The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  It is probable that, if nothing further had happened, the passing of Lotta out of his life would have been accepted and presently ceased to be noticed. But a new circumstance tended to revive his curiosity. Returning one day by way of Cumberland Market, and thus passing her house, he noticed that her brass plate was not in its usual place. It was not a fixed plate permanently secured to the wall, but was held in place by removable fastenings, and it had been Lotta’s custom to take it down in the evening and replace it in the morning. Thus, when he noticed its absence, he assumed that she had merely forgotten to fix it up and thought no more about it. But, happening on the following day to glance at her door and again noting the absence of the plate, he gave the matter more attention; with the result that, after several daily observations, he decided that the plate had disappeared for good. Then, again, he had thought of calling, but now he was restrained by a fresh consideration. Possibilities which he had dimly envisaged might have become realized, and if so, it were well for him not to meddle in Lotta’s affairs. On the other hand, he was now definitely anxious and a little disturbed, particularly on Vanderpuye’s account, and it seemed to him that a few discreet inquiries through a third party might elicit the facts without committing him in any way.

  Now the obvious third party was Mr. Polton. He was in touch with Vanderpuye and was certainly keeping an eye on the course of events. But the question was, how to get at Mr. Polton. Tom had never ventured to call on him as he resided on the premises of his employer, Dr. Thorndyke, and an uninvited visit would have seemed somewhat of an intrusion. Of course, he could have written to Mr. Polton, but that would have involved a direct inquiry, which he wished to avoid. His idea was that if he could contrive a meeting with his ingenious friend, the required information could be made to transpire naturally in a judiciously managed conversation, without his asking any questions at all.

  The problem was, therefore, to find a pretext for a visit to Polton; a convincing pretext which would account for his having called rather than written. To the solution of this problem Tom addressed himself, and, being an eminently straightforward man, little addicted to pretexts of any kind, he had to give it a disproportionate amount of attention. And then the problem solved itself. Happening to pull out a drawer in which he kept miscellaneous oddments, he discovered in it the pedometer which he had been accustomed to carry on his expeditions in search of landscape subjects. For years it had served him well, but latterly it had become erratic in its action and so unreliable that he had ceased to carry it. So he had put it aside, intending some time to take Mr. Polton’s opinion on it. But out of sight had been out of mind and the matter had been forgotten. Now, however, it gave him not a mere pretext but a reasonable occasion for the visit.

  Accordingly he dispatched a short note to Polton, announcing his intention to call, and, if an interview should not be convenient, to leave the pedometer for a diagnostic inspection; to which Polton replied by return with a cordial invitation and the necessary directions to his domain in the premises.

  CHAPTER VII

  Of a Pedometer and a Tragedy

  At four o’clock precisely, on a bright December afternoon, Tom Pedley arrived at the entry of Number 5A King’s Bench Walk, having made his way thither very pleasantly through the old-world courts of the Temple.

  For a few moments he paused to examine with an artist’s appreciation the fine red brick portico (commonly attributed to Wren), then he entered, and, following Polton’s directions, ascended the stairs to the landing of the ‘Second Pair.” As he reached it a door opened and his host came out to meet him.

  “This is very pleasant, sir,” said Polton, shaking hands warmly. “I don’t often have a visitor, being a solitary worker like yourself, so your visit will be quite a little treat for me. Will you come into the laboratory? We are going to have tea in my room upstairs, but I am boiling the kettle here to avoid smoking it on the fire.”

  As they entered the large room Tom glanced about him curiously, noting that some of the appointments, such as a joiner’s bench, a lathe, and a large copying camera, hardly accorded with his conception of a laboratory, and that a handsome copper kettle, mounted on a tripod over a Bunsen burner and a fine old silver teapot seemed to have strayed in from elsewhere.

  “Perhaps, sir,” suggested Polton, “we might have a look at the pedometer while the kettle is getting up steam.”

  Tom fished the instrument out of his pocket and handed it to him, whereupon, having opened the glass back, he stuck a watchmaker’s eyeglass in his eye and examined the visible part of the mechanism.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much amiss with it,” he reported, dancing the instrument up and down to test the lever; “just a matter of wear. The little spring click has worn short and tends to slip over the teeth of the ratchet wheel. That is a fatal defect, but it’s easily mended; and I may find some other faults when I come to take it down, as we say in the trade—that is, take it to pieces. At any rate it will be none the worse for a clean up and a touch of fresh oil.”

  “I am afraid I am giving you a lot more trouble than I expected,” said Tom.

  Polton looked up at him with his queer, crinkly smile.

  “Trouble, sir!” he exclaimed. “It is no trouble; it isn’t even work. It will give me several hours’ pleasant entertainment, and I am much obliged to you for bringing me the instrument.”

  In confirmation he produced from one of his innumerable pockets a small portable screwdriver and seemed about to attack the pedometer forthwith, when the kettle intervened by blowing out a jet of steam; whereupon he replaced the cap of the screwdriver, returned it to his pocket, and proceeded methodically to make the tea.

  As he led the way upstairs, carrying the teapot while his guest followed with the kettle, Tom remarked on the comeliness of the latter.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Polton, “it’s a fine old kettle. They don’t make them like that nowadays. I found it in a marine store in Portugal Street. Came from some old lawyer’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, I expect; and very shabby and battered it was, but I put a bit of work into it and made it as good as new. You see, sir, I rather take after you; I like the common things that I use and live with to be good and pleasant to look at.”

  His statement was borne out by the aspect of the spacious room on the “Third Pair” which they now entered, where a tea-table, flanked by two easy chairs, stood before the fire. Tom, having deposited the kettle on a trivet, out of reach of the smoke or flame, sat down in the chair allocated to him and surveyed the prospect, while Polton did the honours of the tea-table; noting the well-filled book-shelves, the one or two pictures on the walls (including his sketch for “The Eavesdropper,” simply but tastefully framed) and a four-fold screen which he suspected of concealing a bed. It was all simple and plain, but the room and everything that was in it appealed quietly to Tom’s rather fastidious taste, even to the quaint old cottage clock that hung on the wall and hardly disturbed the silence by its homely tick.

  “This is my private domain, sir,” said Polton, “but I don’t spend much time in it. The laboratory is really my home. I am an inveterate mechanic, always happiest at my bench. That pedometer of yours is quite a wind fall for me. May I ask how long you have had it?”

  “I should say about a dozen years,” replied Tom.

  “And do you find it fairly accurate? The experts on surveying dismiss the pedometer as a mere useless toy. What is your experience of it?”

  “It is accurate enough for my purpose,” Tom replied. “I’m not a surveyor. I don’t deal in inches, but I find that it agrees pretty closely with maps and milestones, and that is enough for me.”

  “The reason that I asked is that I had thought of getting one for Mr. Vanderpuye to take back with him. There won’t be many milestones in his country.”

  “Is Mr. Vanderpuye going back to Africa soon?” Tom asked with suddenly awakened interest.

  “Not very soon,” replied Polton, “because he has joined the Bar Mes
s at the Central Criminal Court and is attending the court regularly; that is, he has been since Mrs. Schiller went away.”

  “Oh, she has gone away, has she?” asked Tom, considerably startled.

  “Yes, sir; and I hope she will stop away, for, before she went, he used to neglect his work terribly. I am very much relieved that she has gone.”

  “Do you know whether she has gone for good?”

  “I am afraid not, sir. Of course, I couldn’t ask any questions, but I gathered from Mr. Vanderpuye that she had gone to stay with some friends at Birmingham. How long she will be away I have no idea, and I don’t believe he has.”

  “I suppose you don’t know whether he corresponds with her?”

  “I don’t actually know, sir, but I think not. My impression is that he doesn’t even know her address. Queer, isn’t it? But then she’s a queer woman. With all her flighty ways, she is uncommonly good at keeping her own counsel.”

  This last observation rather impressed Tom; for now, reflecting on it, he suddenly realized how very little he knew about this strange woman. However, she was not his concern now that his anxieties on Vanderpuye’s account had been dispelled; and, as he had obtained the information that he had come to seek, he began to consider whether it was not time for him to go. Polton had duties of some kind, and a prolonged visit might be inconvenient. But when he made tentative signs of departure, his host protested:

  “You are not going on my account, sir, I hope; because the Doctor is dining out tonight and I’ve got the evening to myself. Besides, now that he has given me an understudy to carry on in my absence, I am much freer than I used to be. Of course, I mustn’t detain you if you can’t spare the time, but—”

  In effect, Tom was very glad to stay, and said so, and, accordingly, having filled his pipe (at Polton’s invitation), settled down to spend a very pleasant and interesting evening. For his host, although “an inveterate mechanic,” possessed a wealth of information on all sorts of curious and unexpected subjects; and when they had examined the remarkable technical library, the pictures on the wall, and the picturesque old clock (Polton’s chiefest treasure; a relic of the home of his childhood, which had come to him on the demise of a certain Aunt Judy), they subsided into their respective chairs to gossip discursively on the various subjects in which they had a common interest, with a general leaning towards “antiques.”

  “To return to your pedometer, sir,” said Polton, when Tom finally rose to depart, “I shall look it over in my spare time, but it won’t take long. When it is done I will bring it round to your studio, if you will tell me when I shall find you at home.”

  “It’s very good of you, Polton, but I think you had better settle the time. I can always stay in if I want to.”

  “Then, sir, I would suggest next Thursday, about three o’clock if that will suit you.”

  “It will suit me perfectly,” said Tom, taking up his hat and stick; and, having thus made the assignation, he shook hands with his host who, nevertheless, escorted him as far as the laboratory floor where they parted, Tom to make his way homeward and Polton, probably, to launch the attack on the pedometer.

  During the next few days Tom gave only an occasional passing thought to Lotta. He was completely reassured. There had been no elopement or scandal of any kind, and that was all that mattered to him. As to the woman herself, he could only echo Polton’s wish that she might stay away as long as possible; and if she should never come back, her absence would create a void not entirely unacceptable. In fact he began to hope that she had passed out of his life, that he had, at last, really finished with her; and from vaguely hoping came gradually to believe that it might be so.

  The disillusionment was sudden and violent. It synchronized with the arrival on the appointed day of his pedometer-bearing friend. At three o’clock to the minute on Thursday afternoon the studio bell rang, and Tom, hurrying out at the summons, found Mr. Polton on the wide doorstep. But he was not alone. Sharing the doorstep with him was an anxious-looking woman whom he recognized as his next-door neighbour, Mrs. Mitchens, who was also Lotta’s landlady. He had been on bowing terms with her for some years but had never spoken to her except to wish her good morning, and he now wondered what her business with him might be. But he was soon enlightened, for almost as he appeared at the door she asked in an agitated tone:

  “Could I have a few words with you, Mr. Pedley?” (On which Polton tried to efface himself and prepared to slink in by the half-open door.) “It’s about Mrs. Schiller, sir.”

  As she spoke the name Polton halted suddenly, and tried to look as if he were not listening.

  “I have come to you, Mr. Pedley,” Mrs. Mitchens continued, “because you were a friend of hers and I thought you might know what has become of her. I haven’t seen or heard of her for quite a long time.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Mitchens,” Tom answered cheerfully. “She has just gone away to stay with some friends at Birmingham.”

  But Mrs. Mitchens did not look satisfied. “It’s very strange,” she objected. “She never said anything to me about going away, and the rent hasn’t been paid, though she was always so punctual. You are sure she has gone to Birmingham?”

  Tom reflected for a moment and then, turning to Polton, asked:

  “What do you say? Are we sure?”

  “Well, sir,” was the reply. “I wouldn’t put it as high as that. I was told by Mr. Vanderpuye that Mrs. Schiller had told him that she was going to stay with friends at Birmingham. That is all. We don’t actually know whether she has or has not gone.”

  “Then,” said Mrs. Mitchens, “I am afraid she has not gone.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tom asked.

  Mrs. Mitchens appeared to be in difficulties. “I hardly know how to express it,” she replied, “but there’s something wrong in her rooms. My husband and I have both noticed it, and it seems to be getting worse.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Tom. “What is getting worse?”

  “It is difficult to explain,” she replied, “but if you will be so good as to step into the hall, you will understand what I mean.”

  Tom showed no eagerness to accept this invitation, but Polton, now all agog, requested the lady to lead the way and followed her with a purposeful air while Tom brought up the rear, and watched her gloomily as she inserted her latch-key.

  But Mrs. Mitchens was right. No sooner had they entered the hall and shut the outer door than they both understood perfectly what she had meant. But the realization affected them differently. Tom shrank back with an expression of horrified disgust towards the outer door, whereas Polton, having sampled the air by a little diagnostic sniff, took the definite initiative.

  “I presume, madam,” said he, “that this door is locked?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Locked from the inside.”

  “Well,” said Polton, “that room ought to be entered; at once.”

  “That is what my husband said, and he tried it with one of our keys, but unfortunately the key is in the lock, and he didn’t like to break the door open.”

  “No,” Polton agreed, “it is better to use a key if possible. May I ask whether the lock has been used much?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “constantly. Mrs. Schiller always locked the door at night and whenever she went out.”

  “Ha,” said he, “then it should turn pretty easily. It is sometimes possible,” he continued reflectively, with his hand in an inner pocket, “to persuade a key round from the outside if it isn’t too stiff. Now, I wonder if I happen to have anything in my pocket that would answer the purpose.”

  Apparently he had; for as he stooped to peer into the keyhole, his hand came out of the pocket holding an object that looked somewhat like a rather unusual pocket corkscrew fitted with some stout angular wire levers. One of these he inserted into the keyhole and pried about the interior of the lock while Mrs. Mitchens gazed expectantly at his hand, which concealed both the keyhole and the instrument.
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  “Yes,” said he, “the thing,” and, as he spoke, the lock clicked, the instrument was withdrawn (disappearing instantly into the pocket whence it had come), and Polton turned the handle and tried the door, shutting it again immediately.

  “It isn’t bolted, you see, madam,” said he, stepping back to make way for her.

  She showed a natural reluctance to enter that mysterious and ominous room, but after a few moments’ hesitation she grasped the knob, turned it softly, opened the door and stepped in. But even as she entered she uttered a low scream and stood stock still with the doorknob in her hand, staring before her with an expression of horror.

  “Oh, the poor thing!” she exclaimed. “She has made away with herself. Do, please, come in and look at her.”

  On this, Polton entered the room followed by Tom, and for a while both stood by the door gazing at the tragic figure sitting limply with dropped head in a little elbow chair that had been drawn up to the table. The right arm hung straight down while the left lay on the table, and, close to the discoloured hand was an empty tumbler, and, a few inches away, a small glass water-jug and a little bottle containing white tablets.

  “Poor creature!” moaned Mrs. Mitchens. “I wonder why she did it, so bright and cheerful as she always seemed. And how dreadful she looks, poor dear. I should never have recognized her.”

  Polton, meanwhile, had cast a keen glance round the room, and now, stepping forward, leaned over the table to scrutinize the tumbler and the bottle of tablets.

  “What is in that bottle?” Tom asked.

  “Cyanide of potassium,” was the reply.

  “That is a strong poison, isn’t it?”

  “A most deadly poison,” Polton replied, “and extremely rapid in its action; quite easy to obtain, too, as you see from the label on this bottle—‘Photographic Tablets’; easy to get and hard to trace.”