As he had now completed his tasks and cleared away—as he hoped—the last traces of the previous night’s doings, he thought it time that he should show himself to Mrs. Gadby in his normal, everyday aspect. Accordingly he took the rucksack, a setting-board, and a few other necessary appliances and made his way to the house, where he established himself in the dining-room at a table by the window and occupied the time in setting the moths which he had captured on the previous night. They were but a poor collection, with an unconscionable proportion of duplicates, but Pottermack pinned them all out impartially—even the damaged ones—on the setting-board. It was their number, not their quality, that would produce the necessary moral effect on Mrs. Gadby when she came in to lay the table for his mid-day dinner. So he worked away placidly with an outward air of complete absorption in his task; but all the while there kept recurring in his mind, like some infernal refrain, the disturbing question: Was there even now something that he had forgotten: something that his eye had missed but that other eyes might detect?
In the afternoon he strolled round to Mr. Gallett’s yard to see if all was going well in regard to the preparations for setting up the sun-dial. He was anxious that there should be no delay, for though the presence of the dial would afford him no added security, he had an unreasonable feeling that the fixing of it would close the horrible incident. And he did very much want that sinister black hole hidden from sight for ever. Great therefore, was his relief when he discovered Mr. Gallett and two of his men in the very act of loading a low cart with what was obviously the material for the job.
The jovial mason greeted him with a smile and a nod. “All ready, you see, Mr. Pottermack,” said he, indicating the dial-pillar, now swathed in a canvas wrapping, and slapping one of the stone slabs that stood on edge by its side. “Could almost have done it today, but it’s getting a bit late and we’ve got one or two other jobs to finish up here. But we’ll have him round by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if that will do.”
It would do admirably, Mr. Pottermack assured him, adding: “You will have to bring it in at the side gate. Do you know whereabouts that is?”
“I can’t say as I do exactly,” replied Gallett. “But I’ll bring him to the front gate and then you can show me where he is to go.”
To this Pottermack agreed, and they then strolled together to the gate, where Mr. Gallett halted, and, having looked up and down the street with a precautionary air, said in what he meant to be a low tone:
“Rummy report going round the town. Have you heard anything of it?”
“No,” replied Pottermack, all agog in a moment.
“What is it?”
“Why, they say that the manager of Perkins’s Bank has hopped it. That’s what they say, and I fancy there must be something in it, because I went there this morning to pay in a cheque and I found the place closed. Give me a rare turn, because I’ve got an account there. So I rang the bell and the caretaker he come and tells me that Mr. Lewson wasn’t able to attend today but that there would be some one there later to carry on till he came back. And so there was, for I went round a couple of hours later and found the place open and business going on as usual. There was a youngish fellow at the counter, but there was an elderly gent—rather a foxy-looking customer—who seemed to be smelling round, taking down the books and looking into the drawers and cupboards. Looks a bit queer, don’t you think?”
“It really does,” Pottermack admitted. “The fact of the bank not being open at the usual time suggests that Mr. Lewisham—”
“Lewson is his name,” Mr. Gallett corrected.
“Mr. Lewson. It suggests that he had absented himself without giving notice, which is really rather a remarkable thing for a manager to do.”
“It is,” said Gallett; “particularly as he lived on the premises.”
“Did he, indeed?” exclaimed Pottermack. “That makes it still more remarkable. Quite mysterious, in fact.”
“Very mysterious,” said Gallett. “Looks as if he had mizzled; and if he has, why, he probably didn’t go away with his pockets empty.”
Pottermack shook his head gravely. “Still,” he urged, “it is early to raise suspicions. He may possibly have been detained somewhere. He was at the bank yesterday?”
“Oh, yes; and seen in the town yesterday evening. Old Keeling, the postman, saw him about half-past seven and wished him good-night. Says he saw him turn into the footpath that leads through Potter’s Wood.”
“Ha,” said Pottermack. “Well, he may have lost his way in the wood, or been taken ill. Who knows? It is best not to jump at conclusions too hastily.”
With this and a friendly nod he turned out of the yard and took his way homeward, cogitating profoundly. Events were moving even more quickly than he had anticipated, but they were moving in the right direction. Nevertheless, he recognized with something like a shudder how near he had been to disaster. But for the chance moonbeam that had lighted up the footprints in his garden, he would have overlooked those other tell-tale tracks outside. And again he asked himself uneasily if there could be something else that he had overlooked. He was tempted to take a walk into the country in the direction of the wood to see if there were yet any signs of a search; for, by Gallett’s report, it appeared that the direction in which Lewson had gone, and even his route, was already known. But prudence bade him keep aloof and show no more than a stranger’s interest in the affair. Accordingly he went straight home; and since in his restless state he could not settle down to read, he betook himself to his workshop and spent the rest of the day in sharpening chisels and plane-irons and doing other useful, time-consuming jobs.
True to his word, Mr. Gallett appeared on the following morning almost on the stroke of nine. Pottermack himself opened the door to him and at once conducted him through the house out into the orchard and thence to the walled garden. It was not without a certain vague apprehensiveness that he unlocked the gate and admitted his visitor, for since that fatal night no eye but his had looked on that enclosure. It is true that on this very morning he had made a careful tour of inspection and had satisfied himself that nothing was visible that all the world might not see. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a distinct sense of discomfort as he let the mason in, and still more when he led him to the well.
“So this is where you wants him planted?” said Mr. Gallett, stepping up to the brink of the well and looking down it reflectively. “It do seem a pity for to bung up a good well. And you say there’s a tidy depth of water in him.”
“Yes,” said Pottermack; “a fair depth. But it’s a long way down to it.”
“So ’tis, seemingly,” Gallett agreed. “The bucket would take a bit of histing up.” As he spoke, he felt in his pocket and drew out a folded newspaper, and from another pocket he produced a box of matches. In leisurely fashion he tore off a sheet of the paper, struck a match, and, lighting a corner of the paper, let it fall, craning over to watch its descent. Pottermack also craned over, with his heart in his mouth, staring breathlessly at the flaming mass as it sank slowly, lighting up the slimy walls of the well, growing smaller and fainter as it descended, while a smaller, fainter spark rose from the depths to meet it. At length they met and were in an instant extinguished; and Pottermack breathed again. What a mercy he had not thrown the coat down!
“We’ll have to bank up the earth a bit,” said Mr. Gallett, “for the slabs to bed on. Don’t want ’em to rest on the brickwork of the well or they may settle out of the level after a time. And if you’ve got a spade handy, we may as well do it now, ’cause we can’t get to the side gate for a few minutes. There’s a gent out there a-takin’ photographs of the ground.”
“Of the ground!” gasped Pottermack.
“Ay. The path, you know. Seems as there’s some footmarks there—pretty plain ones they looked to me without a-photographin’ of ’em. Well, it’s them footmarks as he’s a-takin’.”
“But what for?” demanded Pottermack.
“Ah,” said Mr. Ga
llett. “There you are. I don’t know, but I’ve got my ideas. I see the police inspector a-watchin’ of him—all on the broad grin he was too—and I suspect it’s got something to do with that bank manager that I was tellin’ you about.”
“Ah, Mr. Lewis?”
“Lewson is his name. There’s no news of him and he was seen coming this way on Wednesday night. Why, he must have passed this very gate.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Pottermack. “And as to his reasons for going away so suddenly. Is anything—er—?”
“Well, no,” replied Gallett. “Nothing is known for certain. Of course, the bank people don’t let on. But there’s some talk in the town about some cash that is missing. May be all bunkum, though it’s what you’d expect. Now, about that spade. Shall I call in my men or can we do it ourselves?”
Pottermack decided that they could do it themselves, and, having produced a couple of spades, he fell to work under Gallett’s direction, raising a low platform for the stone slabs to rest on. A few minutes’ work saw it finished to the mason’s satisfaction, and all was now ready for the fixing of the dial.
“I wonder if that photographer chap has finished,” said Mr. Gallett. “Shall we go and have a look?”
This was what Pottermack had been bursting to do, though he had heroically suppressed his curiosity; and even now he strolled indifferently to the gate and held it open for the mason to go out first.
“There he is,” said Gallett, “and blow me if he isn’t a-takin’ of ’em all the way along. What can he be doing that for? The cove had only got two feet.”
Mr. Pottermack looked out and was no less surprised than the worthy mason. But he did not share the latter’s purely impersonal interest. On the contrary, what he saw occasioned certain uncomfortable stirrings in the depths of his consciousness. Some little distance up the path a spectacled youth of sage and sober aspect had set up a tripod to which a rather large camera of the box type was attached by a goose-neck bracket. The lens was directed towards the ground, and when the young man had made his exposure by means of a wire release, he opened a portfolio and made a mark or entry of some kind on what looked like a folded map. Then he turned a key on the camera, and, lifting it with its tripod, walked away briskly for some twenty or thirty yards, when he halted, fixed the tripod and repeated the operation. It really was a most astonishing performance.
“Well,” said Mr. Gallett, “he’s finished here, at any rate, so we can get on with our business now. I’ll just run round and fetch the cart along.”
He sauntered away towards the road, and Pottermack, left alone, resumed his observation of the photographer. The proceedings of that mysterious individual puzzled him not a little. Apparently he was taking a sample footprint about every twenty yards, no doubt selecting specially distinct impressions. But to what purpose? One or two photographs would have been understandable as permanent records of marks that a heavy shower might wash away and that would, in any case, soon disappear. But a series, running to a hundred or more, could have no ordinary utility. And, yet it was not possible that that solemn young man could be taking all this trouble without some definite object. Now, what could that object be?
Pottermack was profoundly puzzled. Moreover, he was more than a little disturbed. Hitherto his chief anxiety had been lest the footprints should never be observed. Then he would have had all his trouble for nothing, and those invaluable tracks, leading suspicion far away from his own neighbourhood to an unascertainable destination, would have been lost. Well, there was no fear of that now. The footprints had not only been observed and identified, they were going to be submitted to minute scrutiny. He had not bargained for that. He had laid down his tracks expecting them to be scanned by the police or the members of a search party, to whom they would have been perfectly convincing. But how would they look in a photograph? Pottermack knew that photographs have an uncanny way of bringing out features that are invisible to the eye. Now could there be any such features in those counterfeit footprints? He could not imagine any. But then why was this young man taking all those photographs? With his secret knowledge of the real facts, Pottermack could not shake off an unreasoning fear that his ruse had been already discovered, or at least suspected.
His cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the cart, which was halted and backed up against his gateway. Then there came the laying down of planks to enable the larger slab to be trundled on rollers to the edge of the platform. Pottermack stood by, anxious and restless, inwardly anathematizing the conscientious mason as he tried the surface of the platform again and again with his level. At last he was satisfied. Then the big base slab was brought on edge to the platform, adjusted with minute care and finally let down slowly into its place; and as it dropped the last inch with a gentle thud, Pottermack drew a deep breath and felt as if a weight, greater far than that of the slab, had been lifted from his heart.
In the remaining operations he had to feign an interest that he ought to have felt but did not. For him, the big base slab was what mattered. It shut that dreadful, yawning, black hole from his sight, as he hoped, for ever. The rest was mere accessory detail. But, as it would not do for him to let this appear, he assumed an earnest and critical attitude, particularly when it came to the setting up of the pillar on the centre of the upper slab.
“Now then,” said Mr. Gallett as he spread out a thin bed of mortar on the marked centre, “how will you have him? Will you have the plinth parallel to the base or diagonal?”
“Oh, parallel, I think,” replied Pottermack; “and I should like to have the word ‘spes’ on the eastern side, which will bring the word ‘pax’ to the western.”
Mr. Gallett looked slightly dubious. “If you was thinking of setting him to the right time,” said he, “you won’t do it that way. You’ll have to unscrew the dial-plate from the lead bed and have him fixed correct to time. But never mind about him now. We’re a-dealing with the stone pillar.”
“Yes,” said Pottermack, “but I was considering the inscription. That is the way in which it was meant to be placed, I think,” and here he explained the significance of the motto.
“There now,” said Mr. Gallett, “see what it is to be a scholar. And you’re quite right too, sir: you can see by the way the lichen grew on it that this here ‘sole orto’ was the north side. So we’ll put him round to the north again, and then I expect the dial will be about right, if you aren’t partickler to a quarter of an hour or so.”
Accordingly the pillar was set up in its place and centred with elaborate care. Then, when the level of the slabs had been tested and a few slight adjustments made, the pillar was tried on all sides with the plumb-line and corrected to a hair’s breadth.
“There you are, Mr. Pottermack,” said Mr. Gallett, as he put the last touch to the mortar joint and stepped back to view the general effect of his work; “see that he isn’t disturbed until the mortar has had time to set and he won’t want touching again for a century or two. And an uncommon nice finish he’ll give to the garden when you get a bit of smooth turf round him and a few flowers.”
“Yes,” said Pottermack, “you’ve made an extremely neat job of it, Mr. Gallett, and I’m very much obliged to you. When I get the turf laid and the flower borders set out, you must drop in and have a look at it.”
The gratified mason, having suitably acknowledged these commendations of his work, gathered up his tools and appliances and departed with his myrmidons. Pottermack followed them out into the lane and watched the cart as it retired, obliterating the footprints which had given him so much occupation. When it had gone, he strolled up the path in the direction in which the photographer had gone, unconsciously keeping to the edge and noting with a sort of odd self-complacency the striking distinctness of the impressions of his gutta-percha soles. The mysterious operator was now out of sight, but he, too, had left his traces on the path, and these Pottermack studied with mingled curiosity and uneasiness. It was easy to see, by the marks of the tripod, which footprints ha
d been photographed, and it was evident that care had been taken to select the sharpest and most perfect impressions. Pottermack had noticed, when he first looked out of the gate with Mr. Gallett, that the tripod had been set up exactly opposite the gateway and that the three marks surrounded the particularly fine impression that he had made when he stepped out sideways on to the smooth-swept path.
On these facts he reflected as he sauntered back to the gate, and entering, closed it behind him. What could be that photographer’s object in his laborious proceeding? Who could it be that had set him to work? And what was it possible for a photograph to show that the eye might fail to see? These were the questions that he turned over uncomfortably in his mind and to which he could find no answer. Then his glance fell on the dial, resting immovable on its massive base, covering up the only visible reminder of the past, standing there to guard for ever his secret from the eyes of man. And at the sight of it he was comforted. With an effort he shook off his apprehensions and summoned his courage afresh. After all, what was there to fear? What could these photographs show that was not plainly visible? Nothing. There was nothing to show. The footprints were, it is true, counterfeits in a sense. But they were not imitations in the sense that a forged writing is an imitation. They were mechanical reproductions, necessarily true in every particular. In fact, they were actually Lewson’s own footprints, though it happened that other feet than his were in the shoes. No. Nothing could be discovered for the simple reason that there was nothing to discover.
So Mr. Pottermack, with restored tranquillity and confidence, betook himself to the summer-house, and sitting down, looked out upon the garden and let his thoughts dwell upon what it should be when the little island of stone should be girt by a plot of emerald turf. As he sat, two sides of the sun-dial were visible to him, and on them he read the words “decedente pax.” He repeated them to himself, drawing from them a new confidence and encouragement. Why should it not be so? The storms that had scattered the hopes of his youth had surely blown themselves out. His evil genius, who had first betrayed him and then threatened to destroy utterly his hardly earned prosperity and security; who had cast him into the depths and had fastened upon him when he struggled to the surface; the evil genius, the active cause of all his misfortunes, was gone for ever and would certainly trouble him no more.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 59