The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “He was just under thirty years of age, about five feet eleven in height, of medium complexion with grey eyes and darkish brown hair. His nose had been struck by a cricket-ball which broke the bridge and caused some little disfigurement.”

  “I am sorry to have to refer to a subject that will be painful, but which is relevant to this inquiry. Are you aware that a man answering to the description of your husband has been accused of complicity in an attack on a motor-car when a Mr. Hudson was killed?”

  “Yes. A police officer called on me to make inquiries and I told him all I knew about the affair. Of course, it is a mistake. The thing is ridiculous. My husband was a gentleman of reputation and of substantial means. He happened to be present when the attack was made. He told me all about it when he came home that night; and I repeated what he told me to the police officer.”

  “When he came home that night, did he seem at all agitated?”

  “Not in the least. Of course, he was rather excited, though, at that time, he did not know that any one had been killed.”

  “And in the morning when he left home?”

  “He was in his usual spirits. I understood that he proposed to call at the police station to report what he had seen.”

  “And do you connect his disappearance with the circumstances of that crime?”

  “Certainly not. There was no reason why he should run away. He had nothing to fear.”

  “Is there anything more that you can tell us that would help the jury in arriving at their verdict?”

  “No; I have told you all I know.”

  “Then I think we need not trouble you any further. We thank you for the very clear way in which you have given your evidence in circumstances which must have been very painful to you, and we should wish once more to offer you our most sincere sympathy.”

  The rest of the evidence was of little significance. The medical witness gave a brief description of the injuries and stated that death must have been practically instantaneous. The police superintendent described the reception of the body and the articles found in the pockets, by which the remains were identified in the first place, and mentioned as a curious coincidence that a bill containing the description of the deceased was posted up outside the station when the body was brought in. He was the last witness; and, when he had given his evidence, the coroner proceeded to sum up the case for the jury to the following effect: “This inquiry is in some respects perfectly simple and in others rather obscure. Death was obviously caused by the fall of a heavy mass of chalk on the head of deceased; and it is difficult to see how the fall of that mass could be other than accidental. On the other hand, an element of obscurity is introduced into the case by the fact that deceased was apparently accompanied to the shore by some other person; that that person never reported the accident and has not come forward to give any information. There is no denying that the behaviour of that person to some extent justifies the suspicion that has been expressed by the wife of the deceased. If the cause of death were such as to admit of the idea of homicide, the conduct of that person would expose him to the gravest suspicion. As no such idea appears possible, his behaviour is quite incomprehensible.

  “With regard to the strange conduct of deceased, the circumstances connected with the murder of Mr. Hudson may offer some explanation. The superintendent has told us that at the very moment when the body was brought to the station, there was a bill posted outside giving a description of deceased and stating that he was wanted for the murder. Such bills must have been posted outside all other police stations, and it may easily have happened that deceased had seen one. Then, even though he were innocent, he might have become seized by panic and fled to hide himself. It is rather an alarming thing to see one’s description outside a police station and to learn that one is wanted for murder.

  “That, however, is only a surmise. What we have to decide is when, where and by what means deceased met his death. You have heard the evidence, and on that you must form your decision.”

  The jury eventually returned an open verdict. They were not entirely satisfied, the foreman said, that it was a case of death by misadventure. The presence of an unknown person, who had absconded and made no sign, suggested that there might be more in the case than met the eye. And to this, after some demur, the coroner assented.

  CHAPTER VII

  Molly

  Andrew had read the report of the inquest on his own supposed remains with profound interest but with rather mixed feelings. The possibilities which he had envisaged had not been realized, and certain facts which he had overlooked had come into view. The double set of footprints, for instance, introducing an undoubted element of suspicion, came to him as a something quite unexpected. His attention had been so completely focused on the question of identity that he was unprepared for the new issues that had been raised.

  Another matter of surprise to him was the shrewdness and strength of character displayed by his wife. It dawned on him that he had considerably under-rated her intelligence. In spite of the agitation that she must have suffered from the terrible circumstances in which she was suddenly placed, she had not only kept her wits unclouded but had shown a quick perception of the significance of the facts which had transpired. She had, indeed, accepted the identity of the corpse—no reason had been shown for doubting it—but, with her ready common sense, she had instantly detected the abnormal character of the whole set of circumstances, and refused to take them at their face value.

  The conclusions, then, which emerged were these. First, Molly had no doubt that her husband was dead. Second, that she utterly refused to regard that death as due to a mere accident. She was clearly convinced that some unknown person or persons were implicated in it. In short, that there had been some sort of foul play. Incidentally, it was clear that she did not take the murder charge seriously. To her, it appeared simply as a ridiculous mistake which would be instantly disposed of when suitable explanations were given. That he could have taken fright at the accusation and gone into hiding would appear to her incredible.

  These were the data which he had to consider in forming his decision as to what line of action he should adopt. Hitherto he had responded passively to the pressure of events. He had simply gone whither he had been driven. But he could drift passively no longer. He had got to make up his mind as to what course he would steer through the amazing complications with which he was encompassed. So, for the first time, he set himself fairly to face the realities and decide what it was possible to do.

  But to all his cogitations, as he tramped along the secluded paths of the Heath where he could think uninterrupted, and turned over one plan after another, there was a permanent background. The tremendous shock that he had sustained from the police bill at Crompton had established in his mind an abiding horror—a sort of “gallows-phobia.” And not, perhaps, quite unreasonably. Innocent men have been hanged on worse evidence than that which Miss Booth was prepared confidently to swear to. The man whom she had described had been identified as the artist, Andrew Barton; and since Andrew Barton was conveniently dead, dead he had got to remain. That was the undeniable postulate on which all his plans were based. There could be no resurrection of Andrew; for the instant he appeared, the police would pounce on him. But that postulate seemed to block every avenue of escape.

  Thus, the idea of going home and taking up the old life was obviously unthinkable; for Molly’s husband was dead, and he was a visibly different person. The explanation which would have made it possible could not be given; for that would bring Andrew to life—and death. Some other plan would have to be thought of—when he had made things clear to Molly. And the question was, how was that to be done?

  His first idea was to write her a long letter telling her all that had happened, signing his own name and announcing his intention to come home. She would recognize his handwriting, and that would make the story credible enough to prepare her for his changed appearance. But would she recognize his handwriting? It was not so ver
y characteristic, and there was an awkward complication. It often happens that a similarity of handwriting runs in families; and his was a case in point. Ronald’s handwriting had borne a distinct resemblance to his. Molly had noticed it and remarked on it. Then the handwriting would not be conclusive, and the fantastic story would have to rest on its merits. Then there was the complication of Ronald’s character. Molly had admired Ronald, and had been indulgent in regard to his faults. Perhaps she liked him; but she had no delusions as to his character. She knew him to be a slippery rascal whose word was of no value whatever. She might—and probably would—reject the letter as an impudent imposture; an attempt on Ronald’s part to personate her dead husband. And when he appeared, miraculously transformed into the outward semblance of Ronald, her suspicions would be instantly confirmed, and she would probably refuse to let him enter the house or to listen to anything that he might wish to say.

  But that was not the worst. Molly had expressed her suspicion that there had been foul play of some kind. Now, if he wrote such a letter, he would have to admit that he had been on the shore at the time of the catastrophe; in short, that one of the sets of footprints had been his. What more likely than that she should suspect him (in the character of Ronald) of having made away with her husband? And, once the suspicion of foul play was aroused, the letter, itself, would seem to supply the motive for the crime. It would suggest to her that Ronald, relying on his resemblance to her husband, had made away with Andrew with the deliberate purpose of stepping into Andrew’s shoes.

  Then what would she do? There was very little doubt. Molly had certain very pronounced feminine characteristics; she was quick to decide, confident when she had decided, and quick to act on her decision. If she disbelieved the wildly improbable story and wrote the letter down as a fraudulent attempt on Ronald’s part to personate her husband, she would, without waiting for him to appear in person, at once communicate her suspicions to the police and show them the letter.

  And what then? In spite of his anxieties, Andrew smiled grimly at the thought of the dilemma which would be created. He would stand to be accused of having murdered himself; and his only defence would be to prove his real identity—that of a person who was already accused of having murdered someone else.

  Evidently, the letter would not do; nor would an unannounced visit, with verbal explanations, be much safer. The story that he had to tell was so preposterous that she would probably dismiss it off-hand as an imposture; and then there would be the same trouble as in the case of the letter.

  So, once again, Andrew found himself shepherded by inexorable circumstance in the direction in which he did not want to go. For, in the end, he had to fall back on a compromise, and not a very good one at that. He decided, instead of committing himself either by letter or word of mouth, to feel his way cautiously and see if any opportunity offered. He would write to Molly, signing himself “Ronald,” and proposing to call on her. When he met her, he would be better able to judge what was possible. Perhaps it might be easier than it looked. It was actually possible that she might recognize him in spite of the disguise. He had examined himself repeatedly in the mirror and had thought he had detected some small differences between himself and Ronald. Perhaps, after all, they were not so much alike as he had thought; and there might be some little peculiarities in his own face and person of which he was not aware, but which might be familiar to her. At any rate, he would see what happened; and if he failed the first time, at least he would not be landed in the net of the police.

  But he would not write for a day or two. He would give her time to settle down after the inquest. And then, of course, there was the funeral. The funeral! He had not thought of that before. Now the idea came upon him with devastating effect, imparting a horrible reality to the whole hideous farce. It was an appalling thing to think of his beloved wife standing in tears beside the grave of what was in effect a dummy corpse. It was an obscene outrage. But even in his anger, he realized how that dreadful farce seemed to set the seal of finality on his changed condition; what a formidable obstacle it raised to his attempts to dispel the illusion.

  A couple of days later he dispatched the momentous letter; quite a short one, suggesting a call about tea-time on the following Wednesday; which elicited a still briefer reply agreeing to the date and time. Brief and rather colourless as it was, Andrew read it again and again. For it was Molly’s own writing; and though it was addressed to a fictitious person, yet it seemed to bring him, for the first time since the transformation, into some sort of touch with real life—his own real life.

  The days passed in a fever of impatience mingled with anxiety; of longing to stand once more within his own house and to see and talk with the woman who had become to him the centre and focus of life; of anxiety lest he should, after all, fail to break the spell that circumstance had cast over him. And when at last the day of the visit came, he set forth on his adventure thrilling with the strangest mixture of emotions; with love and yearning for the woman who was at once his wife and his lover, with hope and apprehension and even a queer, irrational tinge of jealousy. For it was Ronald, and not he, who was going to meet and talk with Molly. Any tokens of kindliness or affection that she might bestow would be for Ronald, not for him. And thus his thoughts, swaying back and forth to the contending pull of two opposing sets of emotions, oscillated continually between the intense yearning to give expression to the love that was welling up in his heart and a jealous fear lest the rival whom he was impersonating should be received with undue warmth.

  At Bunsford, he changed on to the branch line, and, alighting presently at the little wayside station of Fairfield, set forth to walk the familiar road that led to his home. It was a strange experience, that walk from the station. He had the feeling of a traveller, returning after a long absence, treading the well-remembered ways and looking on the familiar scenes of long ago. It seemed as if years had passed since he last turned into the lane. He found it unbelievable that it was but a week and a day since he had kissed Molly at the door and waved his hand to her from the gate. Once more the sense of illusion and enchantment came over him; and, as he approached the cottage and his eyes were greeted by the fresh gashes that his hastily-wielded shears had made in the privet hedge, the conflict between his inner sensations and the visible and undeniable facts became positively bewildering.

  Like a man in a dream, he opened the gate, stole unsteadily up the path, and plied the little knocker with a shaking hand. And all the while, he was trying confusedly to think what he should say to her, while in the background of his consciousness there lurked a dim hope that she might recognize him despite the transformation.

  A few seconds passed. Then a light footstep in the hall, at the sound of which his heart seemed to stand still. The door opened and there she stood, his dearest Molly, his own beloved wife, garbed in a simple black dress, and looking pale and tired, but sweeter and more lovely than ever. At the sight of her, a flood of passionate love surged through him; a wild impulse to take her in his arms and kiss the roses back into her cheeks. It was but a momentary impulse, instantly chocked, not only by reason but by something in the way in which she looked at him. She greeted him cordially enough, but yet there was in her manner something new to him; a quiet self-possession with, perhaps, just a shade of chilliness.

  He took the proffered hand with a deep sense of anticlimax. She had not recognized him. Of course she had not. How could he have expected it? But the initial failure left him with all his difficulties before him. He could do no more than wait and see if any opening offered. “Go and sit down, Ronald, while I make the tea,” she said in a friendly, matter-of-fact tone, still with that faint suggestion of coolness, “I won’t be a minute. You know the way. No, you don’t, though. You have never been in this house before. It’s in here.”

  She threw open the door of the dining-room and bustled away towards the kitchen, leaving him to enter alone. He stepped in through the open doorway and stood for a few seconds at
the threshold, looking, with a lump in his throat, at the familiar room—his own room, where he had passed so many delightful hours, and where he now stood, a mere visitor, almost a stranger.

  He ran his eye over the table, fondly taking in all the little, trivial details; the foolish little flower vases, the cake-basket, the biscuit-box, the jam-jars; all set out in correct array just as he, himself, had set them out on that dies irae in the irrevocable past when Fate, in the garb of a postman, had delivered his summons. And yet Fate had not been unkindly. For its messenger had forestalled another kind of summons, uttered in the King’s name to the jingling of hand-cuffs. The reflection came to him as an opportune reminder just as Molly entered with the teapot and hot-water jug on the little tray.

  She took her seat at the head of the table and he drew up his chair; but as he did so, he noted that it was not his own particular chair, in which he had always been used to sit. That was drawn back against the wall. And the place that was “laid” for him was not his customary place, but was on the opposite side of the table. It was a small matter but it defined his position as a visitor. “It is nice of you to come and see me, Ronald,” she said, as she poured out the tea. “I couldn’t write to you because I didn’t know your address. I suppose you saw it in the papers?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “It was a dreadful shock, even to me. I can’t bear to think of what it must have been to you.”

  She made no comment on this, and he continued: “I would have written sooner but I thought it better to wait until the—er—the—”

  “Yes,” she replied quietly, “I understand. It was on Saturday. In Fairfield churchyard. I brought him from Crompton. Everybody was awfully kind, especially the police.”

  She finished a little unsteadily with a catch in her voice, and Andrew, deeply moved, stole a furtive glance at her, marvelling admiringly at her quiet dignity and self-restraint. She made no parade of grief nor showed any outward sign other than the pale, weary face, the set composure of which smote him to the heart.