It was a lovely day despite the lateness of the month, and a beautiful scene. The noble beeches still bore many of their leaves, though these had now exchanged the tender green of summer for the gorgeous tints—all too fleeting—that marked the waning year. For four delightful hours Tom worked industriously, painting at the top of his form and enjoying every moment. Not a human creature came near him in all that time, though he received occasional visits from the non human people of the forest, as the landscape painter commonly does. An inquisitive squirrel played peep-bo with him round a tree and then came down and danced around him within a few feet of the easel. A pair of friendly blackbirds pursued their business close by, and once or twice a couple of the dark-coated forest deer stole across the opening, apparently oblivious of his presence.
At the end of the second hour he took what workmen call a "beaver"; a modest meal of bread and cheese (whereby the squirrel benefited to the extent of some morsels of bread and a piece of cheese rind), with a draught of beer from a large flask. Then once more he took up his palette and brushes and worked away steadily until the changing light told him that it was time to go; when he packed up tidily, lit his pipe, picked up his kit, and started back by the way he had come. At the junction of the two paths he paused to look along the green ride, though the afternoon was still young and his friends would hardly be returning so early. Nevertheless, as he took his way round the camp and back past the pond, he kept a half-unconscious look-out for them, and even at the station as he paced the platform they were still in his mind until the train came in and bore him away alone.
During the next few days his thoughts turned occasionally to his two friends, with vague speculations as to how they had fared in the forest. He had rather expected a visit from Lotta, and, on the strength of that speculation, had looked out the map, the compass, and the plan of the camp to hand to her when she should call. But to his surprise—almost to his disappointment—she made no appearance, and, eventually he decided that she had given up the project of exploring the camp, and, having put the things back in their usual receptacles, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
Yet, as the days passed without the expected visit or even the customary chance meetings in the street, her complete disappearance from his orbit impressed him as a little odd. He was even faintly displeased; a state of mind which he, himself, recognized as rather strange and perverse. For it was only a few weeks ago, when he had been the unwilling cher ami, that his chief desire in life had been to be rid of her; whereas now, though he felt no great concern, still, he would have been quite pleased to find her on his doorstep. Once he had even contemplated calling to make inquiries, but discretion prevailed. He had no desire to revive that troublesome intimacy.
It is probable that, if nothing further had happened, the passing of Lotta out of his life would have been accepted and presently ceased to be noticed. But a new circumstance tended to revive his curiosity. Returning one day by way of Cumberland Market, and thus passing her house, he noticed that her brass plate was not in its usual place. It was not a fixed plate permanently secured to the wall, but was held in place by removable fastenings, and it had been Lotta’s custom to take it down in the evening and replace it in the morning. Thus, when he noticed its absence, he assumed that she had merely forgotten to fix it up and thought no more about it. But, happening on the following day to glance at her door and again noting the absence of the plate, he gave the matter more attention; with the result that, after several daily observations, he decided that the plate had disappeared for good. Then, again, he had thought of calling, but now he was restrained by a fresh consideration. Possibilities which he had dimly envisaged might have become realized, and if so, it were well for him not to meddle in Lotta’s affairs. On the other hand, he was now definitely anxious and a little disturbed, particularly on Vanderpuye’s account, and it seemed to him that a few discreet inquiries through a third party might elicit the facts without committing him in any way.
Now the obvious third party was Mr. Polton. He was in touch with Vanderpuye and was certainly keeping an eye on the course of events. But the question was, how to get at Mr. Polton. Tom had never ventured to call on him as he resided on the premises of his employer, Dr. Thorndyke, and an uninvited visit would have seemed somewhat of an intrusion. Of course, he could have written to Mr. Polton, but that would have involved a direct inquiry, which he wished to avoid. His idea was that if he could contrive a meeting with his ingenious friend, the required information could be made to transpire naturally in a judiciously managed conversation, without his asking any questions at all.
The problem was, therefore, to find a pretext for a visit to Polton; a convincing pretext which would account for his having called rather than written. To the solution of this problem Tom addressed himself, and, being an eminently straightforward man, little addicted to pretexts of any kind, he had to give it a disproportionate amount of attention. And then the problem solved itself. Happening to pull out a drawer in which he kept miscellaneous oddments, he discovered in it the pedometer which he had been accustomed to carry on his expeditions in search of landscape subjects. For years it had served him well, but latterly it had become erratic in its action and so unreliable that he had ceased to carry it. So he had put it aside, intending some time to take Mr. Polton’s opinion on it. But out of sight had been out of mind and the matter had been forgotten. Now, however, it gave him not a mere pretext but a reasonable occasion for the visit.
Accordingly he dispatched a short note to Polton, announcing his intention to call, and, if an interview should not be convenient, to leave the pedometer for a diagnostic inspection; to which Polton replied by return with a cordial invitation and the necessary directions to his domain in the premises.
VII. OF A PEDOMETER AND A TRAGEDY
At four o’clock precisely, on a bright December afternoon, Tom Pedley arrived at the entry of Number 5A King’s Bench Walk, having made his way thither very pleasantly through the old-world courts of the Temple.
For a few moments he paused to examine with an artist’s appreciation the fine red brick portico (commonly attributed to Wren), then he entered, and, following Polton’s directions, ascended the stairs to the landing of the "Second Pair." As he reached it a door opened and his host came out to meet him.
"This is very pleasant, sir," said Polton, shaking hands warmly. "I don’t often have a visitor, being a solitary worker like yourself, so your visit will be quite a little treat for me. Will you come into the laboratory? We are going to have tea in my room upstairs, but I am boiling the kettle here to avoid smoking it on the fire."
As they entered the large room Tom glanced about him curiously, noting that some of the appointments, such as a joiner’s bench, a lathe, and a large copying camera, hardly accorded with his conception of a laboratory, and that a handsome copper kettle, mounted on a tripod over a Bunsen burner and a fine old silver teapot seemed to have strayed in from elsewhere.
‘Perhaps, sir," suggested Polton, "we might have a look at the pedometer while the kettle is getting up steam."
Tom fished the instrument out of his pocket and handed it to him, whereupon, having opened the glass back, he stuck a watchmaker’s eyeglass in his eye and examined the visible part of the mechanism.
"There doesn’t seem to be much amiss with it," he reported, dancing the instrument up and down to test the lever; "just a matter of wear. The little spring click has worn short and tends to slip over the teeth of the ratchet wheel. That is a fatal defect, but it’s easily mended; and I may find some other faults when I come to take it down, as we say in the trade—that is, take it to pieces. At any rate it will be none the worse for a clean up and a touch of fresh oil."
"I am afraid I am giving you a lot more trouble than I expected," said Tom.
Polton looked up at him with his queer, crinkly smile.
"Trouble, sir!" he exclaimed. "It is no trouble; it isn’t even work. It will give me several hours’ pleasant entertainme
nt, and I am much obliged to you for bringing me the instrument."
In confirmation he produced from one of his innumerable pockets a small portable screwdriver and seemed about to attack the pedometer forthwith, when the kettle intervened by blowing out a jet of steam; whereupon he replaced the cap of the screwdriver, returned it to his pocket, and proceeded methodically to make the tea.
As he led the way upstairs, carrying the teapot while his guest followed with the kettle, Tom remarked on the comeliness of the latter.
"Yes, sir," replied Polton, "it’s a fine old kettle. They don’t make them like that nowadays. I found it in a marine store in Portugal Street. Came from some old lawyer’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, I expect; and very shabby and battered it was, but I put a bit of work into it and made it as good as new. You see, sir, I rather take after you; I like the common things that I use and live with to be good and pleasant to look at."
His statement was borne out by the aspect of the spacious room on the "Third Pair" which they now entered, where a tea-table, flanked by two easy chairs, stood before the fire. Tom, having deposited the kettle on a trivet, out of reach of the smoke or flame, sat down in the chair allocated to him and surveyed the prospect, while Polton did the honours of the tea-table; noting the well-filled book-shelves, the one or two pictures on the walls (including his sketch for "The Eavesdropper," simply but tastefully framed) and a four-fold screen which he suspected of concealing a bed. It was all simple and plain, but the room and everything that was in it appealed quietly to Tom’s rather fastidious taste, even to the quaint old cottage clock that hung on the wall and hardly disturbed the silence by its homely tick.
"This is my private domain, sir," said Polton, "but I don’t spend much time in it. The laboratory is really my home. I am an inveterate mechanic, always happiest at my bench. That pedometer of yours is quite a windfall for me. May I ask how long you have had it?"
"I should say about a dozen years," replied Tom.
"And do you find it fairly accurate? The experts on surveying dismiss the pedometer as a mere useless toy. What is your experience of it?"
"It is accurate enough for my purpose," Tom replied. "I’m not a surveyor. I don’t deal in inches, but I find that it agrees pretty closely with maps and milestones, and that is enough for me."
"The reason that I asked is that I had thought of getting one for Mr. Vanderpuye to take back with him. There won’t be many milestones in his country."
"Is Mr. Vanderpuye going back to Africa soon?" Tom asked with suddenly awakened interest.
"Not very soon," replied Polton, "because he has joined the Bar Mess at the Central Criminal Court and is attending the court regularly; that is, he has been since Mrs. Schiller went away."
"Oh, she has gone away, has she?" asked Tom, considerably startled.
"Yes, sir; and I hope she will stop away, for, before she went, he used to neglect his work terribly. I am very much relieved that she has gone."
"Do you know whether she has gone for good?"
"I am afraid not, sir. Of course, I couldn’t ask any questions, but I gathered from Mr. Vanderpuye that she had gone to stay with some friends at Birmingham. How long she will be away I have no idea, and I don’t believe he has."
"I suppose you don’t know whether he corresponds with her?"
"I don’t actually know, sir, but I think not. My impression is that he doesn’t even know her address. Queer, isn’t it? But then she’s a queer woman. With all her flighty ways, she is uncommonly good at keeping her own counsel."
This last observation rather impressed Tom; for now, reflecting on it, he suddenly realized how very little he knew about this strange woman. However, she was not his concern now that his anxieties on Vanderpuye’s account had been dispelled; and, as he had obtained the information that he had come to seek, he began to consider whether it was not time for him to go. Polton had duties of some kind, and a prolonged visit might be inconvenient. But when he made tentative signs of departure, his host protested:
"You are not going on my account, sir, I hope; because the Doctor is dining out to-night and I’ve got the evening to myself. Besides, now that he has given me an understudy to carry on in my absence, I am much freer than I used to be. Of course, I mustn’t detain you if you can’t spare the time, but—"
In effect, Tom was very glad to stay, and said so, and, accordingly, having filled his pipe (at Polton’s invitation), settled down to spend a very pleasant and interesting evening. For his host, although "an inveterate mechanic," possessed a wealth of information on all sorts of curious and unexpected subjects; and when they had examined the remarkable technical library, the pictures on the wall, and the picturesque old clock (Polton’s chiefest treasure; a relic of the home of his childhood, which had come to him on the demise of a certain Aunt Judy), they subsided into their respective chairs to gossip discursively on the various subjects in which they had a common interest, with a general leaning towards "antiques."
"To return to your pedometer, sir," said Polton, when Tom finally rose to depart, "I shall look it over in my spare time, but it won’t take long. When it is done I will bring it round to your studio, if you will tell me when I shall find you at home."
"It’s very good of you, Polton, but I think you had better settle the time. I can always stay in if I want to."
"Then, sir, I would suggest next Thursday, about three o’clock if that will suit you."
"It will suit me perfectly," said Tom, taking up his hat and stick; and, having thus made the assignation, he shook hands with his host who, nevertheless, escorted him as far as the laboratory floor where they parted, Tom to make his way homeward and Polton, probably, to launch the attack on the pedometer.
During the next few days Tom gave only an occasional passing thought to Lotta. He was completely reassured. There had been no elopement or scandal of any kind, and that was all that mattered to him. As to the woman herself, he could only echo Polton’s wish that she might stay away as long as possible; and if she should never come back, her absence would create a void not entirely unacceptable. In fact he began to hope that she had passed out of his life, that he had, at last, really finished with her; and from vaguely hoping came gradually to believe that it might be so.
The disillusionment was sudden and violent. It synchronized with the arrival on the appointed day of his pedometer-bearing friend. At three o’clock to the minute on Thursday afternoon the studio bell rang, and Tom, hurrying out at the summons, found Mr. Polton on the wide doorstep. But he was not alone. Sharing the doorstep with him was an anxious-looking woman whom he recognized as his next-door neighbour, Mrs. Mitchens, who was also Lotta’s landlady. He had been on bowing terms with her for some years but had never spoken to her except to wish her good morning, and he now wondered what her business with him might be. But he was soon enlightened, for almost as he appeared at the door she asked in an agitated tone:
"Could I have a few words with you, Mr. Pedley?" (On which Polton tried to efface himself and prepared to slink in by the half-open door.) "It’s about Mrs. Schiller, sir."
As she spoke the name Polton halted suddenly, and tried to look as if he were not listening.
"I have come to you, Mr. Pedley," Mrs. Mitchens continued, "because you were a friend of hers and I thought you might know what has become of her. I haven’t seen or heard of her for quite a long time."
"Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Mitchens," Tom answered cheerfully. "She has just gone away to stay with some friends at Birmingham."
But Mrs. Mitchens did not look satisfied. "It’s very strange," she objected. "She never said anything to me about going away, and the rent hasn’t been paid, though she was always so punctual. You are sure she has gone to Birmingham?"
Tom reflected for a moment and then, turning to Polton, asked:
"What do you say? Are we sure?"
"Well, sir," was the reply. "I wouldn’t put it as high as that. I was told by Mr. Vanderpuye that Mrs. Schiller had told him
that she was going to stay with friends at Birmingham. That is all. We don’t actually know whether she has or has not gone."
"Then," said Mrs. Mitchens, "I am afraid she has not gone."
"Why do you say that?" Tom asked.
Mrs. Mitchens appeared to be in difficulties. "I hardly know how to express it," she replied, "but there’s something wrong in her rooms. My husband and I have both noticed it, and it seems to be getting worse."
"I don’t quite understand," said Tom. "What is getting worse?"
"It is difficult to explain," she replied, "but if you will be so good as to step into the hall, you will understand what I mean."
Tom showed no eagerness to accept this invitation, but Polton, now all agog, requested the lady to lead the way and followed her with a purposeful air while Tom brought up the rear, and watched her gloomily as she inserted her latch-key.
But Mrs. Mitchens was right. No sooner had they entered the hall and shut the outer door than they both understood perfectly what she had meant. But the realization affected them differently. Tom shrank back with an expression of horrified disgust towards the outer door, whereas Polton, having sampled the air by a little diagnostic sniff, took the definite initiative.
"I presume, madam," said he, "that this door is locked?"
"Yes," she replied. "Locked from the inside."
"Well," said Polton, "that room ought to be entered; at once."
"That is what my husband said, and he tried it with one of our keys, but unfortunately the key is in the lock, and he didn’t like to break the door open."
"No," Polton agreed, "it is better to use a key if possible. May I ask whether the lock has been used much?"
"Yes," she replied, "constantly. Mrs. Schiller always locked the door at night and whenever she went out."
"Ha," said he, "then it should turn pretty easily. It is sometimes possible," he continued reflectively, with his hand in an inner pocket, "to persuade a key round from the outside if it isn’t too stiff. Now, I wonder if I happen to have anything in my pocket that would answer the purpose."
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