The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  He took up the beaker containing the solution of the disintegrated chocolate, and poured very slowly, drop by drop, about a teaspoonful into the funnel of the bottle. Then, after having given it time to mix thoroughly with the other contents, he once more picked up the tile and held it for an instant in the flame. The result was, to me, most striking. In the very moment when the tile touched the flame, there appeared on the white surface a circular spot, black, lustrous, and metallic.

  “That,” said Thorndyke, “might be either antimony or arsenic. By its appearance it is obviously metallic arsenic, but still we will make the differential test. If it is arsenic it will dissolve in a solution of chlorinated lime; if it is antimony it will not.” He removed the stopper from a bottle labelled “Chlorinated Lime,” and poured a little pool of the solution on the tile. Almost immediately the black spot began to fade at the edges, and to grow smaller and fainter until at length it disappeared altogether.

  “That completes our inquiry,” said Thorndyke as he laid down the tile. “For the purposes of evidence in a court of law, a more searching and detailed analysis would be necessary. To produce conviction in the minds of a jury we should have to be able to say exactly how much arsenic was in each of the sweets. That, however, is no concern of ours. The criminal intention is all that matters to us. And now, Anstey, I must leave you for a while to entertain yourself with a book. I have to do some work in the office on another case. But we will take this ill-omened box down and put it in a safe place.”

  He took the box of sweets, with its original wrapper, and when we descended to the sitting-room, he closed it up, sealed it, and signed and dated it; and having made a note of the particulars of the postmark, deposited it in the safe. Then he retired to the office, where I assumed that he had in hand some work of compilation or reference, for the “office” was in fact rather a miniature law library, in which was stored a singularly complete collection of works bearing upon our special branch of legal practice.

  When he had gone, I ran my eye vaguely along the book-shelves in search of a likely volume with which to pass the time. But the box of poisoned sweets haunted me and refused to be ejected from my thoughts. Eventually I brought out Miss Blake’s manuscript from the drawer in which I had put it when Miller had arrived, and drawing an easy-chair up to the fire, sat listlessly glancing over the well-remembered pages, but actually thinking of the writer; of the brave, sweet-faced girl and the fine, manly boy to whom she was at once sister and mother. What, I wondered uncomfortably, was to be the end of this? Only by the merest hairbreadth had she and the boy, this very night, escaped a dreadful death. Soon the wretches who had contrived this diabolical crime would discover that their plot had miscarried in some way. What would they do next? It was hardly likely that they would try poison again, but there are plenty of other ways of committing murder. It was all very well to say that they were fools. So they might be. But they were unknown fools. That was the trouble. They could make their preparations unwatched, and approach unsuspected within striking distance. If your enemy is unknown it is almost impossible to be on your guard against him. In one direction only safety lay—in detection. In the moment when the identity of the criminals should become known, the danger would be at an end.

  But when would that moment arrive? So far as the position was known to me, it was not even in sight. The police admitted that their clue had broken off short and apparently they had no other; at least that was Thorndyke’s opinion. But what of Thorndyke himself? Had he any clue? My feeling was that he had not. It seemed impossible that he could have, for these two men had, as it were, dropped down out of the sky and then vanished into space. No one knew who they were, whence they had come, or whither they had gone. And they seemed to have left not a trace for the imagination to work on.

  On the other hand, Thorndyke was Thorndyke; an inscrutable man; silent, self-contained, and even secretive, in spite of his genial exterior. I thought of him, at this very moment, sitting calmly in the office with all his faculties quietly transferred to a fresh case, unmoved by the thrilling events of the evening, though it was he who had instantly seen the danger, he who had immediately suspected the “Greek Gift.” And as I thought of him poring over his reports, and marvelled at his detachment, I recalled the many instances of his wonderful power of inference from almost invisible data, and found myself hoping that even now, when to me all seemed dark, some glimmer of light was visible to him.

  It had turned half-past eleven when I heard a light but deliberate step ascending the stair. Instantly I stole on tiptoe to the office, and had just opened the door when a tapping-apparently with the handle of a stick or umbrella—on our “oak” announced the arrival of a visitor.

  “Shall I open the door, Thorndyke?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he answered. “It is Brodribb. I know his knock. Tell him I shall have finished in a few minutes. And you might run up and tell Polton that he is here. He will know what to do.”

  I accordingly went out and threw open the “oak,” and there, sure enough, was Mr. Brodribb, looking with his fine, rich complexion, his silky white hair, and his sumptuous, old-fashioned raiment, as if he had stepped out of the frame of some Georgian portrait.

  “Good evening, Anstey,” said he, “might even say ‘good night.’ It’s a devil of a time to come stirring you up, but I saw a light in your windows, and I rather particularly wanted to have a word or two with Thorndyke. Is he in?”

  “Yes. He is in the office surrounded by a sort of landslide of reports—assizes, Central Criminal, and various assorted. He will have finished in a few minutes. Meanwhile I will run up and let Polton know you are here.”

  At the mention of Polton’s name methought his bright blue eye grew brighter, and by the way in which he murmured “Ha!” and smiled as he subsided into an armchair, I judged that—as our American cousins would say—he “had been there before;” and this impression was confirmed when I made my announcement in the laboratory, where I found Polton dancing his pedometer up and down and listening ecstatically to its measured tick.

  “Mr. Brodribb,” said he. “Let me see, it is the sixty-three that he likes. Yes; and Lord, he does like it! It’s a pleasure to see him drink it!”

  “Well, Polton,” said I, “it is an altruistic pleasure, and if it would add to your enjoyment to see me drink some, too, I am prepared to make an effort.”

  “You couldn’t do it as Mr. Brodribb does,” said Polton, “and you haven’t got the complexion. Still—I’ll bring it down in a minute or two, when I’ve got it filtered into the decanter.”

  On this I descended and rejoined Mr. Brodribb, and having offered him a cigar, which he declined—no doubt with a view to preserving his gustatory sense unimpaired—sat down and filled my pipe.

  “I looked in,” said Mr. Brodribb, “on my way home to ask Thorndyke a question. I met Drayton today—only saw him for a few moments—and he said something about wanting some information respecting Arthur Blake of Beauchamp Blake. I understood him to say that the matter arose out of the inquest on his brother; can’t see how the devil it could, but that is what I gathered. Now, before I tell him anything, I should like to know what’s in the wind. What’s he after? Do you happen to know?”

  “I think I do, to some extent,” said I, and I gave him a brief account of the circumstances and a summary of Miss Blake’s evidence.

  “I see,” said he. “Then this young lady will be Peter Blake’s daughter. But what does Drayton want to know? And why does he want to know it? He said something about Thorndyke, too. Now, where does Thorndyke come in?”

  As if in answer to the question, my colleague emerged at this moment from the office, slipping a large notebook into his pocket. As he greeted our visitor, I found myself speculating on the contents of that notebook and wondering what kind of information he had been disinterring from those piles of arid-looking reports of assizes, quarter-sessions, and the Central Criminal Court. The greetings were hardly finished when Polton ente
red with a tray on which were a decanter, three glasses, and a biscuit jar; and having placed a small table adjacent to Mr. Brodribb’s chair, deposited the tray thereon with a crinkly smile of satisfaction, and departed after an instantaneous glance of profound significance in my direction.

  Thorndyke filled the three glasses, and drawing a chair nearer to the fire, sat down and began to fill his pipe; while Brodribb lifted his glass, looked at it reflectively, took an experimental sip, savoured it with grave attention, and again looked at the glass.

  “A noble wine, Thorndyke,” he pronounced solemnly. “I don’t deserve this after coming and routing you out at close upon midnight. But I haven’t come for mere gossip. I’ve just been putting my case to Anstey,” and here he repeated what he had told me of his interview with Sir Lawrence. “Now, what I want to know,” he concluded, “is, what is Drayton after? He seems disposed to interest himself in Peter Blake’s daughter—and his son, too, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and for that matter, I may say that I feel a benevolent interest in the young people myself, and so, I think, does Anstey.”

  “Then,” said Brodribb, “I’m going to ask you a plain question. Is there any idea of contesting the title of the present tenant of the Blake property—Arthur Blake?”

  “I should say certainly not,” replied Thorndyke. “Drayton’s object is, I think, to ascertain whether there is any prospect of circumstances becoming favourable in the future for the revival of Peter Blake’s claim—or rather Percival Blake’s, as it would now be. He wants to know who the present heir is, what is his relation to the present tenant, and he would like to know as much as possible about Arthur Blake himself, particularly in regard to the probability of his marrying. And, as I said, Anstey and I are not uninterested in the matter.”

  “Well, if that is all,” said Brodribb, “I can answer you without any breach of confidence to my client. As to the heir, his name is Charles Templeton, but what his relationship to Arthur Blake is, I can’t say at the moment. He is a pretty distant relative, I know. With regard to Arthur Blake, I can tell you all about him, for I have made some inquiries on my own account. And I can tell you something that will interest you more than the probability of his marrying—he is trying to sell the property.”

  “The deuce he is!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “I suppose I mustn’t ask why he wants to sell?”

  “I don’t know that there is any secret about it. His own explanation is that he doesn’t care for England and would like to get back to Australia, where he has lived nearly all his life; and I daresay there is some truth in that, for he is like a fish out of water—doesn’t understand the ways of an English landowner at all. But I don’t think that’s the whole of it. He knows about this claim of Peter Blake’s, and he knows that Peter Blake’s son is living; and then—you know about the title-deeds, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke. “Miss Blake has told us the whole story.”

  “Well, I suspect that, with this claim in the air and the mystery of the whereabouts of the title-deeds, he feels that his tenure of the property is a little insecure. So he would like to sell it and clear off with the money. And, mind you, he is not entirely wrong. Peter Blake’s claim was a bona fide claim. It broke down from the lack of documentary evidence. But it is always possible for documents to reappear, and if these documents ever should, the position would be very different. And, to tell the honest truth, I shouldn’t be particularly afflicted if they did reappear.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I asked.

  “Well,” Brodribb replied, “you know, one gets a sort of sentimental interest in a historic estate which one has known all one’s life. I am Arthur Blake’s solicitor, it is true. But I feel that I have responsibilities towards the whole family and the estate itself. I have much more sentiment about the old house and its lands than Blake himself has. I hate the idea of selling an old place like that, which has been in one family since the time of Henry the Eighth, as if it were a mere speculative builder’s estate. Besides, it isn’t playing the game. An inherited estate belongs to the family, and a man who has received it from his ancestors has no right to dispossess his posterity. I told him so, and he didn’t like it a bit.”

  “What sort of man is he?” I asked.

  “He’s a colonial, and not a good type of colonial. Gruff and short and none too well-mannered, and, of course, he doesn’t know anybody in the county. And I should think he is a confirmed bachelor, for he lives—when he is at home—in the new part of the house, with three servants and his man, as if he were in a bachelor flat.”

  “How did you manage to dig him up?” Thorndyke asked.

  “I began to make inquiries as soon as it was certain that he would be Arnold Blake’s successor. That was years ago. I ascertained his whereabouts and got into touch with him pretty easily, but I really never knew much about him until a few weeks back, when I came across a man who had just retired from the Australian Police. He knew all about Blake, so I took the opportunity to get a pretty full history of him and make out a little dossier to keep by me. You never know when a trifle of information may come in useful.”

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed as he refilled our visitor’s glass. “Knowledge is power.”

  “Quite so,” said Brodribb, “and it is well to know whom you are dealing with. But, in fact, this fellow Blake is quite an interesting character.”

  “So the police seem to have thought,” I remarked.

  “Oh, I don’t think there was anything against Blake,” said he, “excepting that he kept rather queer company at times. My friend first heard of him at a mining camp, where the society was not exactly select, and where he ran a saloon or liquor bar. But he gave that up and took to digging, and he seems to have had quite good luck for a time. Then his claim petered out and he moved off to a new district and started a sawmill with some of his mining pals. There, I think, some of his partners had trouble with the police—I don’t know exactly what it was, but he moved off again and rambled about doing all sorts of odd jobs—boat-building, farming, working as deck hand on a coaster, carpentering—he seems to have been able to turn his hand to anything—and finally he came across his last partner, a man named Owen, a fellow of his own type, who seemed to be able to do anything but stick to one kind of job. Owen was a colonial—he was born at Hobart—and by trade he was a photo-engraver, but he had worked a small type-foundry, run a local newspaper, and done some other jobs that weren’t quite so respectable. Blake ran across him at a new town in a mining district, and the circumstances were characteristic of the two men. Owen had started a pottery, but he had just met with an accident and broken his knee-cap. Thereupon Blake took him in hand and fixed his knee-cap up in splints, and as it happened to be the left knee, so that Owen would not be able to work the potter’s wheel for a long time, Blake took over the job, worked the wheel, and turned out the pots and pans, while a woman who was associated with Owen—I don’t know what their relations were—helped with the kiln and sold the stuff in the town.”

  “Why can’t you work a potter’s wheel with your right foot?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Brodribb, “but I understand that you can’t.”

  “In an ordinary ‘kick-wheel,’” said Thorndyke, “the ‘kick-bar,’ or treadle, is on the left side, and has to be if the potter is right-handed, to enable him to steady himself with the right foot.”

  “I see,” said I. “And how long did the pottery last?”

  “Not long,” replied Brodribb. “When Owen got about again, as he couldn’t work the wheel, it seems that he got restless and began to hanker for something fresh. Then Blake got a tip from some prospector about some traces of gold in the hills in an outlying district, so they sold the pottery and the three of them went off prospecting; and I think they were engaged in some tentative digging when Blake got my letter telling him that Arnold Blake was dead and that he had come into the property. A deuce of a time he was, too, in getting that letter, f
or, of course, there was no post out there and they only rode into the town at long intervals.”

  “And now,” said Thorndyke, “he wants to sell the property and get back to his cronies. I should think they would be very glad to see him.”

  “I don’t know that he wants to join his pals again,” said Brodribb. “As a man of property, I should think he would keep clear of people of that sort. But in any case, he couldn’t. Owen is dead. He must have died soon after Blake left; must have met with an accident when he was alone, for his body was found only a few months ago at the foot of a cliff-just a heap of more or less damaged bones that must have been lying there for several years. The skeleton was found by the merest chance by another prospector.”

  “How did he know it was Owen’s body?” I asked.

  “Well, he knew that Owen had been there and had not been seen for a long time, and he found a signet-ring—a rough affair that Owen had made himself and engraved with a representation of a yew-tree. That was recognised as his.”

  “Why a yew-tree?” I asked.

  “That was his private mark, a sort of rebus or pun on his Christian name, Hugh.”

  “But how was it,” Thorndyke asked, “that the woman hadn’t reported his death?”

  “Oh, she had left him quite soon after Blake’s departure. The police had an idea that she had gone off with Owen to the South Sea Islands on one of the schooners. At any rate, she disappeared, and they weren’t sorry to see the last of her. She was a shady character—and so, apparently, was Owen, for that matter.”

  “What was there against her?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t know that there was anything very definite, though there may have been. But she turned up rather mysteriously at Melbourne on a Russian tramp steamer, and the police surmised that she had left her country for her country’s good and her own. So they entered her name—Laura Levinsky—on their books and kept an eye on her until she went. But, God bless me, what a damned old chatterbox I am! Here am I babbling away at past midnight, and giving you a lot of gossip that is no more your business than it is mine.”