As he was standing eagerly examining them and speculating on what they portended, a hollow rumbling on his right heralded the approach of an empty cart from the west. A few moments later it came into sight through an opening just beyond the beech, the carter, dismounted, leading his horse by the bridle. Seeing Pottermack, he touched his hat and civilly wished him good morning.
“Now, where might you be off to?” Pottermack enquired genially.
“To the old gravel-pit, sir,” was the reply. “’Tis many a year since any gravel was dug there. But Mr. Barber he’s a-makin’ a lot of this here concrate stuff for to put into the foundations of the new houses what he’s buildin’, and he thought as it were foolishness to send for gravel to a distance when there’s a-plenty close at hand. So we’re a-openin’ up the old pit.”
“Where about is the pit?” asked Pottermack. “Is it far from here?”
“Far! Lor’ bless yer, no, sir. Just a matter of a few hundred yards. If you like to walk along with me, I’ll show you the place.”
Pottermack accepted the offer promptly, and as the man started his horse with a friendly “gee-up,” he walked alongside, following the new ruts down the familiar track—less familiar now that the great hoofs and the wide cart wheels had cleared an open space—until they came out at the top of the rough road that led down to the pit. Here Pottermack halted, wishing his friend “good morning,” and stood watching the cart as it rumbled down the slope and skirted the floor of the pit towards a spot where a bright-coloured patch on the weathered ‘face’ showed the position of the new working.
Here Pottermack could see two men loosening the gravel with picks and two more shovelling the fallen stuff into a cart that was now nearly full. The place where they were at work was on the right side of the pit, as Pottermack stood, and nearly opposite to the cave, the gates of which he could see somewhat to his left. Standing there, he made a rapid mental note of the relative positions, and then, turning about, made his way back to the path, cogitating profoundly as he went.
How long would it be before one of those men made the momentous discovery? Or was it possible that they might miss it altogether? The British labourer is not by nature highly observant, nor has he an excessively active curiosity. Nearly the whole width of the pit separated them from the remains. No occasion need arise for them to stray away from the spot where their business lay. But it would be exasperating if they should work there for a week or two and then go away leaving the discovery still to be made.
However, it was of no use to be pessimistic. There was a fair probability that one of them would at least go round to the cave. Quite possibly it might again be put to its original use as a cart-shelter. For his part, he could do no more than wait upon the will of Fortune and meanwhile hold himself prepared for whatever might befall. But in spite of the latter discreet resolution, the discovery, when it came, rather took him by surprise. He was lingering luxuriously over his after-breakfast pipe some four or five days after his meeting with the carter, idly turning over the leaves of a new book, while his thoughts circled about the workers in the pit and balanced the chances of their stumbling upon that gruesome figure under the cliff, when a familiar knock at the front door dispelled his reverie in an instant and turned his thoughts to more pleasant topics. He had risen and was about to go to the door himself, but was anticipated by Mrs. Gadby, who, a few moments later, announced and ushered in Mrs. Bellard.
Pottermack advanced to greet her, but was instantly struck by something strange and disquieting in her appearance and manner. She stopped close by the door until the housekeeper’s footsteps had died away, then, coining close to him, exclaimed almost in a whisper:
“Marcus, have you heard—about James, I mean?”
“James!” repeated Pottermack helplessly, his wits for the moment paralysed by the suddenness of the disclosure; then, pulling himself together with a violent effort, he asked: “You don’t mean to say that fellow has turned up again?”
“Then you haven’t heard. He is dead, Marcus. They found his body yesterday evening. The news is all over the town this morning.”
“My word!” exclaimed Pottermack. “This is news with a vengeance! Where was he found?”
“Quite near here. In a gravel-pit in Potter’s Wood. He must have fallen into it the very night that he went away.”
“Good gracious!” ejaculated Pottermack. “What an astonishing thing! Then he must have been lying there all these months! But—er—I suppose there is no doubt that it is Lewson’s body?”
“Oh, not the least. Of course the body itself was quite unrecognizable. They say it actually dropped to pieces when they tried to pick it up. Isn’t it horrible? But the police were able to identify it by the clothes and some letters and visiting-cards in the pockets. Otherwise there was practically nothing left but the bones. It makes me shudder to think of it.”
“Yes,” Pottermack admitted calmly, his self-possession being now restored, “it does sound rather unpleasant. But it might have been worse. He might have turned up alive. Now you are rid of him for good.”
“Yes, I know,” said she; “and I can’t pretend that it isn’t a great relief to know that he is dead. But still—what ought I to do, Marcus?”
“Do?” Pottermack repeated in astonishment.
“Yes. I feel that I ought to do something. After all, he was my husband.”
“And a shocking bad husband at that. But I don’t understand what you mean. What do you suppose you ought to do?”
“Well, don’t you think that somebody—somebody belonging to him—ought to come forward to—to identify him?”
“But,” exclaimed Pottermack, “you said that there is nothing left of him but his bones. Now, my dear, you know you can’t identify his bones. You’ve never seen them. Besides, he has been identified already.”
“Well, say, to acknowledge him.”
“But, my dear Alice, why on earth should you acknowledge him, when you had, years ago, repudiated him, and even taken another name to avoid being in any way associated with him? No, no, my dear, you just keep quiet and let things take their course. This is one of those cases in which a still tongue shows a wise head. Think of all the scandal and gossip that you would start if you were to come forward and announce yourself as Mrs. Lewson. You would never be able to go on living here. I take it that no one in this place knows who you are?”
“Not a soul.”
“And how many people altogether know that you were married to him?”
“Very few, and those practically all strangers. We lived a very solitary life at Leeds.”
“Very well. Then the least said the soonest mended. Besides,” he added, as another highly important consideration burst on him, “there is our future to think of. You are still willing to marry me, dear, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Marcus, of course I am. But please don’t let us talk about it now.”
“I don’t want to, my dear, but we have to settle this other matter. The position now is that we can get married whenever we please.”
“Yes, there is no obstacle now.”
“Then, Alice dearest, don’t let us make obstacles. But we shall if we make known the fact that you were Lewson’s wife. Just think of the position. Here were you and your husband in the same town, posing as total strangers. And here were you and I, intimate friends and generally looked upon almost as an engaged couple. Now, suppose that we marry in the reasonably near future. That alone would occasion a good deal of comment. But suppose that it should turn out that Lewson met his death by foul means. What do you imagine people would say then?”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Alice. “I had never thought of that. Of course, people—or at any rate, some people—would say that we had conspired to get him out of the way. And really, that is what it would look like. I am glad I came and consulted you.”
Pottermack drew a deep breath. So that danger was past. Not that it had been a very obvious danger. But instinct warned him—and it was a
perfectly sound instinct—to avoid at all costs having his personality in any way connected with that of James Lewson. Now he would be able to watch the course of events at his ease, and to all appearance from the detached standpoint of a total stranger. Nor was Alice less relieved. Some obscure sense of loyalty had seemed to impel her to proclaim her relationship to the dead wastrel. But she was not unwilling to be convinced of her mistake; and when presently she went away, her heart was all the lighter for feeling herself excused from the necessity of laying bare to the public gaze the sordid details of her domestic tragedy.
When she was gone, Pottermack reflected on the situation and considered what he had better do. Caution conflicted with inclination. He was on the very tiptoe of curiosity, but yet he felt that he must show no undue interest in the affair. Nevertheless, it was desirable that he should know, if possible, what had really happened and what was going to be done about it. Accordingly he decided to go forth and perambulate the town and passively permit the local quidnuncs to supply him with the latest details.
He did not, however, add much to his knowledge excepting in one important respect, which was that the date of the inquest was already fixed. It was to take place at three o’clock in the afternoon on the next day but one; and having regard to the public interest in the case, the inquiry was to be held in the Town Hall. When he had ascertained this fact, and that the public would have free access to the hall during the proceedings, he went home and resolved to manifest no further interest in the case until those proceedings should open.
But the interval was one of intense though suppressed excitement. He could settle to nothing either in the workshop or in the garden. He could only seek relief in interminable tramps along the country roads. His mind seethed with mingled anxiety and hope. For the inquest was the final scene of this strange drama of which he was at once author and stage manager; and it was the goal of all his endeavours. If it went off successfully, James Lewson would be finished with for ever; he would be dead, buried, and duly registered at Somerset House; and Marcus Pottermack could murmur “Nunc dimittis” and go his way in peace.
Naturally enough, he was punctual, and more than punctual, in his attendance at the Town Hall on the appointed day, for he arrived at the entrance nearly half an hour before the time announced for the opening of the inquiry. However, he was not alone. There were others still more punctual and equally anxious to secure good places. In fact, there was quite a substantial crowd of early place-seekers which grew from moment to moment. But their punctuality failed to serve its purpose, since the main doors were still closed and a constable stationed in front of them barred all access. Some of them strayed into the little square or yard adjoining, apparently for the satisfaction of looking at the closed door of the mortuary on its farther side.
Pottermack circulated among the crowd, speaking to no one but listening to the disjointed scraps of conversation that came his way. His state of mind was very peculiar. He was acutely anxious, excited, and expectant. But behind these natural feelings he had a queer sense of aloofness, of superiority to these simple mortals around him, including the coroner and the police. For he knew all about it, whereas they would presently grope their way laboriously to a conclusion, and a wrong conclusion at that. He knew whose were the remains lying in the mortuary. He could have told them that they were about to mistake the scanty vestiges of a libationer of the nineteenth or twentieth dynasty for the body of the late James Lewson. So it was that he listened with a sort of indulgent complacency to the eager discussions concerning the mysterious end of the deceased branch manager.
Presently a report began to circulate that a gentleman had been admitted to the mortuary by the sergeant and, as the crowd forthwith surged along in that direction, he allowed himself willingly to be carried with it. Arrived at the little square, the would-be spectators developed a regular gyratory movement down one side and up the other, being kept on the move by audible requests to “pass along, please.” In due course Pottermack came in sight of the mortuary door, now half open and guarded by a police-sergeant who struggled vainly to combine the incompatible qualities of majestic impassivity and a devouring curiosity as to what was going on inside.
At length Pottermack reached the point at which he could see in through the half-open door, and at the first glance his “superiority complex” underwent sudden dissolution. A tall man, whose back was partly turned towards him, held in his hand a shoe, the sole of which he was examining with concentrated attention. Pottermack stopped dead, gazing at him in consternation. Then the sergeant sang out his oft-repeated command and Pottermack was aware of increasing pressure from behind. But at the very instant when he was complying with the sergeant’s injunction to “pass along,” the tall man turned his head to look out at the door and their eyes met. And at the sight of the man’s face Pottermack could have shrieked aloud.
It was the strange lawyer.
For some moments Pottermack’s faculties were completely paralysed by this apparition. He drifted on passively with the crowd in a state of numb dismay. Presently, however, as the effects of the shock passed off and his wits began to revive, some of his confidence revived with them. After all, what was there to be so alarmed about? The man was only a lawyer, and he had seemed harmless enough when they had talked together at the gate. True, he had seemed to be displaying an unholy interest in the soles of those shoes. But what of that? Those soles were all correct, even to the gash in the horse’s neck. They were, in fact, the most convincing and unassailable part of the make-up.
But, encourage himself as he would, the unexpected appearance of this lawyer had given his nerves a nasty jar. It suggested a number of rather disquieting questions. For instance, how came this man to turn up at this ‘psychological moment’ like a vulture sniffing from afar a dead camel in the desert? Why was he looking at those soles with such extraordinary interest? Was it possible that he had seen those photographs? And if so, might they have shown something that was invisible to the unaided eye?
These questions came crowding into Mr. Pottermack’s mind, each one more disquieting than the others. But always he came back to the most disquieting one of all. How, in the name of Beelzebub, came this lawyer to make his appearance in the Borley mortuary at this critical and most inopportune moment?
It was natural that Mr. Pottermack should ask himself this very pertinent question; for, in truth, it did appear a singular coincidence. And inasmuch as coincidences usually seem to demand some explanation, we may venture to pursue the question that the reader may attain to the enlightenment that was denied to Mr. Pottermack.
CHAPTER XV
DR. THORNDYKE’S CURIOSITY IS AROUSED
The repercussions of Mr. Pottermack’s activities made themselves felt at a greater distance than he had bargained for. By the agency of an enterprising local reporter they became communicated to the daily press, and thereby to the world at large, including Number 5A King’s Bench Walk, Inner Temple, London, E.C., and the principal occupant thereof. The actual purveyor of intelligence to the latter was Mr. Nathaniel Polton, and the communication took place in the afternoon of the day following the discovery. At this time Dr. Thorndyke was seated at the table with an open brief before him, jotting down a few suggestions for his colleague, Mr. Anstey, when to him entered Nathaniel Polton aforesaid, with a tray of tea-things in one hand and the evening paper in the other. Having set down the tray, he presented the paper, neatly folded into a small oblong, with a few introductory words.
“There is a rather curious case reported in the Evening Post, sir. Looks rather like something in our line. I thought you might be interested to see it, so I’ve brought you the paper.”
“Very good of you, Polton,” said Thorndyke, holding out his hand with slightly exaggerated eagerness. “Curious cases are always worth our attention.”
Accordingly he proceeded to give his attention to the marked paragraph; but at the first glance at the heading, the interest which he had assumed out of courte
sy to his henchman became real and intense. Polton noted the change, and his lined face crinkled up into a smile of satisfaction as he watched his employer reading the paragraph through with a concentration that, even to him, seemed hardly warranted by the matter. For, after all, there was no mystery about the affair, so far as he could see. It was just curious and rather gruesome. And Polton had a distinct liking for the gruesome. So, apparently, had the reporter, for he used that very word to lend attraction to his heading. Thus:—
GRUESOME DISCOVERY AT BORLEY.
Yesterday afternoon some labourers who were digging gravel in a pit in Potter’s Wood, Borley, near Aylesbury, made a shocking discovery. When going round the pit to inspect a disused cart-shelter, they were horrified at coming suddenly upon the much-decomposed body of a man lying at the foot of the perpendicular ‘face,’ down which he had apparently fallen some months previously. Later it was ascertained that the dead man is a certain James Lewson, the late manager of the local branch of Perkins’s Bank, who disappeared mysteriously about nine months ago. An inquest on the body is to be held at the Town Hall, Borley, on Thursday next at 3 P.M., when the mystery of the disappearance and death will no doubt be elucidated.
“A very singular case, Polton,” said Thorndyke, as he returned the paper to its owner. “Thank you for drawing my attention to it.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any mystery as to how the man met his death,” remarked Polton, cunningly throwing out this remark in the hope of eliciting some illuminating comments. “He seems to have just tumbled into the pit and broken his neck.”
“That is what is suggested,” Thorndyke agreed. But there are all sorts of other possibilities. It would be quite interesting to attend the inquest and bear the evidence.”
“There is no reason why you shouldn’t, sir,” said Polton. “You’ve got no arrangements for Thursday that can’t easily be put off.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 74
