“I think,” said Thorndyke, “we have all enjoyed the gossip, and as to its irrelevancy, who can tell? At any rate, we gather that there is no immediate prospect of Blake’s marrying, which really does concern us.”
“No,” said Brodribb, “nor of his selling the property, though he has put it into the hands of Lee and Robey, the estate agents. But he won’t sell it. Of course there’s no magic in title-deeds, and his title is good enough, but no one would buy an important property like that with the title-deeds missing and liable to turn up in the wrong hands. And now I must really be off. You’ve squeezed me dry if you were out for information, and I’ve squeezed you dry,” he added with a complacent glance at the decanter, “and a devilish good bottle of port it was. You can pass on what I’ve told you to Drayton, and I’ll see if I can let you know what relation the heir, Charles Templeton, is to Arthur Blake. So goodnight and good luck, and my best respects to your wine merchant.”
When Brodribb had gone, I stretched myself and yawned slightly.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t feel sleepy, but I think I will turn in. One must go to bed some time.”
“I don’t feel sleepy either,” said Thorndyke, “and I shall not turn in. I think I will just jot down a few notes of what Brodribb has told us and then have another look at Miss Blake’s manuscript before handing it over to Drayton.”
“Old Brodribb enjoyed the wine, didn’t he?” I remarked. “And, by Jove, it did set his old chin wagging. But he didn’t tell us much, after all. Excepting the proposed sale, it was just mere personal gossip.”
“Yes. But the sale question is really important. We shall have to think over that. He mustn’t be allowed to sell the property.”
“Can we prevent him?” I asked.
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “from what Brodribb said, that a threat to apply for an injunction pending an investigation of the title would make him draw in his horns. But we shall see. Goodnight, if you are off.”
By the time I had undressed, washed, and turned into bed, I began to suspect that Thorndyke had taken the wiser course. And as I lay in the dark, at first quietly but then with increasing restlessness, the suspicion deepened. The disturbing—indeed, alarming—events of the evening came crowding back into my mind and grew, minute by minute, more vivid. The scene in the studio arose before me with fearful reality, and worse still, the horrible catastrophe, barely averted by Thorndyke’s watchfulness and wonderful prevision, actually seemed to befall before my eyes. The dreadful picture that Miss Blake had drawn in a few words, painted itself in my consciousness with the most frightful realism. I saw the sculptor’s wife peering into the dim and silent studio in the early morning, and heard her shriek of horror as her glance fell on the brother and sister, lying there stark and dead, and Thorndyke’s analysis in the laboratory took on a new and fearful significance. At last, after tossing in bed for over an hour, I could bear it no longer, and rose to go down to the sitting-room for a book.
As I entered the room, Thorndyke looked up from the notebook in which he was writing. “You had better have stayed up a little longer,” he remarked. “Now you are going to read yourself to sleep, I suppose.”
“Yes, I hope so,” I replied, and turned to the book-shelves to search for a work of a calm and cheerful tendency. The Compleat Angler appearing to fulfil these requirements most perfectly, I picked it out and was just about to move away when my glance lighted on the rather curious collection of objects on the table. They had made their appearance since I retired, and were presumably connected with some kind of investigation which my colleague had been pursuing while I was wooing Hypnos in vain. I looked at them curiously, and speculated on the nature of the inquiry. There was a microscope, and beside it lay the locket, opened and showing the broken glass, and a little, fat, greasy volume which examination showed to be a Latin Vulgate Bible.
I laid down the volume and glanced at Thorndyke, whom I found watching me with a faint smile. Then I peered through the microscope and perceived what looked like a thread of blue glass.
“Is this a thread of silk, Thorndyke?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “it is a hair. Apparently a woman’s hair.”
“But,” I expostulated, “it is blue—bright blue! Where on earth did you get it?”
“Out of the locket,” he replied.
I stared at him in amazement. “What an extraordinary thing!” I exclaimed. “A blue hair! I never heard of blue hair before.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “my learned friend has made an addition to his already vast store of knowledge.”
“I suppose it was dyed?” said I.
“I think,” he replied, “we may assume that the blue colour is adventitious.”
“But why, in the name of Fortune, should a woman dye her hair blue?” I demanded.
He shook his head. “A curious question that, Anstey, a very curious question. I suggest that when my learned friend has satisfied himself as to the correct method of ‘daping’ or doping with a grasshopper for the chavender or chub,’ he might with advantage bring his colossal intellect to bear on it.”
“You are an aggravating old devil, Thorndyke,” I said with conviction. “You know perfectly well what this thing means, and yet, when you are asked a civil question, you sit there wagging your exasperating old head like some confounded secretive effigy. I’d like to paint your cranium with Stephen’s blue-black ink and then put it under the microscope.”
He shook the threatened head conclusively. “It would be futile, Anstey,” he replied “As a method of producing blue hair it would be a complete failure. The effect of the tannate of iron—on exposure to oxygen—would entirely mask that of the indigo-carmine. No, my friend. Physical experiment is outside the range of a King’s Counsel. Reflection is your proper province. And now take your book and go to bed. Consider the chavender or chub and also the possible connection between a blue hair and a gold locket; shun needless and inky strenuosities, and ‘be quiet and go a-angling.’”
With this he returned to his notebook, and there being evidently nothing more to be got out of him, I picked up my book, and having shaken my fist at the impassive figure by the table, once more betook myself to bed, there to meditate fruitlessly upon this new and curious problem.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From the Jaws of Death
On the following morning it seemed natural that my steps should stray in the direction of Jacob Street, not only that I might relieve my anxiety as to my friend whom I had left overnight in so distressed a state, but also to ascertain whether any services that I could render were at the moment in request. As to the former, my mind was completely set at rest as soon as I entered the studio (to which I was conducted by Mrs. Wingrave, who opened the wicket), for I found Miss Blake hard at work and looking as cheerful and interested as if poisoned sweets and brazen-haired Jezebels were things unheard of.
I explained, half-apologetically, the purpose of my visit, and was preparing a strategic retreat when she interrupted me.
“Now, Mr. Anstey, I will not have these formalities. We aren’t strangers. You have been, and are, the best and kindest of friends to me and Percy, and we are not only grateful but we value your friendship very much indeed. As to Percy, he loves you.”
“Does he?” said I, with an inward glow of satisfaction. “I am proud to know that. And Percy’s sister—?”
She coloured very prettily and smilingly avoided the pitfall. “Percy’s sister,” she replied, “takes an indulgent view of her brother’s infatuation. But I am going to treat you as a friend. I am going on with my work, because it has to be done, even if I didn’t like doing it; but it would be very nice and companionable if you would sit down and smoke a pipe and talk to me, that is, of course, if you can spare the time.”
“If I could spare the time!” Why, the whole Appeal Court, with the House of Lords thrown in, might have sat and twiddled their thumbs for all I cared. But, in fact, I had nothing to do at all.
“Perfectly,” she answered. “I have done all the troublesome part, you see—posing and draping the model,” and she pointed with her pencil to a lay figure (it was an elaborate, “stuffed” figure with real hair and a wax face and hands), dressed in the very height of fashion, which stood, posed in what Lewis Carroll would have called an “Anglo-Saxon attitude,” simpering at us idiotically.
“That is a very magnificent costume,” I remarked. “I suppose it is one of your own? Or do you keep a wardrobe for the models?”
“It isn’t costume at all,” she replied with a laugh. “It is just dress material draped on and tacked or pinned in position. You will see if you go round to the other side.”
I went round to the “off-side,” and having thus discovered the fraud, asked: “Is this a figure for a subject picture?”
She laughed softly. “Bless your innocent heart, Mr. Anstey, I don’t paint pictures. I draw fashion-plates. I have to earn a living, you know, and give Percy a start.”
“What a horrid waste of talent!” I exclaimed. “But I had no idea that fashion-plate artists took all this trouble,” and I pointed to the smooth card on her easel which bore a masterly, though rather attenuated, nude figure—in the Anglo-Saxon attitude—lightly drawn in pencil, and looking almost like a silver point.
“Most of them don’t,” she replied, “and perhaps it isn’t really necessary. But I like to make a finished pencil drawing, though it has all to be rubbed out when the pen work has been done over it.”
“And the preliminary nude figure,” said I; “you do that from a model, I suppose?”
“No,” she answered. “I can draw a nude figure well enough for this purpose out of my head. You see, I worked from the model for a long time at the Slade School, and I never threw away a drawing. I have them all bound in books, and I have copied them and drawn them from memory over and over again. In practice, one must be able to rough out a figure out of one’s head.”
As she talked, her pencil travelled easily and lightly over the smooth fashion-plate board, gradually clothing the nude figure in transparent habiliments, and I sat smoking with infinite contentment and watching her. And a very dainty, picturesque figure she made in her long blue pinafore, with her red-gold hair and waxen skin, as she stood gracefully poised before her easel, hand on hip and the drawing arm flung out straight and swinging easily from the shoulder. I contrasted her lithe form, in which every curve was full of life and grace, with the absurd rigidity of the lay-figure, her simple, dignified garments with the fussy exuberance of the fashionable costume (though, to be sure, that costume was her own creation), and was moved to comments on the effigy that might have lacerated its feelings if it had had any.
“How long will this drawing take you?” I asked presently.
“I shall have it done by this evening,” she replied, “and tomorrow morning I shall take it to the office and deliver it to the Art editor.”
“Couldn’t I take it for you?” said I.
“I am afraid not,” she answered. “I must go myself to see that it is all right and to get instructions for the next drawings. Besides, why should you?”
“Didn’t we agree that you were to keep indoors out of harm’s way? Or at least not to go abroad without an escort? If you must take the drawing yourself, you had better let me come with you to see you safely there and back. Do you mind?”
“Of course I should like your company, Mr. Anstey,” she replied, “but it seems such a tax on you.”
“I wish all taxes were as acceptable,” said I. “But I understand that you agree; so, if you will fix a time, the escort will assemble at the gate and the bugles will sound ‘fall in’ with military punctuality.”
After a few more half-hearted protests she fixed the hour of half-past ten for the following morning, and I then took my leave, very well satisfied with the progress of this friendship that was becoming so dear to me, and even sensible of a dawning hope that a yet closer intimacy might some day become possible.
Punctually at the appointed time the Hampstead tram set me down at the end of Jacob Street, when I proceeded to collect the convoy and make sail for Bedford Street, Covent Garden, which was the abiding-place of the Art editor to whom the drawing was consigned. But if the outward voyage was characterised by business-like directness, it was quite otherwise with the homeward; which was marked by so many circumnavigations and interrupted by so many ports of call—including the National Gallery—that it was well on in the afternoon when the convoy shortened sail at sixty-three Jacob Street, and it became necessary for the escort to put into port and take in stores in the form of tea and biscuits. And even then, so satisfactory had the voyage turned out that (to pursue the metaphor to a finish) the charter-party was renewed and further voyages projected.
Expeditions abroad, however, could only be occasional, and even then on a plausible business pretext, for my fair friend was a steady worker and spent long days at her easel and drawing-desk; nor was I entirely without occupation, though Thorndyke made but the smallest demands upon my vacation leisure. In effect, not a day passed without a visit to Jacob Street, and whether my time was spent placidly watching the growth of a new drawing, in executing shopping commissions, or in escort duties, it was all equally pleasant to me, and day by day more firmly established my position as the indispensable friend of the little household.
Affairs had been on this footing for about a week when early on a certain afternoon I set forth from the Temple for my daily call, but with a more definite purpose than usual, for I bore with me the locket, in which Polton had fixed a new glass. I rang the studio bell with the customary pleasurable anticipation of the warm and evidently sincere welcome, and listened complacently to Mrs. Wingrave’s footsteps as she came along the paved passage, and as the wicket opened I prepared to step jauntily through. But the first words that the worthy lady spoke scattered in an instant all my pleasant thoughts and filled me with alarm.
“Miss Blake has just gone out,” she said. “A most sad thing has happened. Poor Master Percy has had an accident. He has broken his leg.”
“Where did this happen, and when?” I asked.
“It must have happened about an hour ago,” she replied. “I don’t know where, but they have taken him into a house near Chalk Farm.”
“Who brought the news?” I demanded breathlessly; for, seeing that Percy would be at school at the time mentioned, the story was, on the face of it, highly suspicious.
“It was a lady who brought the message,” said Mrs. Wingrave. “She wouldn’t come in, but she handed me a note, written in pencil and marked ‘urgent.’ Miss Blake showed it to me. It didn’t give any particulars beyond what I have told you, and the address of the house.”
“What was the lady like?” I asked.
“Well,” Mrs. Wingrave replied, “I call her a lady, but she was really rather a common-looking woman; painted and powdered and very vulgarly dressed.”
“Did you notice her hair?”
“Yes; you couldn’t help noticing it. Brassy-looking, golden stuff, frizzed out like a mop—and her eyebrows were as black as mine are.”
“Do you know where the note is?” I asked.
“I expect Miss Blake took it with her, but she may have left it in the studio. Shall we go and see?”
We hurried together across the yard and into the studio, where for a minute or so we searched the tables and the unfastened bureau. But there was no sign of the note.
“She must have taken it with her,” said Mrs. Wingrave. “But I think I can give you the address, if that is what you want. You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you?”
“I am extremely uneasy, Mrs. Wingrave,” said I, producing my notebook and a pencil, “and I shall go straight to the house, if I can find it. What is the address? For Heaven’s sake don’t give me a wrong one!”
“I remember it quite clearly,” she replied, “and
I think I know the place. It is number twenty-nine Scoresby Terrace, a corner house; and the terrace turns out of Sackett’s Road on the left side going up from here.”
I wrote this down in my notebook and then asked: “How long has Miss Blake been gone?”
“She started less than ten minutes before you came,” was the reply. “If you hurry you may possibly over-take her.”
We came out of the studio, and as we crossed the yard she gave me very full and clear directions as to how to find the place, some of which I jotted down. Passing a marble tombstone on which her husband had been working, I noticed a number of his tools lying on a sack, and among them a long chisel, almost like a small crowbar. “May I borrow this, Mrs. Wingrave?” I said, picking it up. “Certainly, if you want to,” she replied with a look of surprise.
“Thank you,” I said, slipping it up my sleeve. “I may have to force a door, you know,” and with this I let myself out at the wicket and strode away swiftly up the street.
I am habitually a rapid walker, and now I covered the ground at a pace that made other pedestrians stare. For Winifred, I felt sure, would have flown to her brother on the wings of terror, and hurry as I might, I should be hard put to it to overtake her. But her terror could have been nothing compared with mine. As I raced along the shabby streets, swinging the chisel openly in my hand—for its presence in my sleeve was a sensible hindrance—the sinister possibilities—nay, probabilities—that, unsought, suggested themselves one after another, kept me in a state of sickening dread. Supposing I failed to find the place after all! It was quite possible, for the neighbourhood was strange and rather intricate. Or suppose I should lose time in searching for the house and arrive at last, only to find—Here I set my teeth and fairly broke into a run, regardless of the inquisitive stares of idlers at doors and street corners. But, for all my terror and horrible forebodings, I kept my wits and held my attention firmly to Mrs. Wingrave’s directions, and I derived a faint encouragement from the fact that I had never lost touch of the landmarks and that every hurried step was bringing me nearer to my goal. At length, want of breath compelled me to drop into a walk, but a couple of minutes later, with a gasp of relief, I reached the corner of Sackett’s Road; and even as I swung round into the long, straight, dreary street, I caught a glimpse of a woman, at the far end, hurrying forward in the same direction. It was only a momentary glimpse, for in the instant when I saw her she turned swiftly into a by-street to the left. But brief as was the vision, and far away as she was, no doubt was possible to me. It was Winifred.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 34
