The Bravo of London

by Ernest Bramah

  ‘I won’t mind I can assure you. And in about how long—?’

  ‘Ah, that’s more difficult to say. These cases vary. But I should expect that you will notice a material improvement within a few days and in somewhere about a week you may have quite a surprising transformation—quite surprising.’

  ‘That will not seem so very long. And is there absolutely nothing for me to do to help? No matter what, if it only contributes to his recovery ever so little.’

  ‘Nothing beyond what I have already indicated. Nothing active that is to say but a great deal passive. Let him have entirely his own way in what he wants to do. Don’t seem to notice him; don’t watch him—in fact look at him as little as possible. It’s all a reminder that something is wrong, and reminding him of what has happened is the one thing that must be avoided. He’ll make absurd mistakes at first no doubt—not know his way about even in places where he is quite familiar; pick up things that don’t concern him and, of course, fail to recognise his friends—though as to that I shouldn’t make a point of having people in to meet him.’

  ‘Oh, certainly not. I should dislike it myself. And his business, Doctor? We must apply, I suppose, for leave of absence now?’

  ‘Ah, his business to be sure. In these charming rural surroundings one forgets that there is such a thing as business. I shouldn’t wonder—What does he do, by the way?’

  ‘He is in the office of the paper mills here. You may have noticed them as you drove by. It is where they make the Bank of England note paper.’

  It appeared, however, that Dr Olivant had not noticed them as he drove in; indeed—and this was the single flaw in the impression left by that delightful man—he did not seem to be aware that special paper was required for the issue of Bank of England notes, ever to have even heard of the celebrated Tapsfield mills, or to have the least interest in the subject of the firm’s importance. One point only caught his attention and that was when Miss Tilehurst spoke of the responsibility of Geoffrey’s position.

  ‘Just so—responsibility,’ he commented. ‘That impression may persist; it is a curious fact, Miss Tilehurst, that a man’s vocational claims are often the predominant subconscious impulse. It is quite on the cards that your nephew will set off on Monday morning in the usual way and turn up at the office. Let me see—are you on pretty good terms with the important people down there?’

  ‘Oh yes. I meet them all occasionally. They’d do anything to help us I am sure.’

  ‘Very well. As this happens to be Saturday it gives you a day’s grace. I should go round and see the chiefs tomorrow. Tell them all about it and what I have said. If your nephew should go to the works the very best thing would be to give him free rein to potter about and try to recall his routine. Of course he can’t do anything there at first but the association of the place will be helpful.’

  ‘I see. Yes; I quite appreciate that and I am sure that there will be no difficulty in arranging it. They are most considerate and of course they value Geoffrey’s services very highly.’

  ‘Oh, quite so—naturally. Well, Miss Tilehurst, I think that is about all—’

  ‘But, Doctor, aren’t we to do anything to discover the culprits? A harmless dog is killed, an inoffensive man’s reason, if not his life, endangered. Surely someone ought to be called to account—?’

  ‘Yes, yes; not unnaturally I thought of that and then there arises just this difficulty: do we put our patient’s recovery or our own feelings first? I say our own feelings, for whatever may have happened (and we cannot exclude, my dear lady, the possibility of contributory negligence) the last thing in your nephew’s interest is to recall that disastrous occurrence. Once bring in the police and what is inevitably bound to follow? There will be calls and interrogations and cross-questionings as one wiseacre after another gets what he considers “a clue” until the excellent chance that our patient has of making a quick recovery is blown to atoms. But of course it’s for you to say—’

  ‘No,’ replied Miss Tilehurst very decidedly. ‘Oh no; I could not allow that for a moment. We might make discreet inquiry for ourselves but Geoffrey shall not be worried.’

  ‘Then I can confidently leave his future in your hands: and now I must see about my own interrupted progress, A trying afternoon for you, Miss Tilehurst, but he’ll go on all right; he’ll steadily improve, never fear.’

  ‘If I don’t fear, Dr Olivant, it is entirely due to you. I think you must have been sent direct from heaven.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t exactly call it that,’ protested Olivant modestly. ‘At all events I have no idea of getting back there tonight. Then good-bye, Miss Tilehurst—or possibly au revoir. It occurs to me that I may be passing this way back in about a week’s time.’

  ‘Oh, would you? I should be so very glad—only next time you must really let me accept it as a professional visit. That quite relieves my mind about not saying anything to that dreadful locum meanwhile. No, Doctor—I am coming into the lane to see you off … Oh, the others—my visitors, you know—do you care to see them before you go, or—?’

  ‘I hardly think it is necessary—we scarcely spoke. My apologies, if you don’t mind, when you rejoin them.’

  ‘Certainly I will. By the way, Mr Carrados is particularly interested in crime and obscure cases. He has quite a unique reputation for a blind man, I understand. If he should happen to speak to me of what took place—’

  ‘An amateur sleuth—as I believe they are called—eh?’ Dr Olivant relaxed to the extent of a grimace of good-humoured if contemptuous amusement. ‘Wonderful fellows, provided everything happens their way, if we are to believe the magazine story writers. Well, the less stir and talk there is in any quarter, the better for our patient, but I quite see, Miss Tilehurst, that it may be difficult for you—’

  They passed, by the little side gate, into the lane, still talking.

  The soil beyond the espalier fortunately was light and easily dug but, even so, Mr Carrados, divested of his coat and with cuffs turned back, more than once bewailed his pliant good nature in taking on the energetic office.

  ‘Alas, poor Nipper; a dog of infinite zest and understanding. A hundred times hath he buried the bones of others here and now we bury his—pest on it,’ he declaimed between his efforts. ‘This grave-digger business is ill suited to the day, Nora. Why didn’t you suggest the dogs’ cemetery in Hyde Park where he could have been put away in style and to our material comfort?’

  ‘Probably because I didn’t know of it. Is there such a place really?’

  ‘Certainly there is, and a very singular institution though I dare say it’s full up now. Remind me when I am next showing you the sights of London and I’ll take you … Will this about do, quotha?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure it’s deep enough now. As you’ve had all the work so far I’ll do my share by filling it up again. Poor old Nipper. And that’s the end of him … Uncle Max, was Nipper run over by a motor car and Geoffrey nearly run over and frightened out of his senses? I am sure that’s what she thinks and it does look like that, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not altogether, Nora. The dog was killed by the single blow of a heavy blunt weapon. The man … the man is more complicated.’

  ‘Oh! You mean that someone killed the poor little thing deliberately? But why should anyone? Why, Uncle?’

  ‘A great deal may turn on that. He might have attacked in defence. But there is an immeasurably subtler line of implication that is dangerously attractive.’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘He could always recognise Geoffrey’s step, you know; and, like me, he had a nose that was fatal to deception.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s no good since Geoffrey would still be the same to Nipper. I mean it brings us no nearer to what really happened, does it?’

  ‘Perhaps a little. Geoffrey was first chloroformed, I think. The hand that picked Nipper up to dispose of him had certainly touched chloroform just before. Drugged; does that bring us nearer by taking us further away, I wonder?’


  This, needless to say, was not very helpful to Nora who was all for other people being explicit.

  ‘That’s very profound I dare say, but I simply don’t understand anything from it. And I feel that it’s all getting rather horrible—like a forest in a nightmare and whichever way I turn I’m bound to get more and more lost in it. What is there to do, my wonderful Uncle?’

  ‘Wait,’ he replied, and she was startled by the feeling—almost bitterness—in place of his usual tempered suavity. ‘Wait for them to show their hand more plainly. That’s a fine thing to have to recommend, isn’t it, when just the one clue that may spell all the difference between failure and success is on the point of slipping through our fingers?’

  ‘The one clue?’

  ‘The Harley Street specialist who is so familiarly at home in an East End fence’s den—where is he making for when he goes from here?’

  ‘You want to know that, Uncle Max?’

  ‘It might ultimately lead us to the answer. Now it’s too late to have a hope of following. If only your brother had been at home I could have put him on to it with a fair chance of shadowing our ingratiating friend to the trysting place with his report of progress.’

  ‘Motor bike! He must make for the Stanbury fork. Dark blue Lemartine. One could overhaul him.’

  ‘Yes, but Tom is somewhere among the Alps just now and there’s no one else in this fascinating Sleepy Hollow of yours that we could get in time—even if there is anyone at all who would do it.’

  ‘Oh blow!’ exclaimed Nora in sudden irrelevance, ‘there’s Miss Tilehurst—I suppose she wants me to do the polite by saying good-bye or something silly. Go on filling up, won’t you, old dear? Back as soon as I can,’ and without offering the necessary opening for the proverbial word that is inserted edgeways, she flew up the garden leaving Mr Carrados still painfully reviewing the circumstances that were leading to the calamity of Olivant’s secure retirement.

  The engine of the car in the lane gave a few preliminary skirls as the blind man threw back the last spadeful of earth; another minute passed and then the sound grew constant. Nora had not yet returned so presumably she had been pressed into remaining to grace the good fairy Olivant’s bouquet-strewn departure. Mr Carrados had no wish to figure in the flourish but, as the measured drone of the unseen Lemartine traced its progress along the lane beyond the wall, he picked up his coat again and sauntered up the path with a passing thought of his usually scrupulous appearance.

  ‘Ah, Ophelia,’ he said, recognising her presence as he neared the house, ‘you are the very person I’m wanting. Do you think you could bring a clothes brush out and perhaps—? You see the state I’ve got myself in, burying poor Nipper.’

  ‘Why to be sure I will, sir,’ replied Ophelia, surprisingly varying her formula. ‘I’ll trim you up like one o’clock if you don’t mind waiting a couple of jiffies. I’m looking for the mistress now. That Mr Batts doesn’t half give me the shivers. He’s in the kitchen there with his pocket full of ferrets and they keep getting out and them and the cat does nothing but put their backs up and swear at one another. Says he can’t wait no longer.’

  ‘The keeper? Oh, he oughtn’t to go until Miss Tilehurst has seen him. I think you’ll find her just out in the lane there with Miss Melhuish. If you run across I’ll have a word with Mr Batts myself meanwhile and keep him until you come back. He should know a lot about trapping vermin.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Ophelia, with the easy manner which, we are told, is the universal hallmark of good breeding. ‘The missis may be there but I don’t know about Miss Nora. Not two minutes ago she went through the other gate like a streak of greased lightning and if she isn’t at Turnpenny Cross by now she might be.’

  ‘She went out—’ considered Mr Carrados. ‘Now that’s rather odd—’ but even as he stood, from the road beyond and then from the lane itself there came a possible, if rather fantastic, answer to his deliberation. It approached as a crescendo hum, gathering into a husky roar as it swept by, and in less than ten seconds the beat was faintly drumming the air in the direction of Stanbury Junction. For just a moment a gauntletted hand had shown above the level of the wall in a gesture that conveyed both hail and farewell.

  ‘Mr Carrados! What on earth can it mean?’ Miss Tilehurst was hastening back towards the house from the gate, to meet her only remaining guest who was reversing that process. ‘Did you see—bless us, I should say hear? That was Nora, tearing like a wild thing down the lane on her brother’s motor cycle. I wouldn’t have recognised her she was so got up if she hadn’t waved—and do you know I actually believe that she was wearing Tom’s leather trousers!’

  CHAPTER XI

  A MINE IS COUNTERMINED

  MR CARRADOS’S appearance at ‘Orchard Close’ had been in the nature of a weekend visit and on the Monday following Miss Tilehurst’s eventful Saturday afternoon tea-party he returned to his own house in Richmond.

  So far as he was concerned the circumstances of what might be called the Geoffrey Tilehurst case had progressed little beyond the elementary coincidental. Geoffrey had gone out for a ride and returned suffering from complicated loss of memory. At the same time there had appeared on the scene the soi-disant Dr Olivant. Dr Olivant was either a medical man curiously in touch with Julian Joolby—that bizarre figure of exotic reputation—or else an impostor masquerading as a doctor. It would be easy to establish by the Medical Directory whether there was, so far as the current issue went, anyone of that name with an address in Harley Street but the evidence would not be quite finally conclusive. Dr Olivant had, in fact, been faced with the alternative of personating a specialist who could be referred to at any time or of inventing a fictitious one who might be less convincing but who would be more elusive. That he had returned to a sequestered house in an outer London suburb (as Nora had been able to establish) meant little or nothing yet. That house had still to be investigated.

  So far it was difficult to suggest what had necessitated Olivant’s function in Tapsfield. The result of his framed-up appearance at Brookcroft had only been to put about what any genuine doctor could have established. The measure of disguise suggested that he had been there before or intended to go again or else that there was a chance of encountering someone while on that lay who might recognise him in his fictitious character. Certainly he had gained a first-hand knowledge of the house and grounds; was Mr Carrados rating the incidentals too high and this nothing but the prelude to a commonplace burglary?

  A coincidence is the intersection of two lines, neither of which need possess in itself the least significance. When three lines meet at the self-same point of time or space the laws of chance suggest the probability of some conformable agency. ‘I suppose this is getting frightfully complicated?’ once remarked an interested outsider for whom Mr Carrados was investigating a case, when one baffling circumstance after another was brought to light as the quest proceeded. ‘Not at all,’ was his reply. ‘On the contrary it is becoming transparently simple.’ One or two lines might establish nothing but when a dozen or a score could be ‘extended’ it was inevitable that they must disclose a centre of origin.

  The episode of Nipper’s despatch was just one of these detached pointers. In itself it went for little but its line of direction might lead to something and in any case it was the tertium quid suggesting that the other incidents were unlikely to be fortuitous.

  Nipper had been handled by someone who just before had been associated with chloroform. The dog had not been chloroformed itself for, as Carrados had settled, the head was wholly free from any touch of contact. Mr Batts was also eliminated as a possible conveyer when the opportunity offered.

  The supposition that Geoffrey had been chloroformed was a reasonable hypothesis at that stage of the disclosure. Had the dog been brought upon the scene five minutes before he was, the point could have been settled very naturally, but by the time that Mr Carrados’s nose had made him a present of that piece of information all chance
of such a test had been shattered—quite unintentionally as it happened—by Olivant’s effectual treatment of his patient’s injuries.

  If Geoffrey Tilehurst, Dr Olivant and Nipper were all connected by an impending theft from the Tapsfield mills it should be possible to deduce—if not the actual plan in detail—at least a theory into which all the existing facts would fit and no construction that did not reconcile all that had happened was worth exploring. Tilehurst was naturally the crux, for the parts played by the other two were obviously contingent to his function. Was it possible that this responsible mill employee had been laid out and doped and was now existing in a mentally inert state by which he became an unconscious tool in the hands of those who had the key to his position? The basis was almost good enough to answer to the test but Carrados knew of neither drug nor process that could be relied on to work satisfactorily in practice under such tenuous conditions, and although Joolby might feasibly have access to some useful family hoodoo it was scarcely an assumption on which to conduct a serious investigation.

  It would have been a simple enough move to warn the firm, but Max Carrados’s interest lay in the phase of crime rather than in forestalling it, and on that score he had little tangible as yet to lay before a directorate of level-headed business men who would as likely as not regard him as an officious meddler. After all, what did it amount to? A dog had been run over through straying on the road. A man had received some sort of nervous shock that had upset his mental balance for the time being, and the good Samaritan who had come to his aid had a voice which the caller thought he recognised as having heard in a second-hand shop some time before and he might not be on the Medical Register. A curious tale with which to convey a serious warning that it all pointed to a sensational robbery!

  On the other hand there was Scotland Yard, which would have lent a very attentive ear indeed, but it had always been the blind man’s humour to take the official branch into his confidence after he had found out all he wanted rather than in the course of that process. One other detail was not without its influence. On the Sunday afternoon Mr Carrados again went across to Brookcroft and, somewhat to his amused chagrin, found that Miss Tilehurst did not consider it wise that her nephew should be submitted to the possible excitement of a meeting. Olivant had played his delicate part commendably well and although Nora flatly called it desertion of herself, of Geoffrey, and of the case, Uncle Max good-humouredly accepted the taunt but provokingly declined to be either goaded or cajoled into upsetting his arrangements.