Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus
Vol 3
by
R. Austin Freeman
Book Index
The Cat's Eye (1923)
Dr. Thorndyke's Casebook (1923)
The Mystery of Angelina Frood (1924)
The Shadow of the Wolf (1925)
The Cat's Eye
First Published 1923
Contents
Preface
1 In the Midst of Life
2 Sir Lawrence declares a Vendetta
3 Thorndyke takes up the Inquiry
4 The Lady of Shalott
5 Mr. Halliburton's Mascot
6 Introduces an Ant-eater and a Detective
7 The Vanished Heirloom
8 A Jacobite Romance
9 Exit Moakey
10 A Timely Warning
11 The Blue Hair
12 From the Jaws of Death
13 Thorndyke states his Position
14 Beauchamp Blake
15 The Squire and the Sleuth-hound
16 Mr. Brodribb's Embassy
17 The Secret Chamber
18 The Cat's Eye
19 A Relic of the '45
20 QED
Preface
By one of those coincidences which are quite inadmissible in fiction, but of frequent occurrence in real life, an incident in the story of The Cat's Eye has found an almost exact duplicate in an actual case which has been reported in the Press.
The real case was concerned with a most alarming misadventure which befell a distinguished police official of high rank. The fictitious incident occurs in Chapter Ten of this book; and the reading of that chapter will inevitably convey the impression that I have appropriated the real case and incorporated it in my story; a proceeding that the reader might properly consider to be in questionable taste.
It seems, therefore, desirable to explain that Chapter Ten was written some months before the real tragedy occurred. Indeed, by that time, the book was so nearly completed that it was impracticable to eliminate the incident, which was an integral part of the plot.
The coincidence is to be regretted; but worse things might easily have happened. But for the circumstance that I had to lay this book aside to complete some other work, The Cat's Eye would have been in print when the crime was committed; and it might then have been difficult for any one—even for the author—to believe that the fictitious crime had not furnished the suggestion for the real one.
RAF
Gravesend,
19th June 1923.
1. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE
I am not a superstitious man. Indeed superstition, which is inseparably bound up with ignorance or disregard of evidence, would ill accord with the silken gown of a King's Counsel. And still less am I tainted with that particular form of superstition in which the fetishism of barbarous and primitive man is incongruously revived in a population of, at least nominally, educated persons, by the use of charms, amulets, mascots and the like.
Had it been otherwise; had I been the subject of this curious atavistic tendency, I should surely have been led to believe that from the simple gem whose name I have used to give a tide to this chronicle, some subtle influence exhaled whereby the whole course of my life was directed into new channels. But I do not believe anything of the kind; and therefore, though it did actually happen that the appearance of the Cat's Eye was coincident with a radical change in the course and manner of my life, and even, as it seemed, with my very personality; and though with the Cat's Eye the unfolding of the new life seemed constantly associated; still I would have it understood that I use the name merely as a label to docket together a succession of events that form a consistent and natural group.
The particular train of events with which this history deals began on a certain evening near the end of the long vacation. It was a cloudy evening, I remember, and very dark, for it was past eight o'clock and the days were drawing in rapidly. I was returning across Hampstead Heath towards my lodgings in the village, and was crossing the broken, gorse-covered and wooded hollow to the west of the Spaniards Road, when I heard the footsteps of some one running, and running swiftly, as I could judge by the rapid rhythm of the footfalls and the sound of scattering gravel. I halted to listen, noting that the rhythm of the footsteps was slightly irregular, like the ticking of an ill-adjusted clock; and even as I halted, I saw the runner. But only for a moment, and then but dimly. The vague shape of a man came out of the gloom, passed swiftly across my field of vision, and was gone. I could not see what he was like. The dim shape appeared and vanished into the darkness, leaving me standing motionless, listening with vague suspicion to the now faint footfalls and wondering what I ought to do.
Suddenly the silence was rent by a piercing cry, the cry of a woman calling for help. And, strangely enough, it came from the opposite direction to that towards which the fugitive was running. In an instant I turned and raced across the rugged hollow towards the spot from whence the sound seemed to come, and as I scrambled up a gravelly hillock I saw, faintly silhouetted on the murky skyline of some rising ground ahead, the figures of a man and a woman struggling together; and I had just noted that the man seemed to be trying to escape when I saw him deal the woman a blow, on which she uttered a shriek and fell, while the man, having wrenched himself free, darted down the farther slope and vanished into the encompassing darkness.
When I reached the woman she was sitting up with her right hand pressed to her side, and as I approached she called out sharply:
'Follow him! Follow that man! Never mind me!'
I stood for a moment irresolute, for on the hand that was pressed to her side I had noticed a smear of blood. But as I hesitated, she repeated: 'Follow him! Don't let him escape! He has just committed a dreadful murder!'
On this I ran down the slope in the direction that the man had taken and stumbled on over the rugged, gravelly hillocks and hollows, among the furze bushes and the birches and other small trees. But it was a hopeless pursuit. The man had vanished utterly, and from the dark heath not a sound came to give a hint as to the direction in which he had gone. There was no definite path, nor was it likely that he would have followed one; and as I ran forward, tripping over roots and sandy hummocks, the futility of the pursuit became every moment more obvious, while I felt a growing uneasiness as to the condition of the woman I had left sitting on the ground and apparently bleeding from a wound. At length I gave up the chase and began to retrace my steps, now full of anxiety lest I should be unable to find the spot where I had left her, and speculating on the possibility that the victim of the murder of which she had spoken might yet be alive and in urgent need of help.
I returned as quickly as I could, watching the direction anxiously and trying vainly to pick up landmarks. But the uneven, gorse-covered ground was a mere formless expanse intersected in all directions by indistinct tracks, confused by the numbers of birch-trees and stunted oaks, and shut in on all sides by a wall of darkness. Presently I halted with a despairing conviction that I had lost my way hopelessly, and at that moment I discerned dimly through the gloom the shape of a piece of rising ground lying away to the right. Instantly I hurried towards it, and as I climbed the slope, I thought I recognised it as the place from which I had started. A moment later, the identity of the place was confirmed beyond all doubt, for I perceived lying on the ground a shawl or scarf which I now remembered to have seen lying near the woman as she sat with her hand pressed to her side, urging me to follow her assailant.
But the woman herself had disappeared. I picked up the shawl, and throwing it over my arm, stood for a few moments, peering about me and listening intently. Not a sound could I distinguish, however, nor could I perceive any trace o
f the vanished woman. Then I noticed, a few yards away, a defined path leading towards a patch of deeper darkness that looked like a copse or plantation, and following this, I presently came upon her, standing by a fence and clinging to it for support.
'The man has got away,' said I. 'There is no sign of him. But what about you? Are you hurt much?'
'I don't think so,' she answered faintly. 'The wretch tried to stab me, but I don't think—' Here her voice faded away, as she fell forward against the fence and seemed about to collapse. I caught her, and lifting her bodily, carried her along the path, which appeared to lead to a house. Presently I came to an open gate, and entering the enclosed grounds, saw before me an old-fashioned house, the door of which stood ajar, showing a faint light from within. As I approached the door, a telephone bell rang and a woman's voice, harsh and terrified, smote my ear:
'Are you there? This is Rowan Lodge. Send to the police immediately! Mr. Drayton has been robbed and murdered! Yes, Mr. Drayton. He is lying dead in his room. I am his housekeeper. Send the police and a doctor!'
At this moment I pushed open the door and entered; and at my appearance, with the insensible woman in my arms, the housekeeper shrieked aloud, and dropping the receiver, started back with a gesture of wild terror.
'My God!' she exclaimed, 'What is this? Not another!'
'I hope not,' I replied, not, however, without misgivings. 'This lady tried to hold the man as he was escaping and the villain stabbed her. Where can I lay her down?'
The whimpering housekeeper flung open a door, and snatching a match-box from the hall table, struck a match and preceded me into a room where, by the light of the match that flickered in her shaking hand, I made out a sofa and laid my burden on it, rolling up the shawl and placing it under her head. Then the housekeeper lit the gas and came and stood by the sofa, wringing her hands and gazing down with horrified pity at the corpse-like figure.
'Poor dear!' she sobbed. 'Such a pretty creature, too, and quite a lady! God help us! What can we do for her? She may be bleeding to death!'
The same thought was in my mind, and the same question, but as I answered that we could do nothing until the doctor arrived, the woman—or rather girl, for she was not more than twenty-six—opened her eyes and asked in a faint voice: 'Is Mr. Drayton dead?'
The housekeeper sobbed an indistinct affirmative and then added:
'But try not to think about it, my dear. Just keep yourself quite quiet until the doctor comes.'
'Are you sure he is dead?' I asked in a low voice.
'I wish I were not,' she sobbed. Then, with an earnest look at the young lady—who seemed now to be reviving somewhat—she added:
'Come with me and see; and do you lie quite still until I come back, my dear.'
With this she led me out of the room, and turning from the hall into a short corridor, passed quickly along it and stopped at a door. 'He is in there,' she said in a shaky voice that was half a sob. She opened the door softly, peered in, and then, with a shuddering cry, turned and ran back to the room that we had just left.
When she had gone I entered the room half-reluctantly, for the atmosphere of tragedy and horror was affecting me most profoundly. It was a smallish room, almost unfurnished save for a range of cabinets such as insect collectors use; and opposite one of these a man lay motionless on the floor, looking, with his set, marble-white face and fixed, staring eyes, like some horrible waxwork figure. I stooped over him to see if there were any sign of life. But even to a layman's eye the fixity, the utter immobility was unmistakable. The man was dead beyond all doubt. I listened with my ear at his mouth and laid my finger on the chilly wrist. But the first glance had told me all. The man was dead.
As I stood up, still with my eyes riveted on the face, set in that ghastly stare, I became conscious of a certain dim sense of recognition. It was a strong, resolute face, and even in death, the fixed expression spoke rather of anger than of fear. Where had I seen that face? And then in a flash I recalled the name that the housekeeper had called through the telephone—Mr. Drayton. Of course. This was the brother of my neighbour in the Temple, Sir Lawrence Drayton, the famous Chancery lawyer. He had spoken to me of a brother who lived at Hampstead, and there could be no doubt that this was he. The likeness was unmistakable.
But, as I realised this, I realised also the certainty that this crime would become my professional concern. Sir Lawrence would undoubtedly put the case in the hands of my friend John Thorndyke—the highest medico-legal authority and the greatest criminal lawyer of our time—and my association with Thorndyke would make me a party to the investigation. And that being so, it behoved me to gather what data I could before the police arrived and took possession.
The mechanism of the crime was obvious enough, though there were one or two mysterious features. Of the cabinet opposite which the body lay, one drawer was pulled out, and its loose glass cover had been removed and lay shattered on the floor beside the corpse. The contents of this drawer explained the motive of the crime, for they consisted of specimens of jewellery, all more or less antique, and many of them quite simple and rustic in character, but still jewels. A number had evidently been taken, to judge by the empty trays, but the greater part of the contents of the drawer remained intact.
The rifled drawer was the second from the top. Having turned up the gas and lit a second burner, I drew out the top drawer. The contents of this were untouched, though the drawer appeared to have been opened, for the cover-glass was marked by a number of rather conspicuous fingerprints. Of course these were not necessarily the prints of the robber's fingers, but they probably were, for their extreme distinctness suggested a dirty and sweaty hand such as would naturally appertain to a professional thief in a state of some bodily fear. Moreover the reason why this drawer should have been passed over was quite obvious. Its contents were of no intrinsic value, consisting chiefly of Buckinghamshire lace bobbins with carved inscriptions and similar simple objects.
I next drew out the third drawer, which I found quite untouched, and the absence of any fingerprints on the cover-glass confirmed the probable identity of those on the glass of the top drawer. By way of further settling this question, I picked up the fragments of the broken glass and looked them over carefully; and when I found several of them marked with similar distinct fingerprints, the probability that they were those of the murderer became so great as nearly to amount to certainty.
I did not suppose that these fingerprints would be of much interest to Thorndyke. They were rather the concern of the police and the Habitual Criminals Registry. But still I knew that if he had been in my place he would have secured specimens, on the chance of their being of use hereafter, and I could do no less than take the opportunity that offered. Looking over the broken fragments again, I selected two pieces, each about four inches square, both of which bore several fingerprints. I placed them carefully face to face in a large envelope from my pocket, having first wrapped their corners in paper to prevent the surfaces from touching.
I had just bestowed the envelope in my letter-case and slipped the latter into my pocket when I heard a man's voice in the hall. I opened the door, and walking along the corridor, found a police inspector and a sergeant in earnest conversation with the housekeeper, while an elderly man, whom I judged to be the doctor, stood behind, listening attentively.
'Well,' said the inspector 'we'd better see to the lady. Will you have a look at her, doctor, and when you've attended to her, perhaps you will let us know whether she is in a fit state to answer questions. But you might just take a look at the body first.' Here he observed me and inquired: 'Let me see, who is this gentleman?'
I explained briefly my connection with the case as we walked down the corridor, and the inspector made no comment at the moment. We all entered the room, and the doctor stooped over the body and made a rapid inspection.
'Yes,' he said, rising and shaking his head, 'there's no doubt that he is dead, poor fellow. A shocking affair. But I had better go and
see to this poor lady before I make any detailed examination.'
With this he bustled away, and the inspector and the sergeant knelt down beside the corpse but refrained from touching it.
'Knife wound, apparently,' said the inspector, nodding gloomily at a small pool of blood that appeared between the outstretched right arm and the side. 'Seems to have been a left-handed man, too, unless he struck from behind, which he pretty evidently did not.' He stood up, and once more looking at me, somewhat inquisitively, said: 'I had better have your name and address, sir.'
'My name is Anstey—Robert Anstey, KC, and my address is 8A Kings Bench Walk, Inner Temple.'
'Oh, I know you, sir,' said the inspector with a sudden change of manner. 'You are Dr. Thorndyke's leading counsel. Well, well. What an odd thing that you should happen to come upon this affair by mere chance. It's quite in your own line.'
'I don't know about that,' said I. 'It looks to me rather more in yours. If they have got these fingerprints in the files at Scotland Yard you won't have much trouble in finding your man or getting a conviction.'
As I spoke, I drew his attention to the fingerprints on the broken glass, saying nothing, however, about those on the upper drawer.
The two officers examined the incriminating marks with deep interest, and the inspector proceeded carefully and skilfully to pack several of the fragments for subsequent examination, remarking, as he laid them tenderly on the top of a cabinet: 'This looks like a regular windfall, but it's almost too good to be true. The professional crook, nowadays, knows too much to go dabbing his trade-marks about in this fashion. These prints and the knife rather suggest a casual or amateur of some kind. The fellow not only didn't wear gloves, he didn't even trouble to wipe his hands. And they wanted wiping pretty badly. Are all these cabinets full of jewellery?'
'I really don't know what they contain, but they are pretty insecure if their contents are valuable.'
Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 3 Page 1