“Now let us consider the man. Of his personal appearance we can say no more than that Mrs. Bigham took him to be Mr. Vanderpuye and that there was probably some general resemblance as to age and figure. That, however, is a mere surmise. But there are three facts which seem to be profoundly significant. This man opened the door with a latch-key; but as he might have received it from the woman, that circumstance has no great importance. The three strikingly significant facts that I allude to are: first, that he still had the key in his possession when he came out; second, that he took extraordinary precautions against noise by easing the door to with the key; third, that when he came out he was carrying a bag or suitcase which he was not carrying when he went in.
What was he doing with that latch-key, which was certainly not his, whoever he was? The strong suggestion is that he had kept it for the express purpose of shutting the door silently. But why that strange, stealthy exit? Why was he so anxious that his departure should not be known to the inmates of the house? Finally, whose bag was it that he was carrying, and what was in it? When we ask ourselves those questions, remembering that this man had been in the house, apparently alone with the woman, for an hour and a half, the answer seems to be that his behaviour is singularly suggestive of that of one escaping from the scene of a crime and taking with him certain in criminating objects connected with it. That, I say, is the suggestion. It is nothing more, taken alone. But taken together with the evidence of the doctor and the inspector, it is, perhaps, more than suggestion. That is for you to judge. When you consider your verdict you will have to decide between two alternatives: did deceased meet her death by her own act or by the act of another; did she commit suicide or was she murdered? That is the issue, and I leave you to consider it.”
The silence that settled down on the court as the coroner concluded his address was of short duration; so short as to suggest that the jury had already made up their minds; for within a couple of minutes the foreman announced that they had agreed on their verdict.
“We find,” said he, in answer to the coroner’s question, “that deceased died from the effects of poison, administered to her by some person unknown.”
“Yes,” said the coroner, “that is a verdict of wilful murder. I shall enter it as such, and I may say that I am in full agreement with you.”
This brought the proceedings to an end. The witnesses, spectators, and reporters rose and began to file out of the court: Dr. Oldfield bustled out to his waiting car with the inspector, and Tom Pedley, Polton, and Vanderpuye went off together en route for the studio.
CHAPTER IX
Where is Lotta?
The inquest and the events which had preceded it had broken in on the quiet current of Tom Pedley’s life leaving him somewhat unsettled, and as the day following the inquiry found him disinclined for regular work he devoted it to a survey of his stock of materials and the drawing up in his notebook of a list of deficiencies. The process disclosed the fact that the book which he was using was nearly full and that he had no other to replace it. Now, Tom’s notebooks were no mere ready-made productions which could be bought when required. They had been designed by him with careful thought as to suitability of size, shape, thickness, and binding, and were specially made for him, of a selected paper which was good for pen or pencil, or, at a pinch, a wash of colour, by the artists’ colourman in the Hampstead Road. He usually ordered a dozen at a time, and each one, as it became used up, was provided with a date label on the back and was stowed away on a shelf with its predecessors to form part of an ever-growing series.
It was an admirable plan; for not only did the series furnish a store of material for reference, but, since Tom invariably dated his sketches no matter how slight, and even the written notes, the collection served as a fairly complete diary and a record of his doings and his whereabouts on a given date. Accordingly, having added to his list a dozen of the indispensable note books, he set forth at once for the establishment of the provider.
As he turned the corner of Jacob Street into the Hampstead Road, he perceived, a short distance ahead, his old acquaintance Inspector Blandy in earnest conversation with Mrs. Bigham; and as he had no desire for a meeting with either the inspector or Mrs. Bigham (whom he privately regarded as an inveterate “Nosy Parker”), he mended his pace and assumed an air of intense preoccupation. But it was of no use. Both saw him at the same moment; and the inspector, hastily detaching himself from the lady, advanced to meet him, holding out his hand and beaming with benevolence.
“This is a stroke of good fortune for me,” he exclaimed, pressing Tom’s hand affectionately, “I have been wanting to have a word with you and now here you are.”
Tom agreed, cautiously, that there he was and waited for developments.
“The matter is this,” the inspector explained: “We have been trying to get into touch with Mrs. Schiller but we haven’t succeeded. Either she hasn’t seen our advertisements or she is keeping out of the way; and, as she won’t, or at least, doesn’t, come forward, we must take more active measures. To do that, we must have a full and exact description of her, and the question has arisen, how are we to get it? Now, as soon as that question arose, my thoughts naturally turned to you. Mr. Pedley, I said, with his remarkable powers of observation and his wonderful visual memory, will be able to give us a description that will be as good as, or even better than, a photograph.”
“Is Mrs. Schiller under suspicion?” Tom asked, warily.
“Suspicion!” the inspector repeated in a shocked tone. “Certainly not. Why should she be? But she could give us invaluable information respecting that key, for instance, and perhaps about Mrs. Robey and those other unknown persons. I trust you won’t refuse us your help. It is to her interest as well as being a matter of public policy that this mystery should be cleared up.”
“I shouldn’t be prepared to give a description offhand,” said Tom.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Blandy agreed. “The visual memory must have time to operate—but not too much time, as the matter is urgent. I suggest that you think it over and jot down a few notes.”
“And post them to you,” Tom suggested, hopefully; but the inspector amended:
“Hand them to me, personally. You see, they might need some explanation and amplification. Would it be possible for me to call for them at your studio this evening?”
Deciding that it would be best to get the business over at once, Tom assented, and, when the hour of 7.30 had been agreed on, he shook the inspector’s hand and left him to rejoin Mrs. Bigham (who had been lurking observantly in the offing) while he hurried away to the shop of the artists’ colourman.
Having transacted his business there, he came away, and turning northward, started on a brisk walk through the quiet squares to consider the situation. The whole affair was extremely distasteful to him. He had no love for Lotta Schiller, but she had been in a sense his friend, and his natural loyalty revolted against the idea of his aiding the police in their pursuit of her; for that was what it amounted to in spite of Blandy’s indignant protest. Obviously, she was under suspicion; but to what extent and how justly Tom did not like to ask himself. However, he had no choice. A crime had been committed and it was his duty as a good citizen to give what help he could to the police in their investigation of it; and having reached this conclusion, he turned his face homeward to give effect to it.
Once embarked on the description, he carried it out with his customary thoroughness. On one of the few remaining pages of his notebook, he jotted down his recollections of Lotta, point by point, referring back to the memory sketches that he had made of her for details of the profile, and trying to visualize her as completely as was possible. The result rather surprised him; for though he had seen her often enough and observed her with a certain disapproving interest, he had not expected that his memory would have yielded a description so vivid and so full of detail.
When he had completed his notes, he took a sheet of paper and wrote out a fair copy, the
reby making the production of the notebook unnecessary; and he had but just finished this when, punctually to the minute, the studio bell rang, whereupon he pocketed the note book and went out to admit the inspector.
“This is extraordinarily kind of you, Mr. Pedley,” said Blandy as he entered and smiled a general benediction on the premises, “to let me take up your valuable time in this way. But I mustn’t take up too much of it. Are these the notes?”
He picked up the copy which Tom had placed on the table, and, laying down a portfolio that he had brought (which Tom instantly recognized as Lotta’s) glanced rapidly through the notes, while Tom speculated anxiously on the significance of the portfolio.
“Astonishing!” Blandy exclaimed as he finished the preliminary reading. “One might have thought that you had the lady before you as you wrote. What a wonderful thing is the artist’s visual memory. You seem to have observed and remembered everything, even to the difference between the two ears. By the way, what exactly does a Darwinian tubercle look like? Perhaps a slight sketch on the back of this paper—”
Tom took the copy from him, and, turning it over made a rapid but careful pencil sketch of a right ear, showing the feature in question.
“Oh, thank you,” said Blandy, taking the paper from him. “I see. This little projection on the edge is the tubercle. But tell me; does this drawing represent that particular ear in other respects?”
“It does as nearly as I can remember.”
“That is good enough for me. And now with regard to the hair; I am not quite clear about that. You say, ‘Hair unusual in colour; between light brown and flaxen, but of a peculiar texture which makes the colour seem variable.’ Could you amplify that description?”
“Well,” said Tom, “I am not very clear about it myself, as I have never seen any other hair quite like it. I might compare it to shot silk. You know what that looks like; changes in colour when you move it about and let the light fall on it differently; green, it may be, in one position, and violet in another. Of course, Mrs. Schiller’s hair doesn’t change to that extent, but it does seem to change; quite golden in one light and almost brown in another.”
“You don’t think it may have been dyed or faked in some way?”
“That is possible. Light hair dyed black sometimes looks red or purple when the light shines through it, but I never got the impression that her hair was dyed. However, I expect you know more about faked hair than I do.”
The inspector admitted that it might be so, and, having entered the “amplification” on the back of the sheet, put one or two questions concerning the other items of the description. When these had been disposed of, he carefully put away the document, and, after a few moments’ reflection, asked:
“By the way, Mr. Pedley, when did you last see Mrs. Schiller?”
“On the day of the Epping Forest jaunt, I parted from her and Vanderpuye close by the Ancient British camp, they taking the green ride towards High Beach and I going on to Great Monk Wood. We said ‘good bye’ at the corner, and I never saw her again.”
“Rather odd, that. Don’t you think so?”
“I did at the time, but then I didn’t know she was going away. In fact, I expected that she would look me up within a day or two, and I even got out a map of the forest and a large-scale plan of the British camp to show or lend her.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Blandy.
“I thought she intended to make another visit there. She seemed greatly interested in the camp, and she proposed to Vanderpuye that they should come another day and explore it; and, as he agreed, I took it as a settled thing.”
“You don’t happen to know whether they did make another visit there?”
“They couldn’t have done, as Vanderpuye never saw her again after that night. You heard him say so at the inquest. But what I can’t understand is why she made the proposal when she had already decided to go to Birmingham.”
“Yes,” the inspector agreed, thoughtfully, “it does seem a bit inconsistent. I wonder—”
But what he wondered never transpired, as he left the sentence unfinished and Tom did not pursue the subject. A brief silence followed. Then the inspector said, taking up the portfolio:
“I am going still further to trespass on your forbearance. Would you be so very kind as to look at these paintings of Mrs. Schiller’s and give me your opinion of them?”
“I am not a critic, you know, Inspector,” Tom protested. “My job is to paint pictures, not to judge other people’s work.”
“I know,” said Blandy, “and I understand your delicacy. But the point is this: is Mrs. Schiller an artist at all or is she an impostor? Now, look at that.” He drew forth the painting of Adam and Eve and laid it on the table. “It looks to me like a child’s drawing, and not a clever child at that.”
Tom had to admit that it did, “but,” he added, “there is a new fashion in art which accepts childish drawing as the real thing. I don’t understand it, but the highbrow journalists do. Why not get an opinion from an art critic?”
Blandy shook his head. “That is no use to me, Mr. Pedley. I don’t want to hear a man expound theories or spin phrases. I am out for facts. Now you are a genuine artist. I can see that for myself. You know what a competent artist is like, and I ask you to tell me, in confidence, whether Mrs. Schiller is a bona fide artist or only an impostor. Remember, I am a police officer seeking information, and I think you ought to be frank with me.”
“Well, Inspector,” said Tom, “if it will help you, I will tell you what I know, but I don’t want to offer mere opinions. I know that Mrs. Schiller can’t draw and can’t paint, and that she seems to have no natural aptitude for painting. Whether she is or is not an impostor, I can’t tell you. If she honestly believes that she is an artist, she is suffering from a delusion; if she knows that she is not an artist, but pretends that she is, she is an impostor. That is all I can say.”
“It’s enough for me,” said Blandy. “I can answer the other question for myself. And now I will just pop round and put this portfolio back where I found it; and I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Pedley, for the generous way in which you have placed at my disposal your vast stores of knowledge and experience and your really astonishing powers of memory.”
With this final flourish, he shook Tom’s hand affectionately and allowed himself to be escorted to the gate.
Having launched his visitor into the street, Tom returned to the studio breathing more freely and hoping that he had now heard the last of the unpleasant affair in which he had become involved. And, in the days that followed, that hope seemed to be justified. Gradually he drifted back into his ordinary ways of life, now working in the studio at a new subject picture and now going forth in overcoat and warm gloves to make a rapid winter sketch in some accessible country district. An occasional glance at a newspaper told him that the mysterious Emma Robey was still unidentified and that the search for the equally mysterious Mrs. Schiller had yielded no results. But, beyond a faint curiosity as to what part Lotta had played in the crime and a hope that she was not in for serious trouble, he was not much interested. His principal desire was to be left alone to get on with his painting.
About three weeks later he made a fresh contact with the case, but it was such a slight one that, at the moment, it caused him no concern. It is true that when, in answer to the summons of the bell, he went out to the gate and found Inspector Blandy on the threshold, he was slightly disturbed until that officer announced his harmless mission.
“I am ashamed, Mr. Pedley, to come pestering you in this way, but I won’t detain you a minute. You were so kind as to mention, when I last called on you, that you had put out a plan of the British camp at Loughton to show or lend to Mrs. Schiller. Now I have come to ask if you would be so very good as to let me see that plan.”
“But, of course, Inspector,” Tom replied, ushering him into the studio. “Do you want to look at it here, or would you like to take it away with you to study at your leisure?�
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“That is a most generous suggestion, sir,” said Blandy (who had obviously come to borrow the plan). “I didn’t dare to make it myself, but if you would be so extremely kind—”
“Not at all,” Tom replied, opening a cupboard and running his eye along the shelves. “Ah, here we are. It’s really a pamphlet, you see, with a folded plan bound up with the text, so you’ve got all the information together. I hope you will find it useful, and you needn’t be in any hurry about returning it.”
He handed the little volume to the inspector, who, having glanced at it, slipped it into his pocket and then tactfully retired, discharging volleys of thanks on the way to the gate. When he had gone, Tom returned to the studio and prepared to resume his work; but, for once, his curiosity was definitely aroused. It had really been a rather odd transaction. For what purpose could the inspector require the plan? And why had he suddenly developed this curious “interest” in the British camp? These questions Tom continued to revolve in his mind at intervals for the rest of the evening, but answer there was none. He could make nothing of it, and at last put it away with the reflection that he could only wait and see what came of it.
He had not long to wait. On the following morning when he went forth to do his modest shopping, he was confronted with a staring poster outside the newsagent’s announcing in enormous type: “Jacob Street Murder: Dramatic Development,” and straightway went in and bought a paper. A single glance at the scare headlines on the front page enlightened him sufficiently as to the purpose of the inspector’s visit and he folded up the paper and pocketed it for more leisurely perusal when he had finished his shopping.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 276
