The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Once more, as we walked on, I reflected on the strange contradictions and inconsistencies of my companion’s temperament. Somehow, he managed to combine a sensitiveness to the picturesque and beautiful with a singular tolerance of the sordid and unlovely.

  A few yards farther on we turned up Fetter Lane, and crossing the road, made for an iron gate set in a row of railings and now standing wide open. Entering, we found ourselves in the precincts of Clifford’s Inn and seemed in a moment to have passed out of the clamorous twentieth century into the quiet and dignified repose of a bygone age. I knew the place slightly from having occasionally ventured in to explore and I now looked round with friendly recognition of the pleasant old red brick houses and the slightly faded grass and trees in the garden.

  “This is my lair,” said Gillum, indicating an arched doorway lighted by a hanging lantern and surmounted by a tablet bearing the inscription “P.R.G. 1682.” Within the deep portal a shadowy flight of stairs faded away into profound obscurity, and when Gillum led the way in and up the stairs, he too, faded into the darkness and became a mere black shape against the dim light from the landing above. I groped my way up after him (for the lamp at the entry was not yet lit) and presently emerged on to the landing where I found my host inserting a key into a massive iron-bound door above which was painted in black letters on a faded white ground, “Mr. John Gillum.” The forbidding, gaol-like door swung open heavily disclosing a lighter inner door garnished with an ordinary handle and a small brass knocker. Gillum turned the handle, and throwing open the door, invited me to enter; and as soon as I was inside, he pulled to the outer door, which closed with the snap of a spring latch and a resounding clang suggestive of the door of a prison cell.

  “Just as well to sport the oak,” said Gillum. “Not that anyone ever comes after business hours, but it is more pleasant to feel that you can’t be interrupted.”

  He switched on the light and I was instantly impressed, by the contrast of the cheerful, cosy interior with the rather grim approach. A fire—well banked and enclosed by a guard—was burning in the grate, a couple of easy chairs faced each othier companionably, and the table, covered with a spotless white cloth, was laid with all the necessary appointments for a meal.

  Gillum was a good host. This was a simple, informal “feed” and I was not a guest but a pal who had dropped in. He established the position at once by setting me to work at decanting the bottle of claret that had been stood on the mantel shelf to get the chill off, while he attended to the fire.

  “May as well make a bit of a blaze,” said he, “though it isn’t a cold evening. But a fire is a companionable thing.”

  He tipped the remaining contents of the scuttle into the grate and then, after a hesitating glance at the empty receptacle, put it down.

  “Where do you keep your coal?” I asked, with a view to replenishment.

  “In the larder, or cellar or store-room,” he replied. “It’s that door across the landing, and a most excellent larder it makes; perfectly cool even in the height of summer. And that reminds me that we shall want the butter and cheese and perhaps we might as well get out a bottle of Chablis to go with the lobster—and, by the way, the lobster is in there, too.”

  He went to the door and I followed to give assistance in carrying the goods. Not unnecessarily, as it turned out, for the door across the landing was fitted, not only with a night latch, but also with a rather strong spring, fixed to the inside of the door, as the latter opened outwards. I stood with my back against the open door and received the butter and the lobster, holding them until Gillum collected the cheese and the wine and came out, when I moved away and the door closed with a slam and a click of the lock.

  “Now, Mortimer,” said Gillum, when he had deposited our burdens on the table, “you are the wine waiter. Just open the chablis while I go into the kitchen and hot up the soup.”

  He retired through one of two small doorways which faced each other at the farther side of the room and I began operations on the capsule of the bottle. But at this moment the empty coal-scuttle caught my eye, and at the same time it occurred to me that we must have left the key in the larder door, since we had both come away with our hands full. With the double purpose of retrieving the key and replenishing the scuttle, I picked up the latter and carried it out to the landing; and, sure enough, there was the key in the door. I turned it, and bearing the spring in mind, when I had pulled the door open I set the scuttle against it while I went in and switched on the light. Then I took up the scuttle, carefully easing the door to, so that it remained unlatched (though there was a knob on the inside by which I could have let myself out), and proceeded to prospect. There was no difficulty in locating the coal, for a large bin or locker that extended right along the farther wall was so well filled that its lid gaped and displayed its contents.

  I threw up the lid of the locker, and, taking the scoop from the scuttle, began rapidly to shovel out the coal, my movements rather accelerated by the unpleasant cellar-like atmosphere, which struck an uncomfortable chill in contrast with the warm dining-room. I soon had the scuttle filled, but in my haste I a few lumps of coal fall on the floor. Having put the scoop back in its socket, I stooped to pick up the stray lumps with my fingers. And at that moment I was conscious of a sudden feeling of giddiness and a loud ringing noise in my ears. Whether it was due to my position or to the abrupt change of temperature I cannot say; but as the place seemed to whirl around me and I felt myself swaying as if I were about to fall, I hastily grabbed the edge of the locker, pulled myself upright and staggered out on to the landing.

  As I emerged from the larder, letting the door slam behind me, Gillum appeared at the door of the living it and stared at me in dismay.

  “Good God, Mortimer!” he exclaimed. “What on earth is the matter?”

  Without waiting for an explanation, he hustled me into the living-room, threw up the window, and dragging a chair towards it, sat me down in the full draught.

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I just stooped to pick up a lump of coal and then I suddenly turned giddy.”

  “Strange,” said he, looking at me anxiously. “Have you ever had any attacks like this before?”

  “Never,” I answered; “and I can’t imagine what brought it on now. I suppose it was the sudden stooping.”

  “But that won’t do, Mortimer,” said he. “You’ve no business to get giddy from stooping at your age. I don’t believe you take proper care of yourself. You’d better let me get you a nip of whisky.”

  “No, thank you,” said I. “The fresh air has done the business. I am all right now excepting a slight headache, and I expect that will go off in a few minutes. By the way, I left the light on in the larder.”

  “I’ll go and switch off and get the coal-scuttle,” said he, “and then we will have some grub. That will complete the cure, with a glass of wine.”

  He went out and presently returned with the scuttle, shutting the “oak” behind him. Then he fetched the soup from the kitchen and we drew our chairs up to the table and proceeded to business.

  It was a pleasant little dinner, and not so very little, for when we had disposed of the lobster, the raising of a couple of covers revealed a cold roast fowl and a pile of sliced ham, the produce, as I learned, of an invaluable shop in Fetter Lane. Moreover, as the food was cold it lent itself to leisurely consumption and the free flow of conversation. And conversation with Gillum naturally tended to drift in the direction of betting and play.

  “How is the infallible system progressing?” I asked.

  “Slowly,” he admitted, “but still, I think the thing is possible. I don’t make much of it from the mathematical direction, so I am falling back on the excellent method of trial and error. I have got a miniature roulette box and I find it invaluable for trying out schemes of chances. I’ll show it to you.”

  He produced a beautifully made little wooden box, and placing it on the table, affecti
onately twisted the ivory spindle.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “it is an excellent contraption, for you can play any odds you like against yourself and win in any event. I should advise you to stick to it. Do your gambling at home—and let the Foucaults have a rest.”

  He laughed, rather grimly I thought.

  “Perhaps,” said he, “it might rather be a question of their letting me have a rest. But your advice is futile, as you know perfectly well. Solo roulette is well enough for experimental purposes, but it isn’t sport and it isn’t gambling. You can’t gamble if you don’t stand to win or lose.”

  Of course, I knew this and his reply left me with nothing to say; so I reverted to the roast fowl and inwardly speculated on the possibility of a connection between the Foucaults and the morning’s transaction at the bank. He had spoken as if they gave him more attention than he cared for, but obviously the subject was one that I could not even approach. When, searching for some new topic, I suddenly remembered the circumstances of our first meeting and their later developments, in which Gillum might probably be interested.

  “I intended,” said I, “to bring you a copy of The Telegraph which I kept for you. It contains a full report of the inquest on that poor fellow whose body I discovered. But perhaps you have seen it.”

  “I have,” he replied. “I saw a pretty full account of it in an evening paper. Extraordinary affair. Rather horrible, too. I liked the way in which that doctor fellow let out. He knew his own mind.”

  “Yes, he was remarkably outspoken for a medical witness. But I certainly agreed with him, and so, I think, did the jury. If he hadn’t been so downright I suspect the verdict would have been suicide while temporarily insane.”

  “Very likely. But what was there to suggest insanity?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” I replied. “I was only repeating the usual formula. When a man commits suicide it is generally assumed that he was temporarily insane when he did it.”

  “I know,” said Gillum. “But it is just a convention, and a silly convention which ought to be dropped. Really, it is a theological survival. The pretence of insanity is for the purpose of proving that deceased was not aware of the nature of his act and that there fore he was not guilty of felo de se and did not die in a state of mortal sin. It was quite well meant, but it was always a false pretence; and now that we have outgrown theological crudities of that sort, the formula ought to be abolished excepting in cases where there is actual evidence of insanity.”

  He spoke with an amount of feeling that rather surprised me. For it did not appear to me that the point was of any importance. Nor did I entirely agree with his view of the matter, and accordingly proceeded to contest it.

  “I don’t think that is quite the position, Gillum,” I objected. “No doubt there is a theological factor, but the usual verdict is based on the assumption that the very act of suicide constitutes evidence of mental unsoundness; and I think it is quite a reasonable assumption.”

  “Why do you think so?” he demanded.

  “Because,” I replied, “the impulse of self-preservation—the preservation of one’s own life—is so universal and so deep-seated as to amount to one of the fundamental instincts of intelligent living beings. But an act which is in opposition to a natural instinct is an abnormal act and affords evidence of an abnormal state of mind.”

  “I admit the instinct,” he rejoined. “But man is a reasoning animal and is not completely dominated by his instincts. If in a particular case he is convinced that the following of those instincts is to his disadvantage, surely it will be reasonable for him to disregard them and adopt the action which he knows is to his advantage. Let us take an instance. Suppose a man to be suffering from a painful and incurable form of malignant disease. He knows that it is going to kill him within a measurable time. He knows that until death releases him he will suffer continual pain. Is he going to drag on a miserable existence, waiting for the inevitable death, or will he not, if he is a man, anticipate that death and cut short his sufferings?”

  He had put his case with such cogency that I was rather at a loss. Nevertheless, I objected, somewhat weakly: “The instance you give is a very exceptional one. The conditions are quite abnormal.”

  “Exactly,” he rejoined. “That is my point. The conditions being abnormal, the common rules of normal conduct do not apply. The conduct is adjusted to the conditions and consequently is rational a But that is true, I think, in a large proportion of suicides. If you consider them in detail with an open mind you must come to the conclusion that the act is a reasonable response to the existing conditions.”

  “I doubt that,” said I. “The case that you have cited I should be disposed to admit, but I can think of no other.”

  “The point is,” said he, “whether the conduct is or is not adapted to the existing conditions. If it is it is rational conduct. And a man is entitled to estimate those conditions for himself to decide whether they are or are not acceptable; whether, m those conditions, he would rather be alive or not. Whether, in short, life is or is not worth living. If he decides that it is not, then it is reasonable for him to bring it to an end.”

  “My point is,” I rejoined, “that a normal man would always rather be alive than not.”

  “Then, Mortimer,” said he, “I think you are mistaken. Let us take a concrete case. Suppose a man, like yourself, an employee of a bank, tied down to a particular place. Suppose he has a quarrelsome wife who makes his life a misery and perhaps gets him into debt, and a family who arc a constant trouble and disgrace to him. What is he to do? He can’t escape because he is tied to his job. If he finds life intolerably unpleasant under these conditions, which he cannot alter, what could be more reasonable than for him to bring it to an end? Or again, take the case of a man who has inherited a fortune and has had a roaring good time enjoying all sorts of expensive pleasures. The natural result is that he steadily gets through his money. Now when he comes down to his last shilling what is the prospect before him? What is the natural thing for him to do?”

  “The most reasonable thing,” I replied, “would be to turn over a new leaf; to get a job, work hard at it and live within his means.”

  Gillum shook his head. “No, Mortimer,” said he. “That would not be possible to the type of man that I am describing. He couldn’t do it, and he wouldn’t try. If he was absolutely broke, he could try to live by sponging, by borrowing, by fraud or by some other form of crime, but either method would bring him, sooner or later, to disaster; and almost certainly, in the end, to suicide. But I contend that the more reasonable plan would be to anticipate and avoid all these troubles. When once his money was gone and the only kind of life that he cared for had become impossible, I say that the sane and sensible thing for him to do would be to recognise the facts and make his quietus—though not with a bare bodkin.”

  “But,” I exclaimed, “do you mean to tell me seriously that is what you would do, as a considered act, in the circumstances that you mention?”

  He laughed and shook a finger at me in mock reproof. “Now, Mortimer,” said he, “you know that is quite an improper question. We are considering a hypothetical case, and in effect, a certain question of principle. But you immediately—and quite irrelevantly—turn it into a personal question. What I, personally, might do is beside the mark.”

  “I don’t see that it is,” I objected. “If you really mean what you say, I understand that if ever you should go stony broke with no possible chance of recovery you would proceed at once, as a matter of considered policy, to hang yourself or cut your throat.”

  No, no, Mortimer,” he protested, “I said nothing about hanging or throat-cutting. That would be temporary insanity with a vengeance. No, pray do me the justice of believing that, if the occasion arose, I should perform the coil-shuffling operation with decency, dignity, and the maximum of personal corn fort. The rope and the carving knife are the wretched resources of the mere lunatic or moron. There is no excuse for such barbarities when, a
s we know, there are certain medicinal substances which are perfectly efficient for the purpose and which are not only painless but rather agreeable in their operation.”

  To this I made no reply, for there had come on me a sudden dislike to the turn that the discussion had taken. He had spoken semi-facetiously, but yet there was an underlying seriousness that gave his words a rather gruesome quality. So I let the discussion drop and, after a short silence, directed our talk into a fresh channel.

  After dinner Gillum brewed a pot of excellent coffee and we then adjourned to the easy chairs to smoke our pipes and talk; and as I listened to my host’s comments and observations on the various topics that we discussed, I was surprised—having regard to the outrageous folly of his conduct—not only at the range of his knowledge and general in formation but especially at the shrewdness and sanity of his outlook. Moreover, he was a man of some culture. I had already noticed his interest in the more serious forms of music and his lively appreciation of the fine grouping and skyline of the buildings of Fleet Street, and it now appeared that he shared my affection for the quaint nooks and corners and antique survivals of the older parts of London and seemed to have a quite extensive acquaintance with them. Indeed, so pleasant and sympathetic was our gossip and so agreeably did the time slip away that I was quite taken aback when St. Dunstan’s clock, reinforced by the more distant bells of St. Clement’s, announced the hour of eleven and bade me set forth on my journey homewards.

  “I will pilot you out as far as Fleet Street,” said Gillum, as he helped me into my overcoat. “Next time you will know your way; and I hope the next will be quite soon.”

  “You have given me every inducement to repeat the offence,” I replied. “It has been a jolly evening. Quite a red-letter day for me.”

  We sallied forth from the dark entry—but it was dark no longer now that the lamp was alight—and, crossing the courtyard, plunged into the tunnel which passes the Hall, and, crossing the little courtyard, entered Clifford’s Inn Passage. The main gate was shut and the night porter sat on a chair by the wicket, holding a newspaper and conversing with a spectacled gentleman who was formally arrayed in a frock coat and tall hat and supported himself on an umbrella.