I was about to object that such knowledge was not likely to help us much in opposing the application, but fortunately I saw the red light in time.
"And how do you propose to get that knowledge?" I asked
"The most likely source is Mr. Thomas Pedley. He, apparently, knew her quite intimately and should be able to tell us quite a lot about her. So I wrote to him a day or two ago, and he has kindly given me an appointment for to-morrow afternoon. May I take it that I shall have your support at the interview?"
As it happened, fortunately, that I had the afternoon free, I accepted gladly—indeed, I may say eagerly. For my curiosity about this visit was intense. That its object was simply to get a description of Lotta Schiller’s appearance and personality seemed incredible; and I hoped that by listening attentively to Thorndyke’s questions I might get some inkling of what was really in his mind.
Jacob Street we found to be a shabby, old-fashioned street turning out of the Hampstead Road, in which Mr. Thomas Pedley’s studio was distinguishable by a green-painted wooden gate bearing the number 38A in well-polished brass characters, and by a small brass plate at the side inscribed "T. Pedley" surmounted by a shining brass bell-knob. A tug at this resulted in the distant jangling of a large bell, followed by the opening of the gate and the appearance thereat of a big, hearty, pleasant-faced man who surveyed us for a moment with a friendly blue eye and then, apparently recognizing us or taking our identities for granted, bade us "come along in"; whereupon we followed him along a stone passage and across a small yard to the studio, the size of which, and especially of the great north window, I found quite impressive.
"It is very good of you, Mr. Pedley," said Thorndyke, "to let us come here occupying your time with matters in which I don’t suppose you are much interested."
"Oh, I am interested enough," replied Pedley, "but I am afraid you will find me rather disappointing, for I really know nothing about Lotta Schiller or her affairs."
"Well," Thorndyke rejoined with a smile, "that is a fact, to begin with, and not entirely without significance. But at any rate, you know more about her than I do. So I stand to learn something."
"I am afraid it will be mighty little," said Pedley. "But perhaps a cup of tea may brighten my wits. Yours probably don’t need any brightening."
He led us across to the tea-table which had been placed, with three armchairs, in front of the fire, and, having installed us, proceeded to make the tea at a gas-ring by the large sink; and while he was thus occupied I cast inquisitive glances around, and was not a little impressed by the fine china and elegant table appointments and the various signs of a refined and fastidious taste in the furnishing of the place, which contrasted rather oddly with the sink, the cooking stove, and the working appliances.
"I think," said Pedley when he had poured out the tea and taken his seat, "that, as you know what information you want and I don’t, you had better treat me as a witness. You ask your questions, and I will answer as well as I can."
"Very well," said Thorndyke, producing a note-book and opening it, "then, as I have never seen Mrs. Schiller and have no idea what she was like, we will begin with her personal appearance. Can you give me a description of her?"
Pedley was obviously astonished—as well he might have been—but he replied readily enough:
"Yes, I can do that all right, for it happens that Inspector Blandy made the same request, and I drafted out an exhaustive description and gave him a copy. I can show you the original draft."
He went to a shelf on which was a long row of linen-bound books, each having on its back a paper label bearing a date.
"Let me see," said he, running his eye along the row, "it would be about 1930. Yes, here we are."
He picked out the little volume and brought it to the table, explaining, as he turned over the leaves:
"This is the note-book that I was using at the time. It contains all sorts of notes; sketches, drawings, and written memoranda, and, as I date every entry, it serves well enough as a diary. This is the draft that I made for Blandy."
He handed the open book to Thorndyke, who glanced through it rapidly though with close attention and, I thought, some signs of surprise.
"But, Mr. Pedley," he exclaimed, "this is an extraordinarily complete description. You seem to have observed everything and forgotten nothing."
"Well, you see," Pedley replied, "that is an artist’s job; to look at things attentively and remember what he has seen. But I am glad you approve. Blandy was quite pleased, though he wanted one or two points elucidated."
"For instance?"
"Well, there were the ears. He asked me if I could draw them from memory, which, of course, I could and did."
"He was quite right," said Thorndyke. "A drawing is better than the best verbal description. I wonder if you would kindly do the same for me?"
Though still looking a little puzzled, Pedley complied readily. On a small cartridge paper block he drew, very deliberately and yet quickly, a pair of ears, facing each other.
"There," he said, taking off the sheet and handing it to Thorndyke, "you see they are just normal, well-shaped ears with a small Darwinian tubercle on the right one. I have marked in the line of the jaw to show how they were set."
Thorndyke thanked him for the drawing, and, having examined it, put it away carefully in his wallet. Then, glancing once more at the description, he said:
"There is one point here that seems to require some amplification. You say that the hair had some peculiarity of texture that made it seem variable in colour. I don’t quite understand that."
Pedley grinned. "Blandy again," said he. "He didn’t understand it and neither do I. So I couldn’t tell him anything beyond the bare fact that it certainly did seem to change colour in different lights. The change was very slight and I don’t suppose the majority of people would have noticed it at all. But there it was; and I’ve never seen any other hair like it before or since."
"Do you think," I suggested, "that it might have been dyed or faked in some way? Women do all sorts of queer things to their hair in these days."
"I thought of that," replied Pedley, "but there was one circumstance that seemed to exclude it. Dyed or faked hair, as you know, won’t bear close inspection, especially at the roots. But Mrs. Schiller had no objection at all to a close inspection. When Polton wanted a sample of her hair, she made no difficulty but let him cut it off himself. He separated out a little tress and cut it off close to the roots, exposing the skin of the scalp, and, apparently, he noticed nothing unusual there."
"Did you ever mention the peculiarity to her?" asked Thorndyke.
"No; and I don’t think she was aware of it herself."
"By the way," said I, "what did Polton want a lock of her hair for?"
"He was making a locket for Mr. Vanderpuye, and it was arranged that there should be a specimen of her hair set in one side to face the portrait in the other."
"Oh, yes, I remember the locket—the two lockets, in fact—but they were empty when I saw them. I never heard what was to be put in them."
"As to the portrait in Vanderpuye’s locket," said Thorndyke; "was it a miniature or a photograph?"
"It was a photograph; but not from life. She painted a self-portrait in water-colour and Polton did a reduced photograph of it."
"Was it a fairly good likeness?"
Pedley grinned. "It wasn’t a likeness at all. There was no resemblance whatever to Lotta, and hardly any to a human being."
"But I wonder Vanderpuye didn’t object," said I, "seeing that a likeness was what he wanted."
"He did; in fact he was really angry. He wanted me to paint or draw a portrait of Lotta of which Polton could make a reduced photograph to fit the locket. But she would not have it, nor would she allow Polton to do a photograph of her. She insisted that the portrait should be her own work, and from that she wouldn’t budge. So poor Vanderpuye had to accept her drawing; but I shall never forget Polton’s face when he first set eyes on it.
He thought that it was a practical joke, but he realized his mistake in time."
"But what was it like?" I asked, a little bewildered by his account of the incident.
"It was a drawing of a woman’s head such as might be done by a child of nine or ten—not a clever child, mind you, but just an ordinary child with no natural aptitude for drawing."
"But," I exclaimed, "I don’t understand this. Wasn’t she a professional artist?"
"She claimed to be one, but, of course, anyone can call himself an artist. The fact is that she couldn’t draw and she couldn’t paint."
"Do you mean that she drew badly," Thorndyke asked, "or that she, literally, couldn’t draw at all?"
"Her drawing," replied Pedley, "was like that of an ordinary child; and I am quite sure that she couldn’t do anything different."
"This is rather remarkable," said Thorndyke, "and it suggests one or two questions. The first is as to her state of mind. Was she cranky enough to believe that she really could paint?"
Pedley chuckled. "Blandy again," said he. "That is what he wanted to know and I rather dodged his questions. But I won’t hedge with you because I have thought the matter over since, and I have come to the conclusion that she was a rank impostor. There was nothing cranky about her. She was a pretty shrewd, level-headed young woman, and I am sure that she had no delusions about her painting. It was a deliberate fraud. What her object was in posing as an artist, I have no idea; but what I am quite clear about is that she just took advantage of the present fashion for freak pictures and started producing freaks. Anybody can do it. All you have to do is to paint something quite unlike a normal picture and leave it to the highbrows to explain it to the multitude. But she knew all about it, and she had got all the highbrow jargon at her finger-ends."
"That," said Thorndyke, "partly disposes of the next question, which is how she maintained the pose. Did she ever offer her work for sale?"
"No. She spoke of an intention to send some of her stuff to an exhibition, but she never did send any."
"I suppose she signed her pictures with her own name?"
"She didn’t sign them at all, properly speaking. She used a cipher—a sort of conventionalized flower with a little circle on each side of the stalk."
"It all sounds rather tortuous and secretive," I remarked.
"Yes," Pedley agreed, "but she was secretive in everything. Polton first drew my attention to her capacity for keeping her own counsel. But the secrecy about her paintings I don’t understand. It looks rather as if the artist pose was a temporary stunt which she meant to drop when it had served her purpose, whatever that may have been."
"It does," said Thorndyke, "and yet the brass plate by her door seems to exclude the idea of secrecy. It was a public announcement."
"It wasn’t very public," replied Pedley. "It was only a small plate, about six inches by four, with just the bare name in small copper-plate script. It wasn’t very easy to read from the pavement even when it was new, and, by the time she had kept it polished for a few weeks and rubbed most of the black out of the engraving, it was nearly illegible. No passing stranger could have read it."
"That seems to answer my objection," said Thorndyke. "And now, to come back to the description. I suppose you don’t possess a photograph of her?"
"No," replied Pedley, "and I never saw one."
"Did you ever draw a portrait of her?"
"Not from life. I had thought of suggesting that I should paint her portrait and then I decided that I had better not. But I made one or two trial sketches from memory to see how a profile portrait would look. They are in that note-book that you have. Would you like to see them?"
"I should, very much," replied Thorndyke, handing him the book and watching him, expectantly, as he turned over the leaves.
"This is the best one," said Pedley, passing the book back, "and as the others were preliminary trials, we can disregard them."
Thorndyke examined the drawing with deep interest, as also did I, though what chiefly interested me was the liveliness of the representation and its finished character. It might have been a careful drawing done direct from the model.
"This is rather more than a sketch, Mr. Pedley," said Thorndyke. "It gives the impression of an actual portrait, but, of course, I can’t judge as to the likeness. What do you say about it? Is it really like her?"
"Yes," replied Pedley. "I should say it is quite a good likeness."
"Do you think it would be recognized by anyone who had known her?"
"Oh, certainly. Looking at it now, after all this time, it recalls her to me perfectly. You see, in drawing from memory one instinctively chooses the most characteristic and easily remembered aspect."
"Yes, I see that," said Thorndyke. "But you seem to have a rather remarkable memory."
"Not remarkable," replied Pedley. "I have a good memory, and I have made a point of training it. But, in effect, all drawing is memory drawing. You can’t look at the model and draw at the same time. You have, first, to look at the model with concentrated attention and try to memorize the part you are working on. Then, as a separate act, you draw it; and then you compare what you have drawn with the actual facts and correct your drawing if necessary. Memory drawing is only the same thing with a longer interval between seeing and drawing."
Thorndyke pondered this with his eyes fixed on the portrait. At length he said:
"If this is a perfectly recognizable likeness of Lotta Schiller it may be of some importance as the only existing record of her personal appearance. I wonder if you would allow Polton to bring a camera here and take a photograph of it."
"Of course I would, with the greatest pleasure. But why take all that trouble? Better just slip the book in your pocket and let me have it back when you have done with it."
"That is very gracious of you, Mr. Pedley," said Thorndyke, "and it will certainly be much more convenient. I didn’t like to ask you for the loan as I understood that the book contained some private memoranda."
"You needn’t have been so punctilious," Pedley replied with a smile. "I have no secrets, and, if I had, I shouldn’t write them in my note-book. No, Doctor, I give you the free run of the book if the sketches and notes are of any interest to you. Perhaps you might like to see the finger-prints that Polton took from that poor murdered woman. They are in the book somewhere. Shall I see if I can find them?"
"I don’t know that they are of much interest now," said Thorndyke, handing him the book nevertheless, "excepting as to Polton’s improvised method of taking them."
"And his motive for doing it," I added. "It wasn’t a very correct proceeding, and I never understood why he wanted to meddle."
"I think that is pretty clear," said Pedley. "He wanted to know, then and there, whether it was a case of suicide or murder. Ah, here are the prints."
He returned the book to Thorndyke, who, notwithstanding what he had said, looked at the rather feeble impressions with some interest; which seemed to deepen as he looked, for, presently he produced his lens from his pocket and made a closer examination, finishing up by viewing the prints with the book held at arm’s length.
"Quite a creditable performance," he remarked, "considering the very inadequate means. What do you think of them, Jervis?"
He handed me the book with his lens, and I examined the prints with some curiosity.
"Yes," I agreed, "they are not bad; rather weak and faint, but you can make out the pattern quite clearly, even in the last three fingers, where the impression seems to have partly failed. I shall make a note of the method for use in a similar emergency. And, by the way, the method is not new to us. The original Thumbograph was provided with an inking-pad."
I returned the book to him, and, when he had closed it and slipped it into his pocket, I waited expectantly for the next question. But there was none. Apparently the "examination in chief" was finished.
I say "apparently," for with Thorndyke you never knew when the examination had really ended. He had a way of direc
ting a conversation without appearing to and thus allowing the information that he was seeking to transpire, as it seemed, spontaneously; and I had a faint suspicion that, on the present occasion, Pedley was being gently guided along the paths of reminiscence in the desired direction.
And yet it seemed incredible; for though Pedley’s account of his relations with Lotta Schiller was amusing enough, described in his quaintly humorous way, it was utterly trivial and seemed to have no bearing whatever on our problem. The way in which she had opened the acquaintance by a transparent pretext and thereafter adopted him as her dearest friend, in spite of his struggles to escape, was rather funny, but relevant to nothing that concerned us. At least, so I judged; though even then my judgment was confounded by Thorndyke’s concentrated attention to these trifling reminiscences and by the little aids to amplification that he applied.
"It is a quaint picture," he remarked with an appreciative chuckle; "the masterful lady and the lover malgré lui."
"Not lover," protested Pedley. "There was not even a pretence of that."
"But you seem to have been on quite affectionate terms," Thorndyke maintained.
"On her side only," said Pedley, "and that was all bunkum. It was just a pose, like her painting. But it was very queer. I never understood what her game was. She called me ‘Tom’ from the very beginning, and soon it came to Tom, dear, or darling or duck. But it was all verbal; there was no demonstration of affection. Anyone listening in an adjoining room might have taken us for an engaged couple; but our actual behaviour was perfectly matter-of-fact."
"Do you mean that there were no physical endearments? Did she, for instance, never kiss you?"
"Lord, no! I shouldn’t have let her. But she never made any approach to that sort of thing. As I say, it was purely verbal. I took it to be just a silly habit of speech, especially as she used the same terms to others. Why, she even called Polton a duck, and as to poor Vanderpuye—but his case was different. He took the endearments quite seriously. Still, even he was not on kissing terms. He swore, at the inquest, that he had never kissed her, and I suspected that he had made an attempt and not brought it off."
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