by David Case
For obvious reasons, I do not wish these valuable objects to leave my possession, nor do my present affairs enable me to bring them to you. Therefore it is my hope, when and if it proves convenient, that you may find the time to come to me.
Trusting you are well, sir, and awaiting your reply, I have the honor to be,
Your obedient servant,
Lucian Mallory
I arranged another log on the fire and scanned the message again. I read it several times. The letter seemed deliberately vague, and had I not known Mallory, I’d have assumed it a hoax or a mistake; possibly the work of a tourist who, duped into the purchase of a shard of pottery at a stall in Cairo, now hoped for a free evaluation of some worthless article fresh from the potter’s wheel.
But Mallory, although certainly an amateur, was no common tourist.
At the very least I knew that he had been in the desert, and although he’d never made it clear what he hoped to discover, he had pursued his investigations with personal effort and despite inconvenience. Mallory’s ideas, what little I knew of them, seemed misguided. That did not however preclude his discovering valuable results, as it were, by a tangent. It didn’t matter at all what he was looking for. It was what he had found that was important. And it seemed just possible he’d made a discovery which, although probably unrelated to his theories, was nonetheless of interest. It was not a chance I wished to pass up. A man looking for a pink unicorn may find a rare mountain ox; his motivation does not diminish his findings. Thus, wondering where Farriers Bar was located and whether the museum could be persuaded to cover my expenses, I prepared to visit Lucian Mallory.
2
Burdened by the weight of my solitary suitcase, I stood alone on the wooden platform and watched the train which had carried me from London jolt into motion, inertia surging through the couplings. It was dark now. The platform was abandoned to isolation and to dust. I carried my suitcase into the station, a drab room with official green paint unpeeling on the benches. The interior, too, was deserted but for one official-looking fellow at the counter. He resembled a parrot in a Victorian cage. A sign proclaimed this Farriers Bar, and an electric clock hummed on the wall beside discolored schedules and a poster advertising a flower show. Apparently Mallory hadn’t summoned the courtesy to attend my arrival. It seemed only common decency, after I’d made the journey at his request, and I felt a momentary annoyance. It faded quickly, however. I hadn’t really expected the ritual of courtesy from Mallory; one rather expected the unexpected. He was not a man who clung to the traditional social formulas except as it pleased him or perhaps shocked others. I thought of the white linen and silver in the wilderness in relation to the Arabian robes and belly dancers in Cairo. Too, he must have known I’d be eager to examine his discovery, and perhaps he believed he was extending me a favor. He might well be. I was certainly curious and intrigued by his letter and, truth be known, by the man himself.
I shifted the suitcase to my left hand and approached the ticket seller and/or stationmaster. He looked up over rimless spectacles through the gilt bars.
“I wonder if you might help me?”
“Might.”
“Would you know where Lucian Mallory lives?”
“Mallory? Mallory?”
I recited the return address on his letter.
“Oh, The Croft. Of course. That’ll be old Peter Hammond’s house. Been empty for years. Old Peter, he died some six or seven years ago, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” I admitted, for the sake of propriety.
“Well, it’s a fact. Died. ’Course, he was old. Come to think of it, I’d heard someone moved in there. Mallory, you say? Don’t know how he’ll ever heat that place, come winter.”
“Where is the house?”
“It’ll be two, maybe three miles west of town.”
“I’d expected to be met. I don’t suppose there’s a taxi here?”
“Not here at the station. Might be one about in the village. Probably not at this hour. There’s an inn there, leastwise, and you can get a cab come morning.”
“I see.”
“Only a brisk walk to the village. If you’re a brisk walker, that is. You just follow the path along over the bridge.” He paused and squinted. “Maybe you’ll not want to be walking, what with the madman prowling about?”
“Madman?”
“You’ve not heard?”
I shook my head.
“We’ve had us a horrible murder. Horrible. Murder most foul.” He sounded like a parrot that has been taught headlines from Victorian newspapers. He obviously was delighted over the atrocity. “In all the papers it was. Not just the local paper but The Times and all. Couldn’t have been in the local paper, come to think of it. That doesn’t come out until the Friday, you see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t read the papers often.”
“That so? Well now, I thought you’d be working for one of them. That just goes to show how mistaken a man can be, eh?” He peered at me suspiciously, as if thinking I were not above deceit.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Deduction. We don’t get many gentlemen stopping at Farriers Bar, so the minute I saw you I deduced you were either from Scotland Yard or Fleet Street. That narrowed the choice down, you see? Then I saw you didn’t look like a policeman, so I figured you must be a newspaper fella. It’s simple elimination.” He looked smug. Then he frowned. “But you say you aren’t a newspaperman, eh? You aren’t a policeman?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“There you are again. Just goes to show how a man can be mistaken in his deductions.”
“It certainly does.”
“Well, you just follow the path over the bridge, and you’ll be in the village in no time at all. The Red Lion is the inn you’ll want. Decent place. You’ll be there before you know it. Maybe—” he glanced sharply at me, obviously annoyed that I wasn’t a newspaperman. “Maybe, who knows?—you’ll even be there before the madman finds out that you’re walking about all alone.” He considered this and nodded. “Yes, I think there’s a fair chance you’ll get to the inn before the horrible madman gets to you.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
“Not that I’m recommending it, you understand. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“You’ve done all you can.”
“Right you are.”
I smiled and headed for the door. I could feel his eyes at my back. He still was undecided whether I might be a newspaperman, but his doubts were understandable. No man likes to have his logic proved false.
In the distance a train was running along the darkened landscape. I wondered if it was the same train that had brought me, but with the land obscure and the perspective uncertain, I couldn’t tell. It was evocative, a train in the night with yellow windows and passengers peering out. For them, the land was receding and they were stationary; their destinations closed on them and they had only to wait, while their lives were guided as carefully through time as the train was guided through space. The points of human affairs are predetermined; we make our flawed decisions to no avail, for the manifold tracks of life stretch to but one terminal. A man can be distressed by this certainty, or he can be consoled.
That is our only choice.
More immediately, I had no choice.
Morning would be time enough to call on Mallory, and I began walking toward the village. A few mellow lights were visible ahead, and I could imagine the rustic and unspoiled appearance of Farriers Bar, a hamlet disdained by time. I was not opposed to such a life, although time plays an integral part in my vocation, and thought I understood why Mallory would live in a provincial region. I recalled his desire to experience the past, not in retrospect, but as it had been; as if it were the present.
The path ran straight between hedgerows, then rose and humped its back i
nto a wooden arch across a stream. As I approached this bridge I noticed a figure leaning against the railing. At regular intervals a pipe flared in his mouth, carving a slice of illumination along his face. My approach was soundless on the path, and the man failed to notice me until my first hollow footfall fell on the wooden bridge. Then he sprang abruptly away from the rail, turning to confront me. The pipe dropped from his open mouth and bounced, scattering sparks. His startled move, so unexpected, caused me to react in a similar manner. I stumbled back a step, and we surveyed each other rather stupidly. I saw he was an old man, obviously frightened.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Lord, sir, I thought you was the monster.”
I blinked. It was bad enough to be mistaken for a newspaperman. The old man was bending over, looking for his pipe. I saw it balanced on the edge of the bridge and retrieved it for him. He nodded his thanks and peered into the blackened bowl. It had gone out, but a few shreds of tobacco remained. He struck a match and sucked noisily until the pipe was burning to his satisfaction.
“Monster?” I said.
“I meant no offense, sir. It was the way you’d come upon me so suddenlike. I hadn’t a good look at you in the dark. I didn’t mean to imply you had the aspect of a monster, no sir. But you’ve not half given me a fright.” He shook his head wryly. “It’s bad enough having to keep on the hop when the constable’s about, without having a monster to add to a man’s troubles.”
“Do you mean, this madman?”
“However it may be. Monster, to my way of thinking.”
He nodded, his pipe inclining, to enforce his words. I wondered just what connotation the word “monster” had to this rustic fellow, and inquired, “What sort of monster?”
“Why, a proper monster, sir. You know.”
“What makes you think that?”
He drew his aging body proudly erect and removed the pipe from his mouth before he replied. Then he said, “I found the body, sir.”
I searched his face for a hint of amusement, knowing that these country chaps are not above a jest at a stranger’s expense. He seemed absolutely serious. He said, “A gentleman he was, too, sir. Not the monster. The victim. It was plain he was a gentleman by his clothing, you see. What was left of his clothing. It was a terrible thing. The poor gentleman’s arm was fair tore off, and his head was sort of flattened and unshaped. It gave a man a shock, I don’t mind telling you, finding him like that.”
He paused, as if waiting a request to continue. I must confess to interest in his tale and suppose most men are drawn to the sensational.
“How did you come to find the body?”
He looked at me openly and slyly at the same time, a not inconsiderable feat.
“I don’t expect you’d be a policeman?” he asked.
“Neither monster nor minion of the law.”
He chuckled.
“That’s good, that is,” he said. “I can see you’ve a way with words. I’ve been told I could use the King’s English myself, although I’ve not had education. But you’d be interested in my story, would you?”
“I would.”
“Well, sir, my name is Melville Coots, and I’m what is known as a poacher. That is a man what poaches. Now that is considered by the authorities to be contrary to the law of the land, but I don’t hold with that. Wouldn’t do it, if I did. For after all, we must have laws. But I just take a rabbit now and again. For the stewpot, you know. No harm in that. A man is entitled to get a crust however he can these days, what with taxes and government and immigrants and suchlike. My pension wouldn’t hardly keep me in tobacco—”
Saying this, he looked into his pipe, then tapped the bowl against his hand. I offered him my tobacco pouch, and he filled his pipe carefully, thumbing each layer down and stuffing in a considerable quantity. Then he leveled the top and lighted it again.
“Ah, that’s good, that is,” he said, his leathery old face wreathed in smoke. “Let’s see now. Ah, yes. It was just the other night—I has to poach at night, see, so I don’t have the misfortune to be apprehended by Constable Chive, who is constantly on the lookout during the day.” The aged man’s eyes assumed an attitude of fleeting indignation, but then he entered his narrative in earnest. “The other night I was setting my snares in the woodlands west of the village. It was a fine night with a bright moon so that the leaves were all silvery and the shadows like black cobwebs. I’d come into a little glade that looked fine for my purpose, as the rabbits are wont to romp in such places. I bent down to fix my snare. Suddenly, some instinct made me look up. And there he were, not three feet away from me, leaning against a tree. I didn’t realize it were a dead man, at first. I stared at him, and he stared right back at me with one open eye. The other eye was all squished in. Well, when I saw this, I had my first inkling that all was not right. But I still didn’t see that he was dead. I began to tremble. Then I got myself together and showed my electric torch on his face. Just as I did, as if the light itself had caused it, his mouth dropped open. Lord! It’s a wonder I didn’t have a stroke. I have never known a mouth to open so wide. It dropped right down so that his jaw rested on his breastbone, like he was planning to take a great bite out of my torchlight.”
The old man shuddered slightly, as if reexperiencing the encounter, but then continued: “Well, I guess I ran then. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Don’t really remember it, neither, except the next thing I knew I was some distance away, leaning against a tree and shaking. I still had the torch in my hand, and I was shaking so much that the whole woods was shimmering. Finally I calmed down somewhat. It came to me then that the poor gentleman meant me no harm and that, in fact, he was no longer living. Death, now, is a different matter. A man can’t be scared of death, as it is the proper end of all things, except of course his own death which a man is entitled to be scared of, proper or not. So I told myself I was obliged to go back, and I did, sort of sneaking through the trees.
“I didn’t go so close this time, but showed the torch on him from a distance. This gave me a more orderly advantage than I’d had with his mouth open right before my nose, and I could plainly see he was dead. His arm was hanging by a few tendons from his shoulder, and there was plenty of dried blood on him and on the ground. His jaw was broken—that’s why it had opened so wide, you see, the hinges were cracked. I didn’t go no closer. I took stock of the situation and figured I had to do my duty. Killing people isn’t on the same order as poaching, and the laws against homicide are laws which I hold with. Venerable laws. And it was plain that someone had done for this poor gentleman, as his injuries were such as could not readily be caused by misadventure or accident. So it was clearly my duty to inform Constable Chive of this body in the woods. First though, being acquainted with Chive, I had to gather up the snares I’d already set and secret them. I didn’t like to do that, but it isn’t always convenient to do one’s duty, so I did. I hid them in a little spot I know, the location of which I won’t mention. Then I hurried into the village and sought out the constable.”
Coots snorted.
“Lot of good it did me,” he said.
“He didn’t believe you?”
“Oh, I’m known as a man of my word, he believed me all right—once he allowed me to tell my tale. But at first he kept interrupting me. Wanted to know what I was about in the woodlands at that hour, you see. Asked all sorts of questions inferring I’d no business to be there. It was plain that he was more concerned with collaring me for poaching than seeking clues to a genuine crime.” Coots shook his head in long-suffering resignation. “That’s the way of policemen. They have an unfortunate habit of mistaking law for justice and spend more time intimidating honest citizens than deducing the nature of crimes. Ah, well.
“Finally I got through to him. He got all excited then. Never had a genuine murder to solve, old Chive. You could just see his face light up with
thoughts of forensic glory and promotion. The Sherlock Holmes of Farriers Bar, that’s what he was thinking. He had me take him out to the woods to see for himself, and it was a different matter then. Old Chive never saw such a thing in his life. Saw a handful of mangled corpses, I suppose, what with motorcar smashes and the like, but never a gory murder victim. Mind, I never saw such a thing before, neither. But it was different for me, being just a citizen. Chive had his duty to do. Just the sight of that corpse was enough to boil away all thoughts of glory. He sent for help straight off.”
“That was quite an experience.”
“It surely was.”
“Have they any idea who the killer is?”
Coots shrugged.
“They never let on, do they, sir?”
“I suppose not.”
“There’s talk of a madman around the village, but I hold more to the monster theory. They’ve had an inspector come down to take charge of the investigation, and he asked me plenty of questions. Inspectors aren’t the sort to trouble themselves about poachers, you see, so I didn’t mind talking to him. But he didn’t seem too keen on the monster theory. Got his own ideas. You’d think they’d show a little respect, though, seeing as how I found the body. I ought to know more about it than them, being in on the ground floor, so to speak. They just got no imagination, none of them policemen. Set in their ways. Once they catch a criminal they study him in detail, you see, and this fixes their way of thinking. The next time they’re called on to pursue a criminal, they think he’ll be just the same as the other one. That’s why they never nabbed Jack the Ripper, to my way of thinking. I reckon Jack was a monster, too.”