“Do you know if he did actually start then?”
“Well, yes—indirectly. I happen to use the same garage to put up my car, when I come to town, as Mr. Toke uses. He recommended it to me, as a matter of fact. There I ascertained that he deposited his car on the morning of the ninth of August. But, oddly enough, he took it out again in the evening, and it was not returned until some time in the small hours of the following morning.”
“Then,” I said, “he couldn’t have caught his train.”
“I think he did. He did not return the car himself. It was brought in by a stranger, whom the night watchman described, picturesquely, as a ‘ginger Lushington,’ and this person reported that Mr. Toke had caught his train, and that the lateness of the delivery of the car was due to some fault of his own.”
“I wonder what the watchman meant by a ‘ginger Lushington’?” said I.
“Yes,” said Woodburn, “it is a quaint expression. I asked him what it meant in common English. Apparently, it was a term of inference. The word ‘ginger’ referred to the colour of the man’s hair, and, as his nose was tinted to match, the watchman inferred the habitual use of stimulants. But apparently Toke caught his train all right.”
As Mr. Woodburn interpreted the watchman’s description, I caught Thorndyke’s eyes for a single instant, and I saw that he had noted the significance of that description. It was probably the merest coincidence, but I knew that it would not pass without close scrutiny. And I could not but perceive that thereafter his interest in Mr. Woodburn’s affairs became appreciably more acute.
“Do I understand,” he asked, “that you feel an actual uneasiness about your client?”
“Well,” was the reply, “I must admit that I am by no means happy about him. You see, this prolonged silence is a complete departure from his usual habit. And time is running on. This is the eleventh of October, and he has made no sign. All sorts of thing may happen to a man who is in a strange country and out of all touch with his friends. I don’t like it at all However, it was not about Mr. Toke that I came to consult you, though I may have to ask for your assistance later. It is about these queer happenings at the Manor House. Now, what do you suggest? I should like you, as an expert, to take up the inquiry yourself. Do you care to do that?”
“I am quite willing to make a preliminary investigation,” Thorndyke replied. “That would involve personally interrogating the servants and making a careful survey of the premises. If it seems to be a mare’s nest, we can let it drop. But if we discover some hitherto unsuspected means of access to the gallery, or find evidence that some persons have, in fact, entered the premises, we can consider what action is to be taken. Would that meet your views?”
“Perfectly,” replied Woodburn. “When could you come down and take a look at the place?”
“I suggest the day after tomorrow, early in the afternoon, if that will suit you.”
“It will do quite well,” said Woodburn. “There is a good train from Charing Cross at two-thirty. If you can catch that, I will meet you at the station with my car and take you straight on to the house.”
Thorndyke made a note of this arrangement, and Mr. Woodburn then took his leave, evidently very well pleased at having transferred some of his anxieties to more capable shoulders.
When he returned from the landing, having seen his visitor safely launched down the stairs, Thorndyke picked up the plan, which Mr. Woodburn had left on the table, and, glancing at it, turned to me with a smile.
“A queer affair, Jervis,” said he. “I wonder if there is anything in it?”
“Personally,” I replied, “I should be disposed to suspect a mare’s nest. There is something a little creepy about a big, old house, especially if a part of it is shut up and sealed. Those servants may easily have got a trifle jumpy and imagined that they heard sounds in the dead of the night.”
“That is quite possible,” he agreed. “But then we must not overlook the fact that the thing alleged is also quite possible. And it is not so very improbable. Precautions of the kind that Mr. Toke has taken may have a certain boomerang quality. The place is locked, bolted, barred, and sealed. That is all well enough so long as the precautions take their expected effect. But if they fail, they fail with a most horrid completeness. Here, for instance, is a collection of really valuable things. It is all nonsense to say that they are of no interest to burglars. It depends on the burglar. Fine pieces of porcelain and high-class bronzes are easily negotiable in the right markets. The burglar’s real difficulty is in getting them away. Silver and gold can be carried away regardless of injury, as they are to be melted down; but these things are fragile, and their value depends on their being uninjured. Now, if it is only possible for a burglar to obtain access to Mr. Toke’s gallery, everything else made easy for him. He can work at his leisure and take these things away one or two at a time in the most suitable manner. I think the affair is worth looking into, even on its own merits.
“But you notice that there is another aspect of the case that deserves attention. Woodburn is obviously anxious about Mr. Toke. And not without some reason. In a legal sense, Mr. Toke has disappeared. His whereabouts are unknown to the very man to whom they should be known. Now, suppose that some mishap has befallen him, and suppose that circumstance to be known to some person—some unscrupulous person—who also knows about the collection. That is a bare possibility that has to be considered. And then we have to note the fact that the only evidence that Toke did really catch his train is the statement of an unknown stranger.”
“Who happens to have had red hair and a red nose,” I remarked.
Thorndyke chuckled. “True,” he admitted. “But we mustn’t allow ourselves, like Miller, to be obsessed by a mere matter of complexion. Still, we will bear even that fact in mind. And there is one other fact, with a possible inference. Toke’s instructions to Woodburn suggest something more than mere caution. They have a suggestion of secrecy. So much so that one asks oneself if it is possible that he may have some property concealed in the gallery of a different kind from the ostensible collection. I find it quite an attractive case, though, as you say, it may easily turn out to be a mare’s nest.”
“What do you propose to do when you go down to Hartsden?” I asked.
“I have no definite programme,” he replied, “beyond making the best possible use of my eyes and ears. The obviously desirable thing would be to get a look at the interior of the gallery, and see if there are any signs of disturbance—whether, for instance, the cases have or have not been emptied.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I realize that; but I don’t see how you are going to manage it, as, apparently, it is impossible to see in either by the windows or the door.”
“It doesn’t sound promising, I must admit,” said he. “But we shall see when we get there. Perhaps Polton may be able to help us.”
“Polton!” I exclaimed. “How do you suppose that he may be able to help?”
“Don’t be so scornful,” he protested. “Is an inventor and mechanical genius nothing worth? I shall certainly put the problem to him as soon as I am clear about it myself.”
In spite of the rather ambiguous phraseology, I suspected that Thorndyke had something quite definite in his mind. But I asked for no particulars long experience had taught me that he preferred to present his ideas in a mature and complete form rather than in that of a preliminary sketch. And, to tell the bald truth, my curiosity was not painfully acute. So I could wait patiently for enlightenment to come in due course.
CHAPTER XI
Hartsden Manor House
As the train moved out of the station, Thorndyke lifted his invaluable green canvas research case from the seat to the rack, and then, with the tenderest care, disposed similarly of a walking-stick of the most surpassing hideousness.
“That,” I remarked, eyeing it with profound disfavour, “looks like one of Polton’s contraptions.”
“It is,” he replied, “if the word ‘contraption’ can be ac
cepted as the proper designation of an extremely efficient and ingenious optical instrument. He made it many years ago; but an instrument of virtually identical construction was produced during the war under the name of ‘trench periscope.’ It is really a modern version of the ancient device of parallel inclined mirrors, which you may see in any old book on physics; only the mirrors are replaced by total-reflection prisms.”
“Have you ever used it before?” I asked.
“Yes, on one or two occasions, and found it to answer its purpose perfectly. I have brought it today on the chance that we may find some chink or hole through which we can poke it to get a view of the inside I of the gallery.”
“You won’t get it through that keyhole that Woodburn spoke of, large as it is,” said I.
“No,” he agreed. “But, as to that, we are not at the end of our resources—or rather Polton’s. He has devised an instrument for the express purpose of looking through awkwardly placed keyholes. I have it in my case.”
* * * *
He lifted the case down, and, having opened it, produced from it a small cylindrical wooden case with a screw cap. The latter being removed, he was able to draw out what looked like a brass pencil holder.
“This,” he explained, “is a little Galilean telescope magnifying about one and a half diameters. In front of the object glass is fixed a small, oblong mirror, which is pivoted so that it can be set at any angle by turning this milled ring at the eyepiece end. Of course, it has to be parallel to the tube when the instrument is passed into the keyhole.” He handed it to me, and I put it to my eye, after setting the mirror at a suitable angle.
“It doesn’t seem a very efficient affair,” I remarked, “it has such a wretchedly small field.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “that is the trouble with keyholes. But this is only an experimental form. If it seems suitable in principle, we can easily devise something more efficient. What we have to ascertain first of all is whether we can see through the keyhole at all. Looking at the plan, there seems to be nothing structural in the way; but there may be some piece of furniture that will cut off the view of the room. If there is, the keyhole will be of no use to us.”
I handed the little toy back to him with a shade of impatience. “But why,” I asked, “all this fuss? Why go about a perfectly simple inquiry in this complicated, roundabout way? If there is good reason to believe that someone has entered the room, why not just walk in and investigate in a reasonable, straightforward manner? It seems to me that you and Brodribb are standing on rather pedantic legal scruples.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Jervis,” said he. “When you get clear instructions, you ought to assume that the instructor means what he says. But there is another matter, which I could only hint at to Woodburn. This man, Toke, is extraordinarily secretive. He has not only fastened up every opening with locks and bolts and screws, and put seals on the fastenings, but he has forbidden his solicitor, in the most emphatic way, to enter those rooms. Now, seals furnish no security against burglars. Their security is against his own trusted man of business. You or I or any reasonable person would have left the seal with Woodburn and asked him to inspect the place from time to time to see that all was well. Why has he shut out Woodburn in this secretive fashion? We must assume that he has his reasons. But what can they be? It may be mere crankiness, or it may not. Mr. Toke may be, and probably is, a most respectable gentleman. But supposing he is not? Supposing that his activities as a dealer in works of art cover some other activities of a less reputable kind? And supposing that the products of those other activities should happen to be hidden in those sealed rooms? It is not impossible.
“But if Woodburn—or we, as his agents—should enter in the face of explicit instructions to the contrary, and discover something illicit, the position would be extremely awkward. Professional secrecy does not cover that kind of thing.”
“Still,” I objected, “you are prepared to enter if you find evidence that someone else has.”
“Certainly,” he replied. “We should have to enter or inform the police. But we should then have no choice, whereas we have at present. And that raises another question. If we break in and find traces of unlawful visitors, we shall probably spoil our chances of making a capture. We are not ready now, and our entry would almost certainly leave some traces that would warn them not to reappear. Whereas, if we should discover evidences of visitors before we make our own entry, we should be able to make arrangements to catch them when they make their next visit.”
I agreed without much enthusiasm, for it seemed to me that Thorndyke was taking a mere rumour much more seriously than the circumstances justified. In fact, I ventured a hint to that effect.
“That is quite true, Jervis,” he admitted. “It is a mere report, at present. Yet I shall be a little surprised if we find a mare’s nest. There is something distinctly abnormal about the whole affair. But we shall be better able to judge when we have got a statement from the servants.”
“We have heard what they have to say,” I replied, still extremely sceptical of the whole affair. “But, possibly, cross-examination may elicit something more definite. As you say, we shall see.”
With this the discussion dropped, and we smoked our pipes in silence as we watched, from the window, the gradual transition from the grey and rather dreary suburbs to the fresh green of the country. At Hartsden Junction, Mr. Woodburn was waiting on the platform, looking more like a smart livery stable keeper than a lawyer, and evidently keenly interested in our arrival.
“I am glad to see you,” he said, as we walked out to the approach, “for, the more I think about this affair, the more do I suspect that there is something amiss. And I have been reflecting on what you said about the seals. I had no idea that it was possible to forge a seal.”
“I don’t think,” said Thorndyke, “that you need attach much weight to the forgery question. It is merely a possibility that has to be borne in mind. In the present case, it is highly improbable, as an intruder would have to pass through the house to reach the sealed door.”
“Still,” objected Mr. Woodburn, “that door seems to be the only way in. Otherwise, why should Mr. Toke have sealed it?”
There was a fairly obvious reply to this, but Thorndyke made no rejoinder; and by this time we had reached the car, into which Mr. Woodburn ushered us and then took his place at the steering-wheel, looking as unsuitable for his post as if he had been at the tiller of a fishing smack.
As the car was of the saloon type, we saw little of our surroundings and nothing of the house until, entering through an open gate, we passed up a shady drive and stopped opposite a handsome stone porch. The door stood open and framed the figure of a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman.
“This,” said Mr. Woodburn, introducing us, “is Mr. Toke’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gibbins. I have told her about you, and she is as much interested in you as I am.”
Mrs. Gibbins confirmed this by a smile and a curtsy. “I am sure, gentlemen,” said she, “we shall all be very grateful to you if you can find out what these mysterious sounds are, and put a stop to them. It is very uncomfortable to feel that strangers—and dishonest strangers, too—are creeping about the house in the dead of the night.”
“It must be,” Thorndyke agreed, warmly. “But, before we start to find out what those sounds are, we want to be quite sure that they really exist.”
“There is no doubt about their existing,” Mrs. Gibbins rejoined, with intense conviction. “We have all heard them. And they certainly come from the gallery wing, for my nephew, Edward, got out of bed on two occasions and went part of the way down the corridor and listened; and he was quite sure that the sounds came from the gallery or the rooms that open out of it. And it wasn’t rats. Everybody knows the kind of sound that rats make, scampering about an empty room. It wasn’t like that, at all. It was like someone moving about quietly and, now and again, moving things. But there is another thing that can’t be explained
away. This house is supplied with water from an Artesian well. The water is pumped up by a windmill into a tank, which is on the level of the top floor, and it runs from the tank into the pipes that supply the house. The tank being so high up, the pressure of the water is quite considerable, and whenever a tap is running in any part of the house, you can hear a distinct hum in the main pipe. Of course, you can hear it much more distinctly at night when every thing else is quiet.
“Now, I am a rather light sleeper, especially towards morning, and, on several occasions—over and over again—I have heard the water humming in the pipe when all the household were in bed and asleep. And always about the same time—just before it begins to get light.”
“That is very remarkable, Mrs. Gibbins,” said Woodburn. “You did not tell me about the water. It is a most striking fact. Don’t you think so, Doctor?”
“I do,” replied Thorndyke, “especially when taken with the other sounds. I take it, Mrs. Gibbins, that there is water laid on in the gallery wing?”
“Yes, sir. There is a lavatory with a fixed basin and a cold-water tap over it, and there is also a peculiar sort of sink—Mr. Toke calls it a chemical sink, I believe—in the work-room.”
“And you say that the sound of running water occurs always at the same time? Do you never hear it at other times?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “we hear it occasionally at other times. Not very often, though. But it seems to occur always when we have heard the other sounds. It is just as if the person had been doing some job and had a wash before he went away.”
Mr. Woodburn laughed cheerfully.
“Tidy fellow, this,” said he. “I wonder what he does in there. It’s a quaint situation. He’ll be ringing for his breakfast next.”
“Can you form any idea,” Thorndyke asked, “how often these sounds occur?”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 124