The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  On his return to the inn he proceeded to make enquiries as to a reliable house-agent, in response to which he was given, not only the name of a recommended agent but certain other more valuable information. For the landlord, interested in a prospective new resident, was questioning Pottermack as to the class of house that he was seeking when the landlady interposed.

  “What about ‘The Chestnuts,’ Tom, where Colonel Barnett used to live? That’s empty and for sale—been empty for months. And it’s a good house though rather out-of-the-way. Perhaps that might suit this gentleman.”

  Further details convinced Mr. Pottermack that it would, and the upshot was that on the very next day, after a careful inspection, the deposit was paid to the agents, Messrs. Hook and Walker, and a local solicitor was instructed to carry out the conveyance. Within a week the principal builder of the town had sent in his estimates for repairs and decoration, and Mr. Pottermack was wrestling with the problem of household furnishing amidst a veritable library of catalogues.

  But these activities did not distract him from his ultimate object. Realizing that, as a stranger to the town, his chance of getting a regular introduction to Mrs. Bellard was infinitely remote, he decided to waive the conventions and take a short-cut. But the vital question was, would she recognize him? It was a question that perplexed him profoundly and that he debated endlessly without reaching any conclusion. Of course, under normal circumstances there would be no question at all. Obviously, in spite of his beard, his spectacles, and his grey hair, she would recognize him instantly. But the circumstances were very far from normal. To her, he was a person who had died some fifteen years ago. And the news of his death would have come to her, not as a mere rumour or vague report, but as an ascertained fact. He had been found dead and identified by those who knew him well. She could never have had a moment’s doubt that he was dead.

  How, then, would she react to the conflict between her knowledge and the evidence of her senses? Which of the two alternate possibilities would she accept? That a dead man might come to life again or that one human being might bear so miraculous a resemblance to another? He could form no opinion. But of one thing he felt confident. She would certainly be deeply impressed by the resemblance, and that state of mind would easily cover anything unconventional in the manner of their meeting.

  His plan was simple to crudeness. At odd times, in the intervals of his labours, he made it his business to pass the entrance of the lane—Malthouse Lane was its name—from whence he could see her house. For several days no opportunity presented itself. But one morning, a little more than a week after his arrival, on glancing up the lane, he perceived a manifestly feminine hat above the shrubs in her garden. Thereupon he turned boldly into the little thoroughfare and walked on until he was opposite the cottage, when he could see her, equipped with gardening gloves and a rather juvenile fork, tidying up the borders. Unobserved by her, he stepped up to the wooden palings, and, lifting his hat, enquired apologetically if she could inform him whether, if he followed the lane, he would come to the Aylesbury road.

  At the first sound of his voice she started up and gazed at him with an expression of the utmost astonishment; nor was her astonishment diminished when she looked at his face. For an appreciable time she stood quite still and rigid, with her eyes fixed on him and her lips parted as if she had seen a spectre. After an interval, Pottermack—who was more or less prepared, though his heart was thumping almost audibly—repeated his question, with apologies for intruding on her; whereupon, recovering herself with an effort, she came across to the palings and began to give him some directions in a breathless, agitated voice, while the gloved hand that she rested on the palings trembled visibly.

  Pottermack listened deferentially and then ventured to explain his position: that he was a stranger, about to settle in the district and anxious to make himself acquainted with his new surroundings. As this was received quite graciously, he went on to comment in admiring terms on the appearance of the cottage and its happy situation in this pleasant leafy lane. Through this channel they drifted into amicable conversation concerning the town and the surrounding country, and as they talked—Pottermack designedly keeping his face partially turned away from her—she continued to watch him with a devouring gaze and with a curious expression of bewilderment and incredulity mingled with something reminiscent, far away and dreamy. Finally, encouraged by his success, Pottermack proceeded to expound the embryonic state of his household, and enquired if by any chance she happened to know of a reliable middle-aged woman who would take charge of it.

  “How many are you in family?” Mrs. Bellard asked with ill-concealed eagerness.

  “My entire family,” he replied, “is covered by one rather shabby hat.”

  “Then you ought to have no difficulty in finding a housekeeper. I do, in fact,” she continued, “know of a woman who might suit you, a middle-aged widow named Gadby—quite a Dickens name, isn’t it? I know very little about her abilities, but I do know that she is a pleasant, good-natured, and highly respectable woman. If you like, and will give me your address, I will send her to see you.”

  Mr. Pottermack jumped at the offer, and having written down his name and his address at the inn (at the former of which she glanced with eager curiosity) he thanked her warmly, and, wishing her good-morning with a flourish of the shabby hat, went on his way rejoicing. That same evening, Mrs. Gadby called at the inn and was promptly engaged; and a very fortunate transaction the engagement proved. For, not only did she turn out to be an incomparable servant, but she constituted herself a link between her employer and her patroness. Not that the link was extremely necessary, for whenever Pottermack chanced to meet Mrs. Bellard—and it was surprising how often it happened—she greeted him frankly as an acknowledged acquaintance; so that gradually—and not so very gradually either—their footing as acquaintances ripened into that of friends. And so, as the weeks passed and their friendship grew up into a pleasant, sympathetic intimacy, Mr. Pottermack felt that all was going well and that the time was at hand when he should collect some of the arrears that were outstanding in his account with Fortune.

  But Fortune had not done with him yet. The card that she held up her sleeve was played a few weeks after he had entered into occupation of his new house and was beginning to be comfortably settled. He was standing by the counter of a shop where he had made some purchases when he became aware of some person standing behind him and somewhat to his left. He could not see the person excepting as a vague shadow, but he had the feeling that he was being closely scrutinized. It was not a pleasant feeling, for, altered as he was, some inopportune recognition was always possible; and when the person moved from the left side to the right, Mr. Pottermack began to grow distinctly apprehensive. His right ear bore a little purple birthmark that was highly distinctive, and the movement of the unknown observer associated itself very disagreeably in his mind with this mark. After enduring the scrutiny for some time with growing uneasiness, he turned and glanced at the face of the scrutinizer. Then he received a very distinct shock, but at the same time was a little reassured. For the stranger was not a stranger at all, but his old friend and fellow-clerk, James Lewson.

  Involuntarily his face must have given some sign of recognition, but this he instantly suppressed. He had no fear of his old friend, but still, he had renounced his old identity and had no intention of acknowledging it. He had entered on a new life with a new personality. Accordingly, after a brief glance, as indifferent as he could make it, he turned back to the counter and concluded his business. And Lewson, for his part, made no outward sign of recognition, so that Pottermack began to hope that he had merely noticed an odd resemblance, without any suspicion of actual identity. After all, that was what one would expect, seeing that the Jeffrey Brandon whom he resembled had been dead nearly fifteen years.

  But when he left the shop and went his way through the streets on other business, he soon discovered that Lewson was shadowing him closely. Once or twice he put
the matter to the test by doubling back or darting through obscure passages and by-ways; and when he still found Lewson doggedly clinging to his skirts, he had to accept the conviction that he had been recognized and deal with the position to the best of his discretion. Accordingly, he made straight for home; but instead of entering by the front door, he took the path that skirted the long wall of his garden and let himself in by the small side gate, which he left unlatched behind him. A minute later, Lewson pushed it open and looked in then, seeing that the garden was unoccupied save by Pottermack, he entered and shut the gate.

  “Well, Jeff,” he said genially, as he faced Pottermack, “so here you are. A brand—or shall we say a Brandon—snatched from the burning. I always wondered if you had managed to do a mizzle, you are such an uncommonly downy bird.”

  Pottermack made a last, despairing effort. “Pardon me,” said he, “but I fancy you must be mistaking me for—”

  “Oh, rats,” interrupted Lewson. “Won’t do, old chap. Besides, I saw that you recognized me. No use pretending that you don’t know your old pal, and certainly no use pretending that he doesn’t know you.”

  Pottermack realised the unwelcome truth and, like a wise man, bowed to the inevitable.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” he admitted, “and, for that matter, I don’t know that there is any reason why I should. But you will understand that—”

  “Oh, I understand well enough,” said Lewson. “Don’t imagine that I am offended. Naturally you are not out for digging up your old acquaintances, especially as you seem to have feathered your nest pretty well. Where have you been all these years?”

  “In the States. I only came back a few weeks ago.”

  “Ah, you’d have been wiser to stay there. But I suppose you made a pile and have come home to spend it.”

  “Well, hardly a pile,” said Pottermack, “but I have saved enough to live on in a quiet way. I am not expensive in my habits.”

  “Lucky beggar!” said Lewson, glancing around with greedy eyes. “Is this your own place?”

  “Yes, I have just bought it and moved in. Got it remarkably cheap, too.”

  “Did you? Well, I say again, lucky beggar. It’s quite a lordly little estate.”

  “Yes, I am very pleased with it. There’s a good house and quite a lot of land, as you see. I hope to live very comfortably here.”

  “You ought to, if you don’t get blown on; and you never need be if you are a wise man.”

  “No, I hope not,” said Pottermack, a little uneasily. He had been looking at his old friend and was disagreeably impressed by the change that the years had wrought. He was by no means happy to know that his secret was shared with this unprepossessing stranger—for such he, virtually, was. But still he was totally unprepared for what was to follow.

  “It was a lucky chance for me,” remarked Lewson, “that I happened to drop in at that shop. Best morning’s work that I have done for a long time.”

  “Indeed!” said Pottermack, looking a little puzzled.

  “Yes. I reckon that chance was worth a thousand pounds to me.”

  “Was it really? I don’t quite see how.”

  “Don’t you?” demanded Lewson, with a sudden change of manner. “Then I’ll explain. I presume you don’t want the Scotland Yard people to know that you are alive and living here like a lord?”

  “Naturally I don’t.”

  “Of course you don’t. And if you show a proper and liberal spirit towards your old pal, they are never likely to know.”

  “But,” gasped Pottermack, “I don’t think I quite understand what you mean.”

  “You are devilish thick-headed if you don’t,” said Lewson. “Then I’ll put in a nutshell. You hand me over a thousand pounds and I give you a solemn undertaking to keep my mouth shut for ever.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I hop off to Scotland Yard and earn a small gratuity by giving them the straight tip.”

  Pottermack recoiled from him in horror. He was thunderstruck. It was appalling to find that this man, whom he had known as an apparently decent youth, had sunk so low. He had actually descended to blackmail—the lowest, the meanest, and the shabbiest of crimes. But it was not the blackmail alone that filled Pottermack’s soul with loathing of the wretch who stood before him. In the moment in which Lewson made his demand, Pottermack knew the name of the villain who had forged those cheques and had set the dastardly trap in which he, Pottermack, was, in effect, still held.

  For some moments he was too much shocked to reply. When at length he did, it was merely to settle the terms of the transaction. He had no choice. He realized that this was no empty threat. The gleam of malice in Lewson’s eye was unmistakable. It expressed the inveterate hatred that a thoroughly base man feels towards one on whom he has inflicted an unforgivable injury.

  “Will a crossed cheque do for you?” he asked.

  “Good Lord! no!” was the reply; “nor an open one either. No cheques for me. Hard cash is what I should prefer, but as that might be difficult to manage I’ll take it in notes—five-pound notes.”

  “What, a thousand pounds!” exclaimed Pottermack. “What on earth will the people at the bank think?”

  Lewson sniggered. “What would they think, old chap, if I turned up with an open cheque for a thousand pounds? Wouldn’t they take an interest in the endorsement? No, dear boy, you get the notes—fivers, mind. They know you. And look here, Jeff. This is a strictly private transaction. Neither of us wants it to leak out. It will be much safer for us both if we remain tee-total strangers. If we should meet anywhere, you needn’t take off your hat. I shan’t. We don’t know one another. I don’t even know your name. By the way, what is your name?”

  “Marcus Pottermack.”

  “God, what a name! However, I’ll forget it if I can. You agree with me?”

  “Certainly,” replied Pottermack with unmistakable sincerity. “But where and how am I to hand you over the money?”

  “I was coming to that,” said Lewson. “I will come along here and collect it on Thursday night—that will give you time to get the notes. I shall come after dark, about nine o’clock. You had better leave this gate unlatched, and then, if I see that the coast is clear, I can pop in unobserved. Will that do?”

  Pottermack nodded. “But there is one thing more, Lewson,” said he. “This is a single, final transaction. I pay you a thousand pounds to purchase your silence and secrecy for ever!”

  “That is so. In saecula saeculorum.”

  “There will be no further demands?”

  “Certainly not,” Lewson replied indignantly. “Do you think I don’t know what a square deal is? I’ve given you my solemn promise and you can trust me to keep it.”

  Pottermack pursued the matter no farther; and as the calamitous business was now concluded, he softly opened the gate, and, having ascertained that no one was in sight, he let his visitor out and watched the big burly figure swaggering townwards along the little path that bordered his wall.

  Closing the gate, he turned back into the garden, his heart filled with bitterness and despair. His dream was at an end. Never, while this horse-leech hung on to him, could he ask Alice Bellard to be his wife. For his prophetic soul told him only too truly that this was but a beginning; that the blackmailer would come again and again and yet again, always to go away still holding the thing that he had sold.

  And so it befell; and so the pitiless extortion might have gone on to its end in the ruin and impoverishment of the victim but for the timely appearance of the sundial in Mr. Gallett’s yard.

  CHAPTER XI

  MR. POTTERMACK’S DILEMMA

  The sound of the piano faded away in a gradual diminuendo and at last stopped. A brief interval of silence followed.

  Then Mr. Pottermack, withdrawing his gaze from the infinite distance beyond the garden, turned to look at his hostess and found her regarding him with a slightly quizzical smile.

  “You haven’t lit your pipe after all,
Mr. Pottermack,” said she.

  “No,” he replied. “My savage breast was so effectually soothed by your music that tobacco would have been superfluous. Besides, my pipe would have gone out. It always does when my attention is very completely occupied.”

  “And was it? I almost thought you were dozing.”

  “I was dreaming,” said he; “day-dreaming; but wide awake and listening. It is curious,” he continued after a pause, “what power music has to awaken associations. There is nothing like it, excepting, perhaps, scents. Music and odours, things utterly unlike anything but themselves, seem to have a power of arousing dormant memories that is quite lacking in representative things such as pictures and statues.”

  “So it would seem,” said Mrs. Bellard, “that I have been, in a fashion, performing the function of an opium pipe in successful competition with the tobacco article. But it is too late to mend matters now. I can hear Anne approaching with the tea-things.”

  Almost as she spoke, the door opened and the maid entered, carrying a tray with anxious care, and proceeded to set out the tea-things with the manner of one performing a solemn rite. When she had gone and the tea was poured out, Mrs. Bellard resumed the conversation.

  “I began to think you had struck me off your visiting list. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

  “Well,” Pottermack replied evasively—for, obviously, he could not go into details—“I have been a good deal occupied. There have been a lot of things to do; the sun-dial, for instance. I told you about the sun-dial, didn’t I?”