“But how had he met with his death? The circumstances plainly pointed to murder; and this was confirmed by evident signs of a struggle in the nettles and the long grass. But, strangely enough, there were no wounds or other injuries. The clothing was somewhat disordered, the collar was crumpled, and there appeared to be slight bruises on the neck; but nothing that would serve to account for death. When, however, the divisional surgeon arrived and made his examination, he decided, provisionally, that death was due to poisoning either by prussic acid or some cyanide. Thereupon a search was made for some container, which resulted in the discovery among the nettles of a small bottle bearing traces of a liquid which had the smell of bitter almonds.
“As to the time at which death occurred, as the surgeon made his examination at 5.35 P.M. and he decided that deceased had been dead not more than two hours, it would seem that it must have taken place about four o’clock. The time is important in connection with the only clue to the mystery. About half-past four, a carter taking a load of bricks along the track through the wood, met a man coming from the direction of the cart-shed. This man was seen also by a bricklayer’s labourer, emerging from the wood into the half-built street; and he was seen again by a young constable, who noticed him particularly and has given a description of him which agrees exactly with that of the other two witnesses, and which has been circulated by the police, with a request to the man to communicate with them.
“The description is as follows: Height about five feet ten, strongly built, age from forty-five to fifty, grey eyes, brown hair and short brown moustache, dressed in a buff tweed knickerbocker suit with buff stockings and brown shoes, buff soft felt hat with rather broad brim; brown canvas satchel over left shoulder, folding stool and some kind of stand or easel strapped together and carried by a handle in the left hand and a couple of wooden frames, apparently picture canvases, in a holder carried in the right hand.
“The constable, who encountered the man at the bus stop in the Linton Green Road, waiting for the east-bound omnibus, reports that he seemed to be rather anxious to get on, as he inquired when the next omnibus was due and was apparently annoyed to learn that the last one had only just passed. He spoke in a deep, strong voice with the accent of an educated man. The conductor of the omnibus also noticed the man and remembered that he alighted at Marylebone Church but did not see which way he went after alighting.
“At the inquest, which was held on Friday, little further light was thrown on the mystery. The medical evidence proved that deceased died from poisoning by a strong solution of potassium cyanide, either taken by himself or forcibly administered by some other person. There were slight bruises on the neck but nothing to indicate extreme violence, and, in a medical sense, there was nothing to show that the poison was not taken by deceased himself. The police evidence, however, was more definite. The poison bottle bore a number of fingerprints, but although these were very imperfect, the experts were able to say, positively, that they were not those of deceased or of any person known to the police. This fact, as the coroner pointed out in his summing-up, taken with the signs of a struggle, made it nearly certain that the poison was forcibly administered to deceased by some other person. The coroner also commented on the significance of deceased’s profession. Mr. Montagu was a financier; in effect, a moneylender; and a moneylender is apt to have enemies with strong reasons for compassing his death. In the present case, no such person was at present known. As to the mysterious artist, his identity had not yet been ascertained as he had not been traced and had not come forward, and nothing was known of his connection, if any, with the tragedy.
“At the conclusion of die summing-up, the jury promptly returned a verdict of Wilful Murder by some person or persons unknown; and that is how the matter stands. Perhaps, when the police are able to get in touch with the elusive artist, some fresh facts may come to light.”
As Tom finished his reading, he handed the cutting back to Polton, who returned it carefully to his wallet, and, having put the teapot on the table, silently awaited comments.
“Well,” said Tom, “as I remarked before, it’s a pretty kettle of fish. I am the mysterious and elusive artist and a possible for the title of murderer. However, the elusiveness can be mended. I had better pop along to the police station tomorrow morning and let them know who I am.”
“Yes, sir,” Polton agreed earnestly. “That is very necessary. But why wait till tomorrow? Why not go round this evening? The police may succeed at any moment in tracing you, and it would be so much better if you were to go to them of your own accord than to leave them to find you. Don’t forget that they have reasonable grounds for suspicion. This murder has been the talk of the town for nearly a week. The papers have been full of it, including the excellent description of you. Probably you are the only person in London who has not heard of it.”
Tom laughed, grimly. “By Jove, Polton,” said he, “you are talking like a prosecuting counsel. But you are quite right. I am a suspected person, and it won’t do for me to look as if I were in hiding. I will amble round to the police station this very evening.”
But Tom’s wise decision came too late. Less than half an hour later, when they had finished tea, and Polton, having insisted on washing up, was in the act of stowing the tea-things in the great armoire, the jingling of the studio bell was heard from without and Tom went forth to answer the summons. When he opened the gate he discovered on the threshold a tall, clerical-looking man, who saluted him with a deferential bow and a suave smile.
“Have I the pleasure,” the stranger inquired, “of addressing Mr. Thomas Pedley?”
“You have,” Tom replied with a faint grin. “At any rate, I am Thomas Pedley.”
“So I had supposed,” the other rejoined, glancing at the brass plate, “and I am delighted to make your acquaintance, as I believe that you may be able to help me in certain investigations in which I am engaged. Perhaps I should explain that I am a police officer, and if you would like to see my authority—”
“No, thanks,” replied Tom. “I think I know what your business is, and, in fact, I was going to call at the police station this very evening. However, this will be better. Come along in.”
He preceded the officer across the yard and ushered him into the studio, where Polton was discovered standing on a stool setting the clock to time by his watch.
“Well, I’m sure!” the officer exclaimed. “Here is a delightful surprise. My old and esteemed friend, Mr. Polton! And what a singular coincidence. Have you known Mr. Pedley long?”
“A good time,” replied Polton. “We first met in an antique shop in Soho; Parrott’s. You remember Parrott—his name was really Pettigrew, and he was the villain who murdered Mr. Penrose.”
“I remember the case,” said the officer, “though I was not concerned in it. But there is another coincidence; for, by a strange chance, it is a murder case that is the occasion of my visit here.”
Tom did not quite perceive the coincidence but he made no remark, waiting for the officer to open the proceedings. Meanwhile Polton tentatively approached his hat, with the suggestion that “perhaps they would rather discuss their business alone.”
“You needn’t go on my account,” said the officer. “There are no secrets,” and as Tom expressed himself to the same effect, Polton gladly relinquished the hat and sat down with undisguised satisfaction to listen.
“Now, Mr. Pedley,” the officer began, “I am going to ask you a few questions, and it is my duty to explain that you are not bound to answer any if the answer would tend—in the silly official phrase—to incriminate you.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Tom, with a broad grin.
“Yes,” said the officer, with a responsive smile. “Ridiculous expression, but we must observe the formalities. Well, as a start; can you remember where you were and what you were doing on Tuesday, the eighteenth of May?”
“Last Tuesday. Yes. In the afternoon I was in Gravel-pit Wood, Linton Green. I got there about
two o’clock and I came away about half-past four, or perhaps a little earlier. In the interval I was painting a picture of the wood, which I will show you if you care to see it.”
“Thank you,” said the officer. “I should like very much to see it, presently. But meanwhile another question arises. It appears from what you tell me that you must actually have been in the wood while the murder was being committed, and yet, although there was an urgent broadcast appeal for information and similar appeals in the Press, you never came forward or made any sign whatever; not even though those appeals were coupled with a description of yourself, and so, in effect, addressed to you personally. Now, why did you not communicate with the police?”
“The explanation is perfectly simple,” replied Tom. “Until a couple of hours ago, when Mr. Polton told me about it, I had no knowledge that any murder had been committed.”
The officer received this statement with a bland and benevolent smile.
“A perfectly simple explanation,” he agreed; “and yet, if I were disposed to cavil—which I am not—I might think of the broadcast and the daily papers with their staring headlines and wonder—but, as I say, I am not.”
“I dare say,” said Tom, “that it sounds odd. But I have no wireless and I hardly ever see a paper. At any rate, it is the fact that I had never heard of the crime until Mr. Polton mentioned it and showed me an account of it which he had cut out of a newspaper.”
Here Polton interposed with a deferential crinkle. “If it would not seem like a liberty, sir, I should like to say that Mr. Pedley showed me the picture and told me where and when he had painted it; and he seemed very much shocked and surprised when I informed him about the murder.”
The officer regarded the speaker with a smile of concentrated benevolence.
“Thank you, Mr. Polton,” said he. “Your very helpful statement disposes of the difficulty completely. Now, perhaps, I may have the privilege of seeing the picture.”
Tom rose, and, fetching a rough studio frame from a stack by the wall, slipped the canvas into it and replaced it on the easel.
“There it is,” said he; “not quite finished but perhaps all the better for that as a representation.”
“Yes,” the officer agreed, “as my interest in it is merely topographical, though I can see that it is a very lovely work of art.” He stood before the easel beaming on the picture as if pronouncing a benediction on it, but nevertheless scrutinizing it minutely. Presently he produced from a roomy inner pocket a small portfolio from which he took a section of the six-inch Ordnance map pasted on thin card. “Here, Mr. Pedley,” said he, “is a large-scale map of the wood. Do you think you could show me the position of the spot which this picture represents?”
Tom took the map from him and studied it for a few moments while he felt in his pocket for a pencil.
“I think,” said be, indicating a spot with the pencil point, “that this will be the place. I am judging by the curve of the footpath, as the individual trees are not shown. Shall I make a mark?”
“If you please,” the officer replied; and when Tom had marked a minute cross and handed the card back to its owner, the latter produced a boxwood scale and a pair of pocket dividers, with which he took off the distance from the cross to the nearest point on the path and measured it on the scale.
“A hundred and seven yards, I make it,” said he. “What do you say to that?”
“Yes,” Tom answered, “that seems about right.”
“Very well. You were about a hundred yards from the path. From where you were, could you see any person that might pass along that path?”
“I could, and I did. Not very clearly, because I was sitting on a low stool and I could only see out through the chinks in the foliage. But while I was working there I saw three persons pass down the path, and two of them came back.”
“And do you suppose that those persons saw you?”
“I am pretty certain that they didn’t. They couldn’t, you know. Sitting low among the bushes, as I was, I must have been quite invisible from the path.”
“Yes,” the officer agreed; “but you could see them. Now, what can you tell me about them?”
“All I can tell you is that they behaved in a rather queer way. At least, one of them did;” and here Tom proceeded to give a minute and circumstantial account of what he had seen.
“But, my dear Mr. Pedley,” the officer exclaimed, beaming delightedly on the narrator, “this is most important and illuminating. The woman is a new feature of the case. By the way, did anyone else pass?”
“No. These were the only people that I saw until just as I was coming away, when I met a man bringing a cart full of bricks through the wood.”
“Then there can be no doubt as to who those people were. One was Mr. Montagu, the other was the murderer, and the woman must have been connected with one or both of the men. What time was it when they passed down?”
“About four o’clock or perhaps a few minutes earlier. It would be about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour later when the man came back.”
“Yes,” said the officer, “that seems to agree with the evidence. And now we come to the most important point of all; can you give us any description of them, and do you think you would recognize them if you saw them again?”
“As to recognizing them, I am very doubtful. Certainly I couldn’t swear to any of them. And I don’t think I could give much of a description. They were a good distance away and I saw them only through the chinks between the branches, and wasn’t taking very much notice. However, I will see what I can remember.”
With this he embarked on a description of the three persons, rather vague and general though helped out by questions from the officer, who jotted down the answers in his notebook.
“Yes,” the latter remarked as Tom concluded, “not so bad. But yet, Mr. Pedley, I feel that you must have seen more than that. You are not an ordinary observer. You are a painter. Now, a painter’s eye is a noticing eye and a remembering eye. Supposing you were to try to paint the scene from memory—”
“By Jove!” Tom interrupted, “I’m glad you said that, for it happens that that is just what I did do, and on the very day, while my memory was fresh. I thought the incident might make the subject for a picture, ‘The Eavesdropper,’ and that evening I roughed out a trial sketch. I will show it to you.”
From a collection of unfinished works on a shelf he produced the sketch and set it on the easel beside the larger picture, from which the background had been copied.
“Ha!” said the officer. “Now you see that I was right. The brush is mightier than the word. This tells us a lot more than your description. It shows us what the people really looked like. This figure is evidently Mr. Montagu, hat and coat quite correct, and you have even shown the ivory handle of the umbrella. And the other two are not mere figures; they look like particular persons.”
“Yes,” agreed Polton, who had been gazing at the sketch with delighted interest, “Mr. Blandy is quite right. But it is really very wonderful. Those two men have their backs to us, and the woman’s face has practically no features; and yet I feel that they are real persons and that I should know them again if I were to meet them. Can you explain it, Mr. Pedley?”
“Well,” Tom replied, “I can only say that this is an impression of the scene at a particular moment, and that is how these people looked at that moment. You identify a person not only by his face but by his size, shape, proportions, and characteristic posture and movements. You can often recognize a man by his walk long before you can distinguish his features.”
“Exactly,” said Blandy, “and that is why our recognizing officers like to watch the remand prisoners in the exercise yard. They can often spot a disguised man by his general make-up and the way he walks or stands, and I am inclined to think that this sketch might be useful to a specialist of that kind. Would it be possible to borrow it and have a photograph made to accompany your description?”
Before Tom could reply, Polt
on broke in eagerly.
“Why not let me do the photograph for you, Inspector? I could bring my camera here so that you wouldn’t have to borrow the sketch. I should like to do it, if you’d let me.”
Inspector Blandy beamed on him with ineffable amiability.
“How very good of you, Mr. Polton,” said he. “Always so helpful. But it would be a good photograph, and you would have a copy to add to your little collection. I am inclined to accept gratefully if Mr. Pedley will grant us permission.”
Mr. Pedley granted his permission without demur, whereupon the inspector, having arranged a date of delivery with Polton, prepared to take his leave.
“By the way,” said he, picking up his hat and putting it down again, “there are two little points that we may as well clear up. First, as to the stature of the unknown man and the woman. The man looks distinctly shorter than Mr. Montagu, who was about five feet ten. What do you say?”
“Yes,” replied Tom. “I should put him at about five feet seven. The woman looked taller, but then women do. I should say that she was about the same height.”
The inspector made a note of the answer and then said:
“When you met the carter, you seemed to be coming from the bottom of the wood.”
“I was. As one of the men had not come back, it seemed that the path, which I had supposed ended at the bottom of the wood, must continue beyond, so I went down to see if it did. When I saw that it crossed the farmyard I came back and started homeward.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 266
