A Pursuit and a Discovery
More than a week had passed since that eventful evening—how eventful I
did not then realize—when I had delivered my simple treasures into
Thorndyke’s hands. But I was not uneasy; for, within twenty-four
hours, I had found in my letter-box the promised note, assuring me
that the preliminary operations had been safely carried through and
that nothing had been damaged. Nor was I impatient. I realized that
Polton had other work than mine on hand and that there was a good deal
to do. Moreover, a little rush of business had kept me employed and
helped me to follow Thorndyke’s counsel and forget, as well as I
could, the shadow of mystery and peril that hung over my friends, and,
by implication, over me.
But on the evening of which I am now speaking I was free. I had
cleared off the last of the day’s work, and, after dining reposefully
at my club, found myself with an hour or two to spare before bed-time;
and it occurred to me to look in on Thorndyke to smoke a friendly pipe
and perchance get a glimpse of the works in progress.
I entered the Temple from the west, and, threading my way through the
familiar labyrinth, crossed Tanfield Court, and passing down the
narrow alley at its eastern side, came out into King’s Bench Walk. I
crossed the Walk at once and was sauntering down the pavement towards
Thorndyke’s house when I noticed a large, closed car drawn up at its
entry, and, standing on the pavement by the car, a tall man whom I
recognized by the lamp light as Mr. Superintendent Miller.
Now I did not much want to meet the superintendent, and in any case it
was pretty clear to me that my visit to Thorndyke was not very
opportune. The presence of Miller suggested business, and the size of
the car suggested other visitors. Accordingly I slowed down and was
about to turn back when my eye caught another phenomenon. In the entry
next to Thorndyke’s a man was standing, well back in the shadow, but
not so far that he could not get a view of the car; on which he was
quite obviously keeping a watchful eye. Indeed, he was so pre-occupied
with his observation of it that he had not noticed my approach, his
back being turned towards me.
Naturally, the watchful attitude and the object of his watchfulness
aroused my suspicions as to his identity. But a movement backward on
his part which brought him within range of the entry lamp, settled the
matter. He was Anthony Wallingford.
I turned and walked quietly back a few paces. What was this idiot
doing here within a few yards of Thorndyke’s threshold? Was he merely
spying fatuously and without purpose? Or was it possible that he might
be up to some kind of mischief? As I framed the question my steps
brought me opposite another entry. The Walk was in darkness save for
the few lamps and the place was practically deserted. After a moment’s
reflection, I stepped into the entry and decided thence to keep a
watch upon the watcher.
I had not long to wait. Hardly had I taken up my rather undignified
position when three men emerged from the house and walked slowly to
the car. By the light of the lamp above Thorndyke’s entry, I could see
them quite plainly and I recognized them all. One was Thorndyke,
himself, another was Dr. Jervis, Thorndyke’s colleague, now in the
employ of the Home Office, and the third was Dr. Barnwell, well-known
to me as the analyst and toxicologist to the Home Office. All three
carried substantial bags and Dr. Barnwell was encumbered with a large
case, like an out-size suit-case, suggestive of chemical apparatus.
While they were depositing themselves and their impedimenta in the
car, Superintendent Miller gave directions to the driver. He spoke in
clear, audible tones, but though (I have to confess) I listened
intently, I caught only the question: “Do you know the way?” The words
which preceded and followed it were just audible but not intelligible
to me. It appeared, however, that they were intelligible to
Wallingford, for, as soon as they were spoken and while the
superintendent still held the open door of the car, he stepped forth
from his lurking-place and walked boldly and rapidly across to the
narrow passage by which I had come.
Realizing instantly what his intention was, I came out of the entry
and started in pursuit. As I reached the entrance to the passage, my
ear caught the already faint sound of his receding footsteps; by which
I learned that he was running swiftly and as silently as he could.
Since I did not intend to lose him, I had no choice but to follow his
example, and I raced across Tanfield Court, past the Cloisters and
round by the church as if the Devil were after me instead of before.
Half-way up Inner Temple Lane he slowed down to a walk—very wisely,
for otherwise the night porter would certainly have stopped him—and
was duly let out into Fleet Street, whither I followed him at a short
interval.
When I stepped out of the gate I saw him some little distance away to
the west, giving directions to the driver of a taxi. I looked round
desperately, and, to my intense relief, perceived an apparently empty
taxi approaching from the east. I walked quickly towards it,
signalling as I went, and the driver at once drew in to the kerb and
stopped. I approached him, and, leaning forward, said in a low
voice—though there was no one within earshot:
“There is a taxi just in front. It will probably follow a big car
which is coming up Middle Temple Lane. I want you to keep that taxi in
sight, wherever it may go. Do you understand?”
The man broke into a cynical grin—the nearest approach to geniality of
which a taxi-driver is capable—and replied that he understood; and as,
at this moment, the nose of the car appeared coming through the arched
entrance gate of Middle Temple Lane, I sprang into the taxi and shut
the door. From the off-side window, but keeping well back out of
sight, I saw the car creep across Fleet Street, turn eastward and then
sweep round into Chancery Lane. Almost immediately, Wallingford’s taxi
moved off and followed; and then, after a short interval, my own
vehicle started, and, crossing directly to Chancery Lane, went ahead
in the wake of the others.
It was an absurd affair. Now that the pursuit was started and its
conduct delegated for the time to the driver, I leaned back in the
shadow and was disposed to grin a little sheepishly at my own
proceedings. I had embarked on them in obedience to a sudden impulse
without reflection—for which, indeed, there had been no time. But was
there anything to justify me in keeping this watch on Wallingford? I
debated the question at some length and finally decided that, although
he was probably only playing the fool, still it was proper that I
should see what he was really up to. Thorndyke was my friend and it
was only right that I should stand between him and any possible
danger. Well as he was able to take care of himself, he could not be
always on his guard. And I could not forget the infernal machine. Some
one at least had the will to do him an injury.
But what about the brown-hatted man? Why had he not joined in this
novel sport? Or had he? I put my head out of the window and looked
along the street in our rear, but there was no sign of any pursuing
taxi. The ridiculous procession was limited to three vehicles; which
was just as well, since we did not want a police cyclist bringing up
the rear.
From my own proceedings my thoughts turned to those of Thorndyke and
his companions, though they were no affair of mine, or of
Wallingford’s either, for that matter. Apparently the three men were
going somewhere to make a post mortem examination. The presence of Dr.
Barnwell suggested an analysis in addition; and the presence of Miller
hinted at a criminal case of some kind. But it was not my case or
Wallingford’s. For both of us the analyst had already done his worst.
While I reflected, I kept an eye on the passing landmarks, checking
our route and idly trying to forecast our destination. From Chancery
Lane we crossed Holborn and entered Gray’s Inn Road, at the bottom of
which we swept round by King’s Cross into Pancras Road. At the end of
this we turned up Great College Street, crossed Camden Road and
presently passed along the Kentish Town Road. So far I had noted our
progress with no more than a languid interest. It did not matter to me
whither we were going. But when, at the Bull and Gate, we swept round
into Highgate Road, my attention awoke; and when the taxi turned
sharply at the Duke of St. Albans and entered Swain’s Lane, I sat up
with a start. In a moment of sudden enlightenment, I realized what our
destination must be; and the realization came upon me with the effect
of a palpable blow. This lane, with its precipitous ascent at the
upper end, was no ordinary thoroughfare. It was little more than an
approach to the great cemetery whose crowded areas extended on either
side of it; its traffic was almost completely limited to the mournful
processions that crept up to the wide gates by the mortuary chapel.
Indeed, on the very last occasion when I had ridden up this lane, my
conveyance had been the mourning carriage which followed poor little
Stella to her last home.
Before I had recovered from the shock of this discovery sufficiently
to consider what it might mean, the taxi came to a sudden halt. I
stepped out, and, looking up the lane, made out the shadowy form of
Wallingford’s vehicle, already backing and manœuvring to turn round.
“Bloke in front has got out,” my driver announced in a hoarse whisper,
and as he spoke, I caught sight of Wallingford—or at least of a human
figure—lurking in the shadow of the trees by the railings on the
right-hand side of the road. I paid off my driver (who, thereupon,
backed on to the footway, turned and retired down the hill) and having
waited for the other taxi to pass down, began slowly to ascend the
lane, keeping in the shadow of the trees. Now that the two taxis were
gone, Wallingford and I had the lane to ourselves, excepting where, in
the distance ahead, the reflected light from the head-lamps of the car
made a dim halo and the shape of the gothic chapel loomed indistinctly
against the murky sky. I could see him quite plainly, and no doubt he
was aware of my presence; at any rate, I did not propose to attempt
any concealment, so far as he was concerned. His movements had ceased
to be of any interest to me. My entire concern was with the party
ahead and with the question at to what Thorndyke was doing at this
time of night in Highgate Cemetery.
The burial ground is divided, as I have said, into two parts, which
lie on either side of the lane; the old cemetery with its great gates
and the large mortuary chapel, on the left or west side and the newer
part on the right. To which of these two parts was Thorndyke bound?
That was the question that I had to settle.
I continued to advance up the lane, keeping in the shadow, though it
was a dark night and the precaution was hardly necessary. Presently I
overtook Wallingford and passed him without either concealment or
recognition on either side. I could now clearly make out the gable and
pinnacles of the chapel and saw the car turn in the wide sweep and
then extinguish its headlights. Presently, from the gate-house there
emerged a party of men of whom some carried lanterns, by the light of
which I could recognize Thorndyke and his three companions; and I
noted that they appeared to have left their cases either in the car or
elsewhere for they now carried nothing. They lingered for a minute or
two at the wicket by the great gates; then, accompanied by a man whom
I took to be the gate-keeper, they crossed the road to the gate of the
eastern cemetery and were at once followed by another party of men,
who trundled two wheel-barrows, loaded with some bulky objects the
nature of which I could not make out. I watched them with growing
anxiety and suspicion as they passed in at the gate; and when they had
all entered and moved away along the main path, I came forth from the
shadow and began to walk quickly up the lane.
The eastern cemetery adjoins Waterlow Park, from which it is separated
by a low wall surmounted by tall railings, and this was my objective.
The park was now, of course, closed for the night, locked up and
deserted. So much the better. Locks and bars were no hindrance to me.
I knew the neighbourhood of old. Every foot of the lane was familiar
to me, though the houses that had grown up at the lower end had
changed its aspect from that which I remembered when as a boy I had
rambled through its leafy shades. On I strode, past the great gates on
the left and the waiting car, within which I could see the driver
dozing, past the white gatehouse on the right, up the steep hill until
I came to the place where a tall oak fence encloses the park from the
lane. Here I halted and took off my overcoat, for the six-foot fence
is guarded at the top by a row of vicious hooks. Laying the folded
overcoat across the top of the fence, I sprang up, sat for a moment
astride and then dropped down into the enclosure.
I now stood in a sort of dry ditch between the fence and a steep bank,
covered with bushes which rose to the level of the park. I had just
taken down my overcoat and was putting it on before climbing the bank
when its place was taken by another overcoat cast over from without.
Then a pair of hands appeared, followed by the clatter of feet against
the fence and the next moment I saw Wallingford astride of the top and
looking down at me.
I still affected to be unaware of him, and, turning away, began to
scramble up the bank, at the summit of which I pushed my way through
the bushes, and, stepping over a three-foot fence, came out upon a
by-path overshadowed by trees. Pausing for a moment to get my bearings
and to mark out a route by which I could cross the park without coming
into the open, where I might be seen by some watchful keeper, I
started off towards a belt of trees just as Wallingford stepped over
the dwarf fence and came out upon the path behind me.
The position was becoming absurd, though I was too agitated to
appreciate its humour. I could not protest against his following me
seeing that I had come in the first place to spy upon him, and was
now, like himself, engaged in spying upon Thorndyke. However, he soon
solved the difficulty by quickening his pace and overtaking me, when
he asked in a quite matter-of-fact tone:
“What is Thorndyke up to, Mayfield?”
“That is what I want to find out,” I replied.
“He is not acting on your instructions, then?”
“No; and the probability is that what he is doing is no concern of
mine or of yours either. But I don’t know; and I have come here to
make sure. Keep in the shadow. We don’t want the keeper to see us
prowling about here.”
He stepped back into the shade and we pursued our way in silence; and
even then, troubled and agitated as I was, I noted that he asked me no
question as to what was in my mind. He was leaving the initiative
entirely to me.
When we had crossed the park in the shelter of the trees and descended
into the hollow by the little lake where we were out of sight of the
gate-house, I led the way towards the boundary between the park and
the cemetery. The two enclosures were separated, as I have said, by a
low wall surmounted by a range of high, massive railings; and the wall
and the cemetery beyond were partially concealed by an irregular hedge
of large bushes. Pushing through the bushes, I moved along the wall
until I came to the place which I intended to watch; and here I halted
in the shade of a tall mass of bushes, and resting my arms on the
broad coping of the wall, took up my post of observation with
Wallingford, silently attentive at my side.
The great burial ground was enveloped in darkness so profound that the
crowded headstones and monuments conveyed to the eye no more than a
confused glimmer of ghostly pallor that was barely distinguishable
from the general obscurity. One monument only could be separately
identified: a solitary stone cross that rose above a half-seen grave
some sixty yards from the wall. But already the mysterious procession
could be seen threading its way in and out by the intricate, winding
paths, the gleam of the lanterns lighting up now a marble figure and
now a staring head-stone or urn or broken column; and as it drew ever
nearer, the glare of the lanterns, the rumble of the barrow-wheels on
the hard paths and the spectral figures of the men grew more and more
distinct. And still Wallingford watched and spoke never a word.
At length, a turn of the path brought the procession into full view,
and as it approached I could make out a man,—evidently by his uniform,
the cemetery keeper,—leading, lantern in hand and showing the way.
Nearer and nearer the procession drew until at last, close by the
stone cross, the leader halted. Then, as Thorndyke and his
companions—now clearly visible—came up, he lifted his lantern and let
its light fall full on the cross. And even at this distance I could
read with ease—though it was unnecessary—the single name STELLA.
As that name—to me so sacred—flashed out of the darkness, Wallingford
gripped my arm. “Great God!” he exclaimed. “It is Stella Keene’s
grave! I came here once with Barbara to plant flowers on it.” He
paused, breathing hard and still clutching my arm. Then, in a hoarse
whisper, he demanded:
“What can that devil be going to do?”
There was little need to ask. Even as he spoke, the labourers began to
unload from the first barrow its lading of picks, shovels and coils of
rope. And when these were laid on the ground, the second barrow
yielded up its cargo; a set of rough canvas screens which the men
began to set up around the grave. And even as the screens were being
erected, another lantern slowly approaching along the path, revealed
two men carrying a long, bedstead-like object—a bier—which they at
length set down upon its stunted legs just outside the screens.
With set teeth I stared incredulously between the railings at these
awful preparations while Wallingford, breathing noisily, held fast to
my arm with a hand that I could feel shaking violently. The lanterns
inside the screens threw a weird, uncertain light on the canvas, and
monstrous, distorted shadows moved to and fro. Presently, amidst these
flitting, spectral shapes, appeared one like an enormous gnome, huge,
hideous and deformed, holding an up-raised pick. The shadowy implement
fell with an audible impact, followed by the ring of a shovel.
At the sight and the sound—so dreadfully conclusive—Wallingford sprang
up with a stifled cry.
“God Almighty! That devil is going to dig her up!”
He stood motionless and rigid for a few moments. Then, turning
suddenly, without another word, he burst through the bushes, and I
heard him racing madly across the park.
I had half a mind to follow him. I had seen enough. I now knew the
shocking truth. Why stay and let my soul be harrowed by the sight of
these ghouls. Every stroke of pick or shovel seemed to knock at my
heart. Why not go and leave them to their work of desecration? But I
could not go. I could not tear myself away. There was the empty bier.
Presently she would be lying on it. I could not go until I had seen
her borne away.
So I stayed there gazing between the railings, watching the elfin
shapes that flitted to and fro on the screen, listening to the thud of
pick and the ring and scrape of shovel and letting my confused
thoughts wander obscurely through a maze of half-realized pain and
anger. I try in vain to recall clearly what was my state of mind. Out
of the confusion and bewilderment little emerges but a dull
indignation and especially a feeling of surprised resentment against
Thorndyke.
The horrible business went on methodically. By degrees a shadowy mound
grew up at the bottom of the screen. And then other movements and
other sounds; a hollow, woody sound that seemed to bring my heart into
my mouth. At last, the screens were opened at the end and then the
coffin was borne out and laid on the bier. By the light of the
lanterns I could see it distinctly. I was even able to recognize it,
shabby and earth-stained as it now was. I saw Thorndyke help the
keeper to spread over it some kind of pall, and then two men stepped
between the handles of the bier, stooped and picked it up; and then
the grim procession re-formed and began slowly to move away.
I watched it until it had passed round a turn of the path and was
hidden from my view. Then I stood up, pushed my way through the bushes
and stole away across the park by the way I had come. In the ditch
inside the fence I stood for a few moments listening, but the silence
was as profound as the darkness. As quietly as I could I climbed over
the fence and dropped down into the lane. There seemed to be not a
soul moving anywhere near; nevertheless, when I had slipped on my
overcoat, instead of retracing my steps down the lane past the
entrance-gates of the cemetery, I turned to the right and toiled up
the steep hill to its termination in South Grove, where I bore away
westward and descending the long slope of West Hill, passed the Duke
of St. Albans and re-entered the Highgate Road.
It did not occur to me to look out for any conveyance. My mind was in
a whirl that seemed to communicate itself to my body and I walked on
and on like one in a dream.
The dreary miles of deserted streets were consumed unreckoned—though
still, without conscious purpose, I followed the direct road home as a
well-constructed automaton might have done. But I saw nothing. Nor,
for a time, could I be said to think coherently. My thoughts seethed
and eddied in such confusion that no product emerged. I was conscious
only of an indignant sense of shocked decency and a loathing of
Thorndyke and all his works.
Presently, however, I grew somewhat more reasonable and my thoughts
began to take more coherent shape. As a lawyer, I could not but
perceive that Thorndyke must have something definite in his mind. He
could not have done what I had seen him do without a formal authority
from the Home Secretary; and before any such authority would have been
given he would have been called upon to show cause why the exhumation
should be carried out. And such licenses are not lightly granted. Nor,
I had to admit, was Thorndyke likely to have made the application
without due consideration. He must have had reasons for this
outrageous proceeding which not only appeared sufficient to him but
which must have appeared sufficient to the Home Secretary.
All this became by degrees clear enough to me. But yet I had not a
moment’s doubt that he had made some monstrous mistake. Probably he
had been misled by something in my diary. That seemed to be the only
possible explanation. Presently he would discover his error—by means
which I shudderingly put aside. But when the error was discovered, the
scandal would remain. It is impossible to maintain secrecy in a case
like this. In twenty-four hours or less, all the world would know that
the body of Mrs. Monkhouse’s step-sister had been exhumed; and no
subsequent explanation would serve to destroy the effect of that
announcement. Wallingford’s dismal prophecy was about to be fulfilled.
Moreover, Thorndyke’s action amounted in effect to an open
accusation—not of Madeline or Wallingford but of Barbara, herself. And
this indignity she would suffer at my hands—at the hands of her oldest
friend! The thought was maddening. But for the outrageous lateness of
the hour, I would have gone to her at once to put her on her guard and
crave her pardon. It was the least that I could do. But it could not
be done to-night, for she would have been in bed hours ago and her
flat locked up for the night. However, I would go in the morning at
the earliest possible hour. I knew that Barbara was an early riser and
it would not be amiss if I arrived at the flat before the maid. She
must be warned at the earliest possible moment and by me, who was the
author of the mischief.
Thus, by the time that I reached my chambers I had decided clearly
what was to be done. At first, I was disposed to reject altogether the
idea of sleep. But presently, more reasonable thoughts prevailing, I
decided at least to lie down and sleep a little if I could. But first
I made a few indispensable preparations for the morning; filled the
kettle and placed it on the gas-ring, set out the materials for a
hasty breakfast, and cleaned my shoes. Then, when I had wound the
alarm clock and set it for five, I partially undressed and crept into
bed.