the sheet and sat up, and having adroitly caught the two pennies as they dropped, spun them in the air, and began to untie the jaw bandage.
“Yah!” he exclaimed, wagging his chin up and down. “What a relief it is to get that beastly thing off! Chuck us my dressing-gown, Tom, and a towel to wipe off this powder.”
He stood up, stretching himself, and, having donned the dressing gown and wiped his face briskly, descended with his companion to the lower room.
“So much for act one,” he remarked, pouring him self out a “tot” of whisky. “We’re safe for the certificate, I suppose, Barratt?”
“Yes,” replied Barratt, “and for the burial order. We’ve got over the main difficulty. All the rest is plain sailing.”
“It may be,” rejoined the other, “but it’s deuced complicated. Just run over the programme again, and see if I can get it into my thick head.”
Barratt took up a position on the hearthrug with an expository air, and proceeded to explain. “It’s really quite simple,” said he, “so far as getting the stuff is concerned. The difficulty was to find a safe place to stow it until the hue and cry was over, and we’ve done that. The programme now is: First, we’ve got to get the local undertaker to make us a coffin to measurements that Palmer will give him, and deliver it to Palmer, who will bring it across in the boat; and there’ll have to be a lead coffin inside, which he’ll have to leave open for us to solder down. I think Palmer will be able to manage that. Then, when we have got the coffin, Palmer takes the boat up to East Haven Creek by Canvey Island, and leaves her there. Next, he and I call at the premises—properly made up, of course—with your duplicate keys, and some dummy specimens in cases and ask the caretaker for a receipt for them.
“While he is unpacking the cases, we grab him from behind and run him down to the strong room and lock him in. Then we open the door for you and you show us where the most classy articles are kept.
“While we are packing them in the cases, you go and give Jim Baker the tip, and he brings his car round—with the wrong number plate on it. We carry the cases out—they will be quite small ones—and stow them in the car, get in ourselves, and away we go. It’s all quite simple and straightforward, broad daylight, nothing suspicious about it, cases always going in and out there. Well; Jimmy runs us down near to the creek. It will be dark by then. We get out and carry the case across the marshes to the boat, drop down with the tide and sail across here. Meanwhile, Jimmy slithers away, and when he gets to a quiet place at a safe distance changes his number plate. Then off he scoots to Norwich. They can suspect him if they please, but they won’t find any of the stuff about him, because it will be safely screwed down in the late William Brunton’s coffin.”
“Then, are you going to send the coffin to Gravelham by rail?”
“No; too much fuss and too many papers and records in the company’s books. I shall send the burial order to Allen, the undertaker, and tell him the coffin is coming by barge. Then he will collect it and make all the arrangements for the funeral; and I shall stipulate that the remains are to be deposited in the catacombs, not in a grave or vault. That’s why we’ve got to have a lead coffin.”
“You say you’ve got a key of the catacombs?”
“Not a key; a squeeze. I got it about the time I first thought of this little jaunt, when you were taking the squeeze from the keys of your late employer, like a faithful and trustworthy private secretary—”
“Oh, chuck that!” interrupted the other irritably. “You needn’t jeer after having egged me on to do it.”
“Righto, Murray, old man,” said Barratt with a cynical grin, “we’ll get back to the business. Mr. Allen will arrange a nice quiet funeral, and when we have followed our dear departed brother to his last resting place—for the present—we can take a little holiday and let things settle down. Do you follow the process?”
“I think so,” replied Murray, “and it seems quite a neat plan.”
“Neat!” exclaimed Barratt; “it’s positively masterly. Just consider! Here we’ve got a bulky swag that we can’t melt and we can’t break up, and which, if it were all together, would give us away instantly; and yet which is quite negotiable piece by piece. All we want is a safe hiding-place, and, by Jove! we’ve got it. These catacombs are better than any bank or safe deposit. When we want to raise the wind, all we’ve got to do is to call on the late lamented, and hook out one or two pieces. The Yankee collector will do the rest.”
“But are the catacombs quite accessible?”
“Bless you!” laughed Barratt, “they seem to have been built for the very purpose. The cemetery is outside the town, and all you’ve got to do is to get over the wall; you can bring a ladder if you like, there’s no one to interfere. I tell you, Murray, this little investment will yield us an income for years.”
“So it ought,” growled Murray. “It will take something substantial to recompense me for all that I’ve gone through.”
On which Barratt grinned once more, and cut off the end of a cigar.
PART II
Mr. Edward Allen, Furnisher and Undertaker, stood in his little office, rubbing his hands softly and sympathetically, a
s four bereaved gentlemen, in correct, but unostentatious mourning, were ushered in. The names by which he knew then are not material to this history; to us they are known respectively as Thomas Barratt, Henry Palmer, Joseph Murray, and Jimmy Baker.
“I am deeply concerned, gentlemen,” said Mr. Allen, giving his hands an extra rub, “to inform you that the coffin has not yet arrived. The weather, as you know, has been somewhat boisterous, and doubtless the barge has been delayed by the exigencies of navigation.”
The four men looked at one another uneasily, and Mr. Allen continued: “We may expect it at any moment. My conveyance is waiting at the wharf, and the mourning carriage is in readiness to start the instant the coffin arrives.”
At these unwelcome tidings the countenances of the four mourners assumed an expression admirably in keeping with the business on hand, though, during the temporary absence of the undertaker, they exchanged remarks which might have sounded slightly out of character. However, there was nothing for it but to wait on the vagaries of wind and tide; and this they did, with outward calm and inward tumult of spirit.
As some three-quarters of an hour passed, their nervous tension progressively increased. And then came a dramatic interruption. At the door of the office the undertaker appeared in a state of manifest agitation, accompanied by a seafaring man, whom Barratt instantly recognised as the skipper of the barge.
“Gentlemen,” the undertaker said, in impressive tones, “I deeply regret to announce that a most dreadful thing has happened. It appears that the coffin has been—er—temporarily mislaid.”
The four men with one accord, sprang to their feet.
“Mislaid!” they exclaimed with one voice, and Jimmy Baker added: “What the blazes do you mean by ‘mislaid’?”
The undertaker indicated the skipper with a silent wave of the hand, and the skipper stared sulkily at the sou’-wester that he held.
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 177