The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “It is not, sir,” he replied, hauling it out again and gazing at it fondly. “It is an eight-day pocket chronometer; a most admirable timepiece, sir, with the full chronometer movement and even a helical balance spring.”

  Here he opened the case and then, in some miraculous way, turned the whole thing inside out, exhibiting the large, heavy balance and an unusual-looking balance spring which I accepted as helical.

  “You can’t easily see the spring detent,” said he, “but you can hear it; and you will notice that it beats half-seconds.”

  He held the watch up towards my ear and I was able to distinguish the peculiar sound of the escapement. But at this moment he also assumed a listening attitude; but he was not listening to the watch, for after a few moments of concentrated attention, he remarked, as he closed and put away the chronometer:

  “You are not much too early, sir. I think I hear the doctor coming along Crown Office Row and Dr. Jervis with him.”

  I listened attentively and was just able to make out the faint sound of quick footsteps which seemed to be approaching; but I had not my small friend’s diagnostic powers, which, however, were demonstrated when the footsteps passed in at the entry, ascended the stairs and materialized into bodily forms of Thorndyke and Jervis. Both men looked at me a little curiously but any questions were forestalled by my new acquaintance.

  “Dr. Oldfield, sir, made an appointment by telephone to see you at half-past three. I told him of your engagement at four-fifteen.”

  “Thank you, Polton,” said Thorndyke. “So now, Oldfield, as you know the position, let us go in and make the best use of the available half-hour; that is, if this is anything more than a friendly call.”

  “It is considerably more,” said I, as Mr. Polton opened the two doors and ushered us into a large room. “I have come on quite urgent business, but I think we can dispatch it easily in half an hour.”

  Here, Mr. Polton, after an interrogative glance at Thorndyke, took himself off, closing after him both the inner and outer doors.

  “Now, Oldfield,” said Jervis, setting out three chairs in a triangle, “sit down and let the engine run.”

  Thereupon we all took our seats facing one another and I proceeded, without preamble, to give a highly-condensed account of the events connected with Gannet’s disappearance with a less-condensed statement of Mrs. Gannet’s position in relation to them. To this account Thorndyke listened with close attention, but quite impassively and without question or comment. Not so Jervis. He did, indeed, abstain from interruptions; but he followed my recital with devouring interest, and I had hardly finished when he burst out:

  “But, my good Oldfield, this is a first-class murder mystery. It is a sin to boil it down into a mere abstract. I want details, and more details, and, in short—or rather, in long—the whole story.”

  “I am with you, Jervis,” said Thorndyke. “We must get Oldfield to tell us the story in extenso. But not now. We have an immediate and rather urgent problem to solve; how to protect Mrs. Gannet.”

  “Does she need protecting?” demanded Jervis. “The English police are not in the habit of employing ‘third degree’ methods.”

  “True,” Thorndyke agreed. “The English police have usually the desire and the intention to deal fairly with persons who have to be interrogated. But an over-zealous officer may easily be tempted to press his examination—in the interests of justice, as he thinks—beyond the limits of what is strictly admissible. We must remember that, under our system of police procedure in the matter of interrogation, the various restrictions tend to weight the dice rather against the police and in favour of the accused person.”

  “But Mrs. Gannet is not an accused person,” I protested.

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed. “But she may become one, particularly if she should make any indiscreet admissions. That is what we have to guard against. We don’t know what the views of the police are, but one notes that our rather foxy friend, Blandy, was not disposed to be over-scrupulous. To announce to a woman that her husband has been murdered and his body burned to ashes, and then, while she is still dazed by the shock, to subject her to a searching interrogation, does not impress one as a highly considerate proceeding. I think her fear of Blandy is justified. No further interrogation ought to take place excepting in the presence of her legal adviser.”

  “She isn’t legally bound to submit to any interrogation until she is summoned as a witness,” Jervis suggested.

  “In practice, she is,” said Thorndyke. “It would be highly improper for her to withhold from the police any assistance that she could give them. And it would be extremely impolitic, as it would suggest that she had something serious to conceal. But it would be perfectly proper for her to insist that her legal adviser should accompany her and be present at the interrogation. And that is what will have to be done. She will have to be legally represented. But by whom? Can you make any suggestion, Jervis? It is a solicitor’s job.”

  “What about the costs?” asked Jervis. “Is the lady pretty well off?”

  “We can waive that question,” said I. “The costs will be met. I will make myself responsible for that.”

  “I see,” said Jervis. “Your sympathy takes a practical form. Well, if you are going to back the bill, we must see that it doesn’t get too obese. A swagger solicitor wouldn’t do; besides, he would be too busy to attend in person. But we should want a good man. Preferably a young man with a rather small practice. Yes, I think I know the very man. What do you say, Thorndyke, to young Linnell? He was Marchmont’s managing clerk, but he has gone into practice on his own account and he has distinct leanings towards criminal work.”

  “I remember him,” said Thorndyke. “A very promising yeung man. Could you get into touch with him?”

  “I will see him today before he leaves his office and I think there is no doubt that he will undertake the case gladly. At any rate, Oldfield, you can take it that the matter is in our hands and that the lady will be fully protected, even if I have to accompany her to Scotland Yard myself. But you must play your hand, too. You are her doctor, and it is for you to see that she is not subjected to any strain that she is not fit to bear. A suitable medical certificate will put the stopper even on Blandy.”

  As Jervis ceased speaking, the soft-voiced bell of the unseen clock, having gently chimed the quarters, now struck (if one may use so violent an expression) the hour of four. I rose from my chair, and, having thanked both my friends profusely for their help, held out my hand.

  “One moment, Oldfield,” said Thorndyke. “You have tantalized us with a bare precis of the astonishing story that you have to tell. But we want the unabridged edition. When are we to have it? We realize that you are rather tied to your practice. But perhaps we could look in on you when you have some time to spare, say, one evening after dinner. How would that do?”

  “Why after dinner?” I demanded. “Why not come and dine with me and do the pow-wow after?”

  “That would be very pleasant,” said Thorndyke. “Don’t you agree, Jervis?”

  Jervis agreed emphatically; and as it appeared that both my friends were free that very evening, it was settled that we should meet again at Osnaburgh Street and discuss the Gannet case at length.

  “And remember,” said I, pausing in the doorway, “that consultation hours are usually more or less blank, so you can come as early as you like.”

  With this parting admonition, I shut the door after me and went on my way.

  THE STONEWARE MONKEY [Part 2]

  CHAPTER 11

  Mr. Bunderby Expounds

  As I emerged from the Temple gateway into Fleet Street I was confronted by a stationary omnibus, held up temporarily by a block in the traffic; and glancing at it casually, my eye caught, among the names on its rear board, those of Piccadilly and Bond Street. The latter instantly associated itself with the gallery of which Mrs. Gannet had spoken that morning, and the effect of the association was to cause me to jump on to the omnibus just as
it started to move. I had nearly two hours to spare and in that time could easily inspect the exhibition of Gannet’s work.

  I was really quite curious about this show, for Gannet’s productions had always been somewhat of a mystery to me. They were so amazingly crude and so deficient, as I thought, in any kind of ceramic quality. And yet I felt there must be something more in them than I had been able to discover. There must be some deficiency in my own powers of perception and appreciation; for it was a fact that they had not only been publicly exhibited but actually sold, and sold at quite impressive prices; and one felt that the people who paid those prices must surely know what they were about. At any rate, I should now see the pottery in its appropriate setting and perhaps hear some comments from those who were better able than I to form a judgment.

  I had no difficulty in finding the Lyntondale Gallery, for a flag bearing its name hung out boldly from a first floor window; and when I had paid my shilling entrance fee and a further shilling for a catalogue, I passed in through the turnstile and was straightway spirited aloft in an elevator.

  On entering the principal room of the gallery I was aware of a knot of people—about a dozen—gathered before a large glass case and appearing to surround a stout, truculent-looking gentleman with a fine, rich complexion and a mop of white hair which stood up like the crest of a cockatoo. But my attention was more particularly attracted by another gentleman, who stood apart from the knot of visitors and appeared to be either the proprietor of the gallery or an attendant. What drew my attention to him was an indefinite something in his appearance that seemed familiar. I felt that I had seen him somewhere before. But I could not place him; and while I was trying to remember where I might have seen him, he caught my eye and approached with a deferential smile.

  “You have arrived quite opportunely, sir,” said he. “Mr. Bunderby, the eminent art critic, is just about to give us a little talk on the subject of Peter Gannet’s very remarkable pottery. It will be worth your while to hear it. Mr. Bunderby’s talks are always most illuminating.”

  I thanked him warmly for the information, for an illuminating talk on this subject by a recognized authority was precisely what I wanted to hear; and as the cockatoo gentleman—whom I diagnosed as Mr. Bunderby—had just opened a show case and transferred one of the pieces to a small revolving stand, like a modeler’s turntable, I joined the group that surrounded him and prepared to “lend him my ears.”

  The piece that he had placed on the stand was one of Gannet’s roughest; an uncouth vessel, in appearance something between a bird’s nest and a flower pot. I noticed that the visitors stared at it in obvious bewilderment and Mr. Bunderby watched their expressions with a satisfied smile.

  “Before speaking to you,” said he, “of these remarkable works, I must say just a few words about their creator. Peter Gannet is a unique artist. Whereas the potters of the past have striven after more and yet more sophistication, Gannet has perceived the great truth that pottery should be simple and elemental, and with wonderful courage and insight, he has set himself to retrace the path along which mankind has strayed, back to that fountainhead of culture, the New Stone Age. He has cast aside the potter’s wheel and all other mechanical aids, and relies solely on that incomparable instrument, the skilled hand of the artist.

  “So in these works, you must not look for mechanical accuracy or surface finish. Gannet is, first and foremost, a great stylist, who subordinates everything to the passionate pursuit of essential form. So much for the man. And now we will turn to the pottery.”

  He paused a few moments and stood with half-closed eyes and his head on one side, contemplating the bowl on the stand. Then he resumed his discourse.

  “I begin,” said he, “by showing you this noble and impressive work because it is typical of the great artist by whose genius it was created. It presents in a nutshell” (he might have said a coconut shell) “the aims, the ambitions and the inmost thoughts and emotions of its maker. Looking at it, we realize with respectful admiration the wonderful power of analysis, the sensibility—at once subtle and intense—that made its conception possible; and we can trace the deep thought, the profound research—the untiring search for the essentials of abstract form.”

  Here a lady, who spoke with a slight American intonation, ventured to remark that she didn’t quite understand this piece. Mr. Bunderby fixed her with his truculent blue eye and replied, impressively:

  “You don’t understand it! But of course you don’t. And you shouldn’t try to. A great work of art is not to be understood. It is to be felt. Art is not concerned with intellectual expositions. Those it leaves to science. It is the medium of emotional transfer whereby the soul of the artist conveys to kindred spirits the reactions of his own sensibility to the problems of abstract form.”

  Here another Philistine intervened with the objection that he was not quite clear as to what was meant by “abstract form.”

  “No,” said Mr. Bunderby, “I appreciate your difficulty. Mere verbal language is a clumsy medium for the expression of those elusive qualities that are to be felt rather than described. How shall I explain myself? Perhaps it is impossible. But I will try.

  “The words ‘abstract form,’ then, evoke in me the conception of that essential, pervading, geometric sub-structure which persists when all the trivial and superficial accidents of mere visual appearances have been eliminated. In short, it is the fundamental rhythm which is the basic aesthetic factor underlying all our abstract conceptions of spatial limitation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Oh, perfectly, thank you,” the Philistine replied, hastily, and forthwith retired deep into his shell and was heard no more.

  I need not follow Mr. Bunderby’s discourse in detail. The portion that I have quoted is a representative sample of the whole. As I listened to the sounding phrases with their constantly recurring references to “rhythm” and “essential abstract form,” I was conscious of growing disappointment. All this nebulous verbiage conveyed nothing to me. I seemed merely to be listening to Peter Gannet at second hand (though probably it was the other way about; that I had, in the studio talks, been listening to Bunderby at second hand). At any rate, it told me nothing about the pottery; and so far from resolving my doubts and misgivings, left me only still more puzzled and bewildered.

  But enlightenment was to come. It came, in fact, when the whole collection seemed to have been reviewed. There was an impressive pause while Mr. Bunderby passed his fingers through his crest, making it stand up another two inches, and glared at the empty stand.

  “And now,” said he, “as a final bonne bouche, I am going to show you another facet of Peter Gannet’s genius. May we have the decorated jar, Mr. Kempster?”

  As the name was uttered, my obscure recognition of the proprietor was instantly clarified. But close as his resemblance was to the diamond merchant of Newingstead, he was obviously not the same man. Indeed he could not have been. Nevertheless, I observed him with interest as he advanced with slow steps, treading delicately and holding the precious jar in both hands as if it had been the Holy Grail or a live bomb. At length he placed it, with infinite care and tenderness, on the stand; slowly withdrew his hands and stepped back a couple of paces, still gazing at it reverentially.

  “There,” said Bunderby, “look at that!”

  They looked at it and so did I,—with bulging eyes and mouth agape. It was amazing—incredible. And yet it was impossible that I could be mistaken. Every detail of it was familiar, including the marks of my own latch-key and the little dents made by the clinical thermometer. Eagerly I awaited Bunderby’s exposition; and when it came it surpassed even my expectations.

  “I have reserved this, the gem of the collection, to the last because, though at first glance it is different from the others, it is typical. It affords the perfect and unmistakable expression of Peter Gannet’s artistic personality. Even more than the other it testifies to the rigorous, single-minded search for essential form and abstract rhythm. It is t
he fine flower of hand-built pottery. And mark you, not only does its hand-built character leap to the eye (the expert eye, of course), but it is obvious that by no method but that of direct modelling by hand could it have been created.

  “Then consider the ornament. Note this charming guilloche, executed with the most masterly freedom with the thumb-nail—just the simple thumb-nail; a crude instrument, you may say; but no other could produce exactly this effect, as the ancient potters knew.”

  He ran his finger lovingly over the mustard-spoon impressions and continued:

  “Then look at these lovely rosettes. They tell us that when the artist created them he had in his mind the idea of ‘what o’clocks’—the dandelion head. Profoundly stylized as the form is, generalized from the representational plane to that of ultimate abstraction, we can still trace the thought.”

  As he paused, one of the spectators remarked that the rosettes seemed to have been executed with the end of a key.

  “They do,” Bunderby agreed, “and it is quite possible that they were. And why not? The genius asks for no special apparatus. He uses the simple means that lie to his hand. But that hand is the hand of a master which transmutes to gold the very clay that feels its touch.

  “So it has done in this little masterpiece. It has produced what we feel to be a complete epitome of abstract three-dimensional form. And then the rhythm! The rhythm!”

  He paused, having apparently exhausted his vocabulary (if such a thing were possible). Then suddenly he looked at his watch and started.

  “Dear me!” he exclaimed. “How the time flies! I must be running away. I have four more galleries to inspect. Let me thank you for the courteous interest with which you have listened to my simple comments and express the hope that some of you may be able to secure an example of the work of a great and illustrious artist. I had intended to say a few words about Mr. Boles’s exquisite neo-primitive jewelry but my glass has run out. I wish you all good afternoon.”