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

by R. Austin Freeman

Barnabas turned to the bulging-eyed landlord and asked in a casual tone: “Tom, can you let me ’ave such a thing as twenty pound? You shall have it back in half an hour.”

  There was a breathless silence for two or three seconds. But the gambling fever had seized the landlord as well as Barnabas.Without a word, he retired to some secret lair whence he presently returned with four new five-pound notes.

  “Well,” said the bookmaker, “if you’re clean off your onion, there’s nothing more to be said; only, I warn you, you’ll lose your money. Won’t you think better of it?”

  “I’m a-goin’ to back my fancy,” said Barnabas doggedly; upon which Mr. Sandys formally registered the transaction, explaining that he could not receive the money in a public place, but that it was to be sent to his office.

  Having once committed himself to this rash enterprise, Barnabas acted his part consistently. The entreaties of the excited yokels that he would attend the race in person and see that he got fair play, he ignored with magnanimous calm and went about his ordinary business as though a twenty-pound wager were a mere unconsidered trifle, and the oaken chest, from which he had extracted the bulk of his savings, were the repository of untold wealth. But he was the only calm person in the village; and when, in the waning afternoon, he betook himself to the “Black Bull,” to await the return of the bookmaker, he found the tap-room packed and overflowing into the bar, where the landlord was compressing a month’s business into a couple of hours.

  In the interval, his brief attack of speculative mania had died out, and he had come prepared to increase his growing reputation by a stoical indifference to the loss that he had already accepted as inevitable; and while a mob of agitated yokels stood out in the road, eagerly watching for the returning party, Barnabas sat in the Wycombe arm-chair and stolidly read the morning paper, an object of respectful and admiring astonishment to the other inmates of the tap-room.

  About five o’clock, there suddenly arose a clamour from without. A score of heads, round-eyed with excitement, appeared at the open window, and a score of voices strove to break in upon his philosophic calm.

  “He’s a-comin’, Barney! He’s a-passin’ the finger-post now! He’s opposight the pond!” and then, after a brief, but clamorous interval, “Here he is!” and the unmoved Barnabas, with his eye glued to an advertisement for a respectable housemaid, heard the gig stop, and was then aware of an irritable, but familiar voice calling out in the bar: “Where’s that feller Mudge? Is he here?”

  Barnabas laid down the paper and yawned. Then he rose and stretched himself, and, sauntering out into the bar, perceived Mr. Sandys, surrounded by a closely-packed mob of yokels, and grasping a cheque-book and a fountain pen. But he was no longer genial, nor in the least inclined to be facetious. On the contrary he greeted Barnabas with a sour grin and slapped his cheque-book down on the only clean spot on the counter.

  “So, here you are,” said he. “Confound you! Do you know you’ve eaten up the whole of my earnings?”

  Barnabas muttered an apology, being somewhat confused by the unwonted conduct of the usually genial Sandys, and stood by, watching in some bewilderment, as the bookmaker scribbled on a cheque, accompanying the process with disparaging comments.

  “S’welp me! Cleaned out by a bloomin’ chaw bacon! Better get a bloomin’ nurse to come round with me next time There y’are!”

  There was a soft sound of rending, and the astonished Barnabas found himself regarding an elongated slip of mauve paper that flickered at the end of his nose. With slowly dawning comprehension, he took the cheque and laboriously spelled out its mandate to pay to Barnabas Mudge the sum of two thousand pounds; and he was still staring at it, in absolute stupefaction, as the wheels of the bookmaker’s gig rolled away down the road.

  It is notorious that circumstances alter cases. As Barnabas betook himself homeward with the two thousand pound cheque in his pocket, the jar of gold which had hitherto monopolised his field of mental vision, sank into sudden insignificance. He even debated whether it were not better publicly to announce the discovery of the treasure and so put himself definitely on the right side of the law; but a renewed inspection of the jar, with its glittering contents, produced the inevitable result. Cupidity overcame discretion.

  It was two days later that he set out for the neighbouring market town for the purpose of opening an account at the bank to which the landlord of the “Black Bull” had introduced him. Before starting, he had once more brought forth the jar from its hiding-place, with a half-formed intention of taking that with him, too. But the singular identity of date on the coins deterred him; for the strange coincidence would inevitably be noticed by the officials of the bank, and notice was precisely what Barnabas did not desire. So he returned the jar to its hiding-place, to serve as a store to be drawn upon for current expenditure, but first, he took from it ten sovereigns, which he dropped into his trousers pocket. With two thousand pounds at the bank, he could surely afford to jingle a little loose gold.

  It was not unobserved by Barnabas that his appearance at the bank in his very indifferent best suit created a somewhat unfavourable impression, and he decided anon to furnish himself with raiment more suitable to his new station.

  Meanwhile, the eight-mile walk had developed an appetite and an agreeable thirst which he decided to assuage, regardless of expense, at the “King’s Head.” But here, too, his costume exposed him to humiliations; notwithstanding which, he worked his way stolidly through the entire bill of fare, watched superciliously by an obviously suspicious waiter, by whom the rather startling bill of costs was laid beside his plate before he had fairly finished his fourth slab of cheese.

  Barnabas, however, was not offended. On the contrary, the bill afforded him the means of vindicating his position; which he did by carelessly dropping on it one of the golden gifts of benevolent Providence. The effect, however, on the waiter was not quite what he had hoped; for that supercilious menial, as he retired, turned the coin over and over in his palm as if he were a numismatist inspecting a specimen of some rare and ancient coinage. If Barnabas could have followed him into the office, he would have seen that this numismatic enthusiasm was actually communicated to the manager; by whom the coin was closely examined, rung on the desk and finally weighed in a very queer little balance.

  “Now then,” said Barnabas to the waiter, who lurked furtively in the vicinity of his seat, with a futile pretence of having forgotten him, “how much longer are you going to be with that there change?”

  “Yessir, coming, sir, in one minute,” the waiter replied, casting an expectant look towards the door; which at that very moment opened to admit three persons of whom one wore the becoming costume of the local police. The three strangers and the waiter deliberately converged upon Barnabas, and the waiter remarked, more lucidly than grammatically: “This is ’im!”

  Barnabas rose, with a chilly sensation at his spine and a premonition of evil. One of the strangers, who looked like a guardsman in mufti, held out his hand, on which lay a sovereign, and opened his mouth and spake:

  “I am a police officer. I am going to arrest you on a charge of uttering counterfeit coin, and it’s my duty to caution you that anything you say will be used in evidence against you.”

  Barnabas broke out into a cold sweat. “Do you mean to tell me,” he faltered, “that that is a bad sovereign?”

  “Rank bad ’un,” replied the officer, suddenly dropping his legal phraseology, “and I want to know if you’ve got any more.” Here Barnabas was led unresisting, to the office, where, his pockets being expertly turned out, the other nine sovereigns were brought to light, and laid in an incriminating row on the desk.

  “Same old lot!” said the detective, as he ran his eye rapidly over them. “I thought we’d seen the last of Fred Gilbert’s masterpieces. Where did yer get this stuff, young man?”

  Now Barnabas, as we have said, was a man of intellect; and, at the first appearance of the police, had been completely enlightened by a flash of
intuition; and he now saw clearly that his only chance lay in a frank statement of the actual facts. He accordingly recited in detail the circumstances attending the discovery of the treasure, and he was encouraged as he proceeded to observe a slow grin spreading over the officer’s countenance.

  “Where do you say this house was?” the detective asked.

  “Harebell Lane, Baconsfield. Last house on the right ’and side.”

  The detective chuckled. “That’s the place,” said he. “We went through it most carefully after Freddie was nobbled at Newmarket, but couldn’t find a single piece. Rare downy bird was Frederick. Kept all his moulds and stuff at his place in London. However, you’ll have to come along, young man, for if you didn’t make this snide money, you prigged it, on your own showing, though I don’t suppose the magistrates will be hard on you.”

  As a matter of fact, they were not. On the contrary, they were disposed to be hilarious to the verge of impropriety; for when Barnabas was charged with “having unlawfully concealed from the knowledge of our Lord the King the finding of a certain treasure,” the entire Court, including the prosecuting detective, broke into the broadest of grins; and when the Clerk rose to point out to their Worships that the word “treasure” was defined in the statute as “any gold or silver in coin, plate, or bullion, hidden in ancient times,” whereas, the present treasure consisted in a quantity of base metal, the grins gave way to audible chuckles, and the amused justices agreed to take advantage of the legal quibble and acquit the prisoner.

  On the very same day, Barnabas surrendered the fateful jar to the detective as “Trustee of our Lord the King,” and ventured smilingly to express the hope that His Majesty would make no improper use of his newly acquired wealth.

  It is now some years since these stirring events befell, years which have justified Fortune in the favours she was pleased to bestow on Barnabas Mudge; whose honoured name has since then not only adorned a multitude of contractors’ noticeboards, but has occasionally appeared at the foot of cheques compared with which the memorable draft of Mr. Sandys would be a mere bagatelle.

  THE MISSING MORTGAGEE (1918)

  PART I

  Early in the afternoon of a warm, humid November day, Thomas Elton sauntered dejectedly along the Margate esplanade, casting an eye now on the slate-coloured sea with its pall of slate-coloured sky, and now on the harbour, where the ebb tide was just beginning to expose the mud. It was a dreary prospect, and Elton varied it by observing the few fishermen and fewer promenaders who walked foot to foot with their distorted reflections in the wet pavement; and thus it was that his eye fell on a smartly-dressed man who had just stepped into a shelter to light a cigar.

  A contemporary joker has classified the Scotsmen who abound in South Africa into two groups: those, namely, who hail from Scotland, and those who hail from Palestine. Now, something in the aspect of the broad back that was presented to his view, in that of the curly, black hair and the exuberant raiment, suggested to Elton a Scotsman of the latter type. In fact, there was a suspicion of disagreeable familiarity in the figure which caused him to watch it and slacken his pace. The man backed out of the shelter, diffusing azure clouds, and, drawing an envelope from his pocket, read something that was written on it. Then he turned quickly—and so did Elton, but not quickly enough. For he was a solitary figure on that bald and empty expanse, and the other had seen him at the first glance. Elton walked away slowly, but he had not gone a dozen paces when he felt the anticipated slap on the shoulder and heard the too well-remembered voice.

  “Blow me, if I don’t believe you were trying to cut me, Tom,” it said.

  Elton looked round with ill-assumed surprise. “Hallo, Gordon! Who the deuce would have thought of seeing you here?”

  Gordon laughed thickly. “Not you, apparently; and you don’t look as pleased as you might now you have seen me. Whereas I’m delighted to see you, and especially to see that things are going so well with you.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Elton.

  “Taking your winter holiday by the sea, like a blooming duke.”

  “I’m not taking a holiday,” said Elton. “I was so worn out that I had to have some sort of change; but I’ve brought my work down with me, and I put in a full seven hours every day.”

  “That’s right,” said Gordon. “‘Consider the ant.’ Nothing like steady industry! I’ve brought my work down with me too; a little slip of paper with a stamp on it. You know the article, Tom.”

  “I know. But it isn’t due till tomorrow, is it?”

  “Isn’t it, by gum! It’s due this very day, the twentieth of the month. That’s why I’m here. Knowing your little weakness in the matter of dates, and having a small item to collect in Canterbury, I thought I’d just come on, and save you the useless expense that results from forgetfulness.”

  Elton understood the hint, and his face grew rigid.

  “I can’t do it, Gordon; 1 can’t really. Haven’t got it, and shan’t have it until I’m paid for the batch of drawings that I’m working on now.”

  “Oh, but what a pity!” exclaimed Gordon, taking the cigar from his thick, pouting lips to utter the exclamation. “Here you are, blueing your capital on seaside jaunts and reducing your income at a stroke by a clear four pounds a year.”

  “How do you make that out?” demanded Elton.

  “Tut, tut,” protested Gordon, “what an unbusinesslike chap you are! Here’s a little matter of twenty pounds quarter’s interest. If it’s paid now, it’s twenty. If it isn’t, it goes on to the principal and there’s another four pounds a year to be paid. Why don’t you try to be more economical, dear boy?”

  Elton looked askance at the vampire by his side; at the plump blue-shaven cheeks, the thick black eyebrows, the drooping nose, and the full, red lips that embraced the cigar, and though he was a mild tempered man he felt that he could have battered that sensual, complacent face out of all human likeness, with something uncommonly like enjoyment. But of these thoughts nothing appeared in his reply, for a man cannot afford to say all he would wish to a creditor who could ruin him with a word.

  “You mustn’t be too hard on me, Gordon,” said he. “Give me a little time. I’m doing all I can, you know. I earn every penny that I am able, and I have kept my insurance paid up regularly. I shall be paid for this work in a week or two and then we can settle up.”

  Gordon made no immediate reply, and the two men walked slowly eastward, a curiously ill-assorted pair: the one prosperous, jaunty, overdressed; the other pale and dejected, and, with his well-brushed but napless clothes, his patched boots and shiny-brimmed hat, the very type of decent, struggling poverty.

  They had just passed the pier, and were coming to the base of the jetty, when Gordon next spoke.

  “Can’t we get off this beastly wet pavement?” he asked, looking down at his dainty and highly-polished boots. “What’s it like down on the sands?”

  “Oh, it’s very good walking,” said Elton, “between here and Foreness, and probably drier than the pavement.”

  “Then,” said Gordon, “I vote we go down”; and accordingly they descended the sloping way beyond the jetty. The stretch of sand left by the retiring tide was as smooth and firm as a sheet of asphalt, and far more pleasant to walk upon.

  “We seem to have the place all to ourselves,” remarked Gordon, “with the exception of some half-dozen dukes like yourself.”

  As he spoke, he cast a cunning black eye furtively at the dejected man by his side, considering how much further squeezing was possible, and what would be the probable product of a further squeeze; but he quickly averted his gaze as Elton turned on him a look eloquent of contempt and dislike. There was another pause, for Elton made no reply to the last observation; then Gordon changed over from one arm to the other the heavy fur overcoat that he was carrying. “Needn’t have brought this beastly thing,” he remarked, “if I’d known it was going to be so warm.”

  “Shall I carry it for you a little way?” asked the n
aturally polite Elton.

  “If you would, dear boy,” replied Gordon. “It’s difficult to manage an overcoat, an umbrella and cigar all at once.”

  He handed over the coat with a sigh of relief, and having straightened himself and expanded his chest, remarked: “I suppose you’re beginning to do quite well now, Tom?”

  Elton shook his head gloomily. “No,” he answered, “it’s the same old grind.”

  “But surely they’re beginning to recognise your talents by this time,” said Gordon, with the persuasive air of a counsel.

  “That’s just the trouble,” said Elton. “You see, I haven’t any, and they recognised the fact long ago. I’m just a journeyman, and journeyman’s work is what I get given to me.”

  “You mean to say that the editors don’t appreciate talent when they see it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Elton, “but they’re most infernally appreciative of the lack of it.”

  Gordon blew out a great cloud of smoke, and raised his eyebrows reflectively. “Do you think,” he said after a brief pause, “you give ’em a fair chance? I’ve seen some of your stuff. It’s blooming prim, you know. Why don’t you try something more lively? More skittish, you know, old chap; something with legs, you know, and high shoes. See what I mean, old chap? High with good full calves and not too fat in the ankle. That ought to fetch ’em; don’t you think so?”

  Elton scowled. “You’re thinking of the drawings in ‘Hold Me Up,’” he said scornfully, “but you’re mistaken. Any fool can draw a champagne bottle upside down with a French shoe at the end of it.”

  “No doubt, dear boy,” said Gordon, “but I expect that sort of fool knows what pays.”

  “A good many fools seem to know that much,” retorted Elton; and then he was sorry he had spoken, for Gordon was not really an amiable man, and the expression of his face suggested that he had read a personal application into the rejoinder. So, once more, the two men walked on in silence.

  Presently their footsteps led them to the margin of the weed-covered rocks, and here, from under a high heap of bladder-wrack, a large green shorecrab rushed out and menaced them with uplifted claws. Gordon stopped and stared at the creature with Cockney surprise, prodding it with his umbrella, and speculating aloud as to whether it was good to eat. The crab, as if alarmed at the suggestion, suddenly darted away and began to scuttle over the green-clad rocks, finally plunging into a large, deep pool. Gordon pursued it, hobbling awkwardly over the slippery rocks, until he came to the edge of the pool, over which he stooped, raking inquisitively among the weedy fringe with his umbrella. He was so much interested in his quarry that he failed to allow for the slippery surface on which he stood. The result was disastrous. Of a sudden, one foot began to slide forward, and when he tried to recover his balance, was instantly followed by the other. For a moment he struggled frantically to regain his footing, executing a sort of splashing, stamping dance on the margin. Then, the circling sea birds were startled by a yell of terror, an ivory-handled umbrella flew across the rocks, and Mr. Solomon Gordon took a complete header into the deepest part of the pool. What the crab thought of it history does not relate. What Mr. Gordon thought of it is unsuitable for publication; but, as he rose, like an extremely up-to-date merman, he expressed his sentiments with a wealth of adjectives that brought Elton in the verge of hysteria.