The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “No, it does not,” Andrew admitted, “and that is the cause of all the confusion and error.”

  “Then you still maintain,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “in spite of the total disagreement between your appearance and the description, that you are Andrew Barton, the husband of the woman who gave that description.”

  “I do,” replied Andrew, “because it is the literal truth.”

  “And are you proposing to offer a reasonable explanation of this extraordinary discrepancy between the description and the visible facts?”

  “Certainly I am,” Andrew replied. “It is the essence of my defence. Shall I give you the explanation first, or shall I take it in its proper place in my story?”

  “I think,” said Thorndyke, “that, as your statement appears to postulate an impossibility, no useful purpose would be served by going into any other matters until this apparent contradiction in facts has been disposed of. Let us begin with the explanation.”

  Accordingly Andrew launched out into a detailed account of his dealings with Professor Booley, beginning with his panic on reading the description of himself in the police notice and finishing with the shock that he sustained on looking at his reflection in the mirror. To this account Dr. Thorndyke listened with the closest attention, jotting down an occasional note on his pad but uttering no word until the whole story was told. Then he put one or two questions, including the exact whereabouts of Professor Booley’s premises, and wrote down the answers, finally requesting Andrew to put his finger on the spot at which the Professor had inserted the needle. “That,” said he, “is a very remarkable story. Before we go any further, I should like to make a preliminary examination of your nose. You understand that I am a doctor of medicine as well as a lawyer?”

  He opened the case on the table and took from it a small electric lamp, and, by the light of this, and with the aid of a pocket lens, he made a minute examination of the bridge of Andrew’s nose, especially in the region in which the entry of the needle had been indicated. Then, laying the edge of his open hand on the bridge of the nose, he brought the lamp close to one side while he scrutinized the other. Finally, he put the lamp on the table and proceeded to explore the nose with the tips of his fingers, winding up by taking the base of the bridge between his finger and thumb (a proceeding that was observed with profound astonishment by the warder on duty outside).

  Having made his examination, Dr. Thorndyke went back to his chair and made one or two brief notes. Then he looked up; and Andrew, catching his eye, was sensible of a subtle change of expression. And he thought he detected a similarly subtle change of tone when Dr. Thorndyke said: “And now let us have the story.”

  Andrew hesitated in some slight embarrassment. “I hardly know where to begin,” said he. “It is rather a long story.”

  “You had better begin,” said Thorndyke, “with the first event which had any causal bearing on your present predicament. What took you to Crompton?”

  “I went to see my cousin about a letter that he had written to me.”

  “Then begin with that letter. And never mind the length of the story. We have got to have it all, either now or in instalments. But I want now at least an outline of the whole set of circumstances.”

  Thus encouraged, Andrew embarked on the strange history of his misadventures from the moment when the fatal letter had been put into his hands. As before, Dr. Thorndyke listened without comment or question but making numerous notes—in shorthand, as Andrew subsequently learned. Only twice did he interrupt the narration. The first time was shortly after it had started and was in the nature of a general instruction. “Don’t epitomize, Mr. Barton,” said he. “Tell the story in detail, and don’t be afraid of being prolix. The details may be more significant than they appear to you.”

  The second interruption occurred when Andrew was recounting the meeting in the train with Elizabeth Kempster. “She was very angry and indignant,” he was saying, “and reproached me for my ingratitude for all that she had done for me—”

  It was at this point that Thorndyke held up his hand. “That won’t do, Mr. Barton,” he exclaimed. “I want the conversation verbatim; the very words that were spoken by you and by her—especially by her. You must try to recall them, fully and accurately.”

  Andrew had little difficulty in doing so, for that terrible interview had burned itself into his memory, though he felt some qualms in retailing to another that unfortunate woman’s emotional outpourings. But Dr. Thorndyke had no such qualms, for he took down a verbatim report of the entire conversation with a care and minuteness that seemed to Andrew beyond the merits of the matter.

  When the narrative came to an end with the narrator’s committal for trial. Dr. Thorndyke remarked: “A very strange story, Mr. Barton; and I certainly agree with you that it is not one to put to a jury in its raw state. And not such a very long story; but we will now proceed to amplify it a little.”

  With this he glanced over his notes and then opened a cross-examination, taking the narrative point by point from the beginning. And a very curious cross-examination Andrew thought it. For, to him, it appeared that Dr. Thorndyke passed over all the important points and dredged deep for the most exhaustive details of things which did not matter at all. To the murder of Mr. Hudson he made no reference whatever, nor did he show any special interest in the tragic events that befell at Hunstone Gap. But his interest in the history and relationships of the Barton family was so profound that, having elicited all that Andrew knew, he not only wrote it down but illustrated it with a sketched pedigree.

  Then he was strangely inquisitive as to Andrew’s professional career, and especially as to the details of his dealings with Mr. Montagu; and his interest in Mrs. Pendlewick and her bone lace and the sittings she had given him for his picture filled Andrew with astonishment. What on earth could Mrs. Pendlewick have to do with the alleged murder at Hunstone Gap? Nevertheless, he answered the questions with conscientious completeness; and if he was puzzled by their apparent irrelevance to the great issue, he never had a moment’s doubt that some good purpose, invisible to him, lay behind them.

  When the cross-examination was finished and Thorndyke, having collected his notes, stood up, Andrew plucked up courage to inquire: “You have now heard my story, sir. May I ask if you find it possible to believe that it is a true story?”

  Thorndyke looked at him for a few moments without speaking; and for the first time, his impassive, rather severe face relaxed into a faint smile which seemed to let some inner, unsuspected kindliness show for a moment on the surface. “I am not going to let you cross-examine me, Mr. Barton,” said he. “And I am not committing myself to any opinions until I have checked and verified certain facts affirmed in your statement. You have told me a complete and consistent story and I have at present no reason to disbelieve it. But remember that, even if my investigations convince me of its truth, that is only a beginning. The problem will be to transfer my conviction to those who will have to make the decision.”

  It was a cautious statement, but, somehow, Andrew was not discouraged by its tone of caution. And as to the checking of his alleged facts, since he had told nothing but the truth, they were all in his favour. “Before I go,” said Thorndyke, “I must ask you to sign one or two little documents. I want your written authority to conduct your defence, if I decide to do so, and to make all arrangements to that end at my sole discretion. Then I want your authority to take custody of any of your property at present held by the police, if necessary and if they consent; and I want a similar authority in respect of property of yours in Mrs. Pendlewick’s possession. The arrangements for the defence will include the selection of a solicitor. In this case it is a mere formality, but the usage in English practice is that a counsel must be instructed by a solicitor. I will arrange with a friend to instruct me, in a technical sense.”

  He wrote out the three documents and presented them to Andrew for his signature. When he had signed them, Andrew ventured to raise another question. �
��We have said nothing about the financial arrangements,” said he, and was about to enlarge on the unsatisfactory nature of his resources when Thorndyke interrupted him. “We had better leave those matters for the present,” he suggested. “I shall take it for granted that you will discharge your liabilities if you are in a position to do so. But the costs are really a side issue. And now I must be off. I shall proceed at once with the necessary verification of your statements and when I see you again I shall be able to tell you exactly how we stand.”

  With this he picked up his case and, being released by the warder, took his departure; and Andrew was, in due course, conducted back to his apartment, where he presently consumed his evening meal of brown bread and cocoa with unwonted relish and thereafter spent the short remainder of the prison day in curious tranquillity of spirit.

  This state of mental relief, with a new-born feeling of hope and security, was surprising even to himself. To what was it due? Certainly, he had at last unbosomed himself of his preposterous story and had not been denounced as a liar and an impostor. He had been given a hearing and promised an investigation. That was all to the good. But that did not account for the strange manner in which his fears and his anxieties seemed suddenly to have gone to rest. What was it? And when he asked himself the question, the answer that came to him was—Dr. Thorndyke.

  And yet it was strange. Nothing could have been more unemotional than the bearing of this calm, quiet, self-contained man. Not a word of sympathy or encouragement had he uttered. By no hair’s breadth had he deviated from the most strictly judicial attitude. There he had sat with a face like a mask of stone, listening impassively without sign of belief or disbelief, speaking only to put some searching question or to check some statement. Only one when, for a moment, that faint smile had lighted up his face with a gleam of kindliness, had he manifested any trace of human feeling. And yet, in some mysterious way, some virtue had come out of him and communicated itself to Andrew. Behind that immovable calm, he had had a sense of power, of energy and of incorruptible justice; of justice that would try him impartially in the balance; of power to enforce it, if he was not found wanting.

  This restful feeling of having, in a sense, passed on his troubles and responsibilities to another, remained in the days that followed. In the results of Dr. Thorndyke’s investigations he had perfect confidence, for he knew that they must, of necessity, confirm the truth of his story. So, as the time passed, he waited patiently with sustained courage for the next developments. But it was not until the fifth day that his patience was rewarded by the announcement of Thorndyke’s decision.

  On entering the room in which the previous interview had taken place, he found Dr. Thorndyke in company with another tall and athletic-looking gentleman who was introduced to him as Dr. Jervis. Both men shook hands with him and Dr. Thorndyke proceeded to state the position. “I have checked such of your statements as it was possible to check and have been able to confirm them and am now satisfied that the story you told me is a true story. Accordingly, I am prepared to undertake your defence and I have, in fact, made all the necessary arrangements. My friend, Mr. Marchmont, a very experienced solicitor, has agreed to act for you and I have asked him to call here and make your acquaintance. So everything is now in order. I suppose you have not thought of anything else that you wish to tell me? No additions to or amplifications of your statement?”

  “No,” replied Andrew; “I think you squeezed me pretty dry last time.”

  “Well,” said Thorndyke, “I have no questions to ask, but perhaps Mr. Marchmont may want some detail filled in. A solicitor sees a case from a slightly different angle and has his own special experiences. And here, I think, he is.”

  As he spoke, the footsteps of two persons were heard approaching down the corridor, and the warder on guard threw open the glazed door; through which another warder ushered the visitor and then retired after shutting him in.

  Mr. Marchmont was an elderly gentleman, prim, precise but suave in manner and a lawyer to the fingertips. When the introductions had been effected and a few civilities exchanged, he turned to Thorndyke. “I have read your summary,” said he, “and note that my role is that of a figure-head, as it usually is when I act with you. But there are one or two points on which I want more information. First, as to procedure. I presume that the preliminary investigation will take place before the justices at Crompton and the trial at the Maidstone Assizes. Is that so?”

  “No,” replied Thorndyke. “The case has been transferred to the Central Criminal Court—”

  “By a writ of certiorari?”

  “No. Under the new procedure provided for in the Criminal Justice Act of 1925.”

  “Ah!” said Marchmont, “I had overlooked that. Criminal practice is rather out of my province. And as to the preliminary investigation?”

  “There isn’t going to be any. I am informed that the Director of Public Prosecutions intends to present a voluntary bill to the Grand Jury.”

  “But that is rather unusual, isn’t it?” said Marchmont.

  “It will save a great deal of time and trouble and expense,” replied Thorndyke, “and I, certainly, shall not complain. It extricates us from quite an awkward dilemma.”

  “What dilemma?” asked Marchmont.

  “My difficulty,” Thorndyke replied, “was this: If there had been an investigation before a magistrate, I should have had either to produce all my evidence, which I should not want to do, or to reserve my defence, which I should not have been justified in doing and could not, in fact, have done.”

  Dr. Jervis chuckled softly and, glancing at Marchmont, remarked: “It is a let-off from Thorndyke’s point of view. Can’t you imagine how he would have hated letting the cat out of the bag prematurely?”

  Marchmont laughed in a dry, forensic fashion. “Yes,” he agreed, “it wouldn’t have suited his tactics; for when once the cat is out, she is out. You can’t put her back and repeat the performance. But the effect of this move on the Director’s part is that the trial may begin quite soon. However, I shall receive due notice of the date. And now, having made our client’s acquaintance and gleaned these particulars, I will take myself off and leave you to your occupations, whatever they may be.”

  He shook hands with them all round, and as the warder, observing this sign of farewell, opened the door, he bustled out and was taken in tow by the other officer. He had hardly disappeared when yet another official arrived with a message for Thorndyke to the effect that “Dr. Blackford sends his compliments and the room is now available.”

  Andrew looked inquiringly at Thorndyke, who explained briefly: “The doctor has kindly given us facilities for certain experiments which may help us. You will hear all about them later if their bearing is not apparent at the moment.” Then, addressing the officer, he asked: “Do we come with you?”

  “If you please, sir,” was the reply; and the procession, having formed up, was personally conducted by the officer on a tour of the prison, coming to a halt at last in the neighbourhood of the infirmary where Dr. Blackford was awaiting them. “I have had all your traps put into this room,” he said, opening a door as he spoke. “If you should want me, I shall be close at hand.”

  “Aren’t you coming in with us?” asked Jervis. “No,” replied the doctor. “I should like to, for I am devoured with curiosity as to what the deuce you are going to be up to. But I am not sure that it would be quite in order. And, besides, it is just as well for me not to know too much about Barton’s affairs.”

  This was evidently Thorndyke’s view for, without comment beyond a few words of thanks, he led Andrew into the room and, when Jervis had followed, shut the door.

  It was a rather small room, apparently some kind of annexe to the infirmary, to judge by its appointments; which included a plain deal table and a bare, ascetic-looking couch with a distinct suggestion of surgery in its appearance. Looking about him curiously, Andrew noted that the table bore a pile of about a dozen large black envelopes and that at
the head of the couch was reared a formidable-looking apparatus of which he could make nothing (scientific knowledge was not his strong point), but which aroused a faint and rather uncomfortable reminiscence of Professor Booley.

  He watched, with the rather vague interest of the entirely non-scientific person, while his two friends busied themselves with various preparations and adjustments of the apparatus, speculating a trifle uneasily on the nature of the experiment which was about to be performed and of which it seemed that he was to be the subject. He saw Dr. Thorndyke take two of the black paper envelopes from the table and place them carefully on a slab of wood that lay near the head of the couch, and he noted that the envelopes were rigid as if they contained plates of metal or some hard substance. Then he saw him adjust the position of a rather odd-looking electric lamp-bulb, which was fixed on a movable arm, placing it with great care immediately above the black envelopes. At length it appeared that all the preparations were complete, for Thorndyke, stepping back from the couch and taking a last fond look at the apparatus, announced: “I think we are all ready now, and I suggest that we begin with you, Jervis. What do you say?”

  “Yes,” replied Jervis. “It is always wise to begin by trying it on the dog. And Barton can watch the procedure.”

  He took a small rug from the foot of the couch and, folding it, laid it on the black envelopes. Then he lay down on the couch, resting his head on the folded rug. Thorndyke raised the corner of the rug, apparently to ascertain the position of the head on the envelopes, and once more made a slight adjustment of the lamp overhead. “Ready?” said he, with his hand on a switch, and as Jervis responded, he turned the switch with a snap. Instantly the apparatus emitted a growl which rapidly rose up the scale until it settled into a high-pitched droning like the piping of a giant mosquito. At the same moment the lamp began to glow with a green light at the centre of which appeared a bright spot of red. “Keep perfectly still, Barton,” said Thorndyke, who stood rigid as a statue with his watch in his hand. “It is most important that there should not be the slightest vibration.”