A Strange Misadventure
Although I had been in harness but a few weeks, it was with a pleasant
sense of freedom that I turned from the door and crossed the road
towards the alley. My time was practically my own, for, though I was
remaining with Dr. Cornish until the end of the week, he was now in
charge, and my responsibilities were at an end.
The alley was entered by an arched opening, so narrow that I had never
suspected it of being a public thoroughfare, and I now threaded it
with my shoulders almost touching the walls. Whither it finally led I
have no idea, for when I reached another arched opening in the left
hand wall and saw that this gave on a flight of stone steps, I
descended the latter and found myself on the tow-path. At the foot of
the steps I stood awhile and looked about me. The moon was nearly
full, and shone brightly on the opposite side of the canal, but the
tow-path was in deep shadow, being flanked by a high wall, behind
which were the houses of the adjoining streets. Looking back—that is,
to my left—I could just make out the bridge and the adjoining
buildings, all their unlovely details blotted out by the thin
night-haze, which reduced them to mere flat shapes of grey. A little
nearer, one or two spots of ruddy light with wavering reflections
beneath them, marked the cabin windows of the sloop, and her mast,
rising above the grey obscurity, was clearly visible against the sky.
Naturally, I turned in that direction, sauntering luxuriously and
filling my pipe as I went. Doubtless, by day the place was sordid
enough in aspect—though it is hard to vulgarize a navigable
water-way—but now, in the moon-lit haze, the scene was almost
romantic. And it was astonishingly quiet and peaceful. From above,
beyond the high wall, the noises of the streets came subdued and
distant, like sounds from another world; but here there was neither
sound nor movement. The tow-path was utterly deserted, and the only
sign of human life was the glimmer of light from the sloop.
It was delightfully restful. I found myself treading the gravel
lightly not to disturb the grateful silence, and as I strolled along,
enjoying my pipe, I let my thoughts ramble idly from one topic to
another. Somewhere above me, in that rather mysterious house, Simon
Bendelow was lying in his narrow bed, the wasted, yellow face looking
out into the darkness through that queer little celluloid window, or
perhaps Miss Dewsnep and her friend were even now taking their
farewell peep at him. I looked up, but, of course, the house was not
visible from the tow-path, nor was I now able to guess at its
position.
A little farther, and the hull of the sloop came clearly into view,
and nearly opposite to it, on the tow-path, I could see some kind of
shed or hut against the wall, with a derrick in front of it
overhanging a little quay. When I had nearly reached the shed, I
passed a door in the wall, which apparently communicated with some
house in one of the streets above. Then I came to the shed, a small
wooden building which probably served as a lighterman’s office, and I
noticed that the derrick swung from one of the corner-posts. But at
this moment my attention was attracted by sounds of mild revelry from
across the canal. Some one in the sloop’s deck-house had burst into
song.
I stepped out on to the little quay and stood at the edge, looking
across at the homely curtained windows and wondering what the interior
of the deck-house looked like at this moment. Suddenly my ear caught
an audible creak from behind me. I was in the act of turning to see
whence it came when something struck me a heavy, glancing blow on the
arm, crashed to the ground, and sent me flying over the edge of the
quay.
Fortunately the water here was not more than four feet deep, and as I
had plunged in feet first, and am a good swimmer, I never lost control
of myself. In a moment I was standing up with my head and shoulders
out of water, not particularly alarmed, though a good deal annoyed and
much puzzled as to what had happened. My first care was to recover my
hat, which was floating forlornly close by, and the next was to
consider how I should get ashore. My left arm was numb from the blow
and was evidently useless for climbing. Moreover, the face of the quay
was of smooth concrete, as was also the wall below the tow-path. But I
remembered having passed a pair of boat-steps some fifty yards back,
and decided to make for them. I had thought of hailing the sloop, but
as the droning song still came from the deck-house, it was clear that
the Dutchmen had heard nothing, and I did not think it worth while to
disturb them. Accordingly, I set forth for the steps, walking with no
little difficulty over the soft, muddy bottom, keeping close to the
side and steadying myself with my right hand, with which I could just
reach the edge of the coping.
It seemed a long journey, for one cannot progress very fast over soft
mud with the water up to one’s armpits; but at last I reached the
steps and managed to scramble up on to the tow-path. There I stood for
a moment or two irresolute. My first impulse was to hurry back as fast
as I could and seek the Morrises’ hospitality; for I was already
chilled to the bone and felt as physically wretched as the proverbial
cat in similar circumstances. But I was devoured by curiosity as to
what had happened, and moreover I believed that I had dropped my stick
on the quay. The latter consideration decided me, for it was a
favourite stick, and I set out for the quay at a very different pace
from that at which I had approached it the first time.
The mystery was solved long before I arrived at the quay; at least it
was solved in part. For the derrick which had overhung the quay, now
lay on the ground. Obviously it had fallen—and had missed my head only
by a matter of inches. But how had it come to fall? Again, obviously,
the guy-rope had given way. As it could not have broken, seeing that
the derrick was unloaded and the rope must have been strong enough to
bear the last load, I was a good deal puzzled as to how the accident
could have befallen. Nor was I much less puzzled when I had made my
inspection. The rope was, of course, unbroken and its “fall”—the part
below the pulley-blocks—passed into the shed through a window-like
hole. This I could see as I approached, and also that a door in the
end of the shed nearest to me was ajar. Opening it, I plunged into the
dark interior, and partly by touch and partly by the faint glimmer
that came in at the window, I was able to make out the state of
affairs. Just below the hole through which the rope entered was a
large cleat, on which the fall must have been delayed. But the cleat
was vacant, the rope hung down from the hole and its end lay in an
untidy raffle on the floor. It looked as if it had been cast off the
cleat; but as there had apparently been no one in the shed, the only
possible supposition was that the rope had been badly secured, that it
had gradually worked loose and had at last slipped off the cleat. But
it was difficult to understand how it had slipped right off.
I found my stick lying at the edge of the quay and close by it my
pipe. Having recovered these treasures, I set off to retrace my steps
along the tow-path, sped on my way by a jovial chorus from the sloop.
A very few minutes brought me to the steps, which I ascended two at a
time, and then, having traversed the alley, I came out sheepishly into
Market-street. To my relief, I saw a light in Mr. Morris’ shop, and
could even make out a moving figure in the background. I hurried
across, and, opening the glazed door, entered the shop, at the back of
which Mr Morris was seated at a bench filing some small object which
was fixed in a vice. He looked round at me with no great cordiality,
but suddenly observing my condition, he dropped his file on the bench,
and exclaimed:
“Good Lord, Doctor! What on earth have you been doing?”
“Nothing on earth,” I replied, with a feeble grin, “but something in
the water. I’ve been into the canal.”
“But what for?” he demanded.
“Oh, I didn’t go in intentionally,” I replied; and then I gave him a
sketch of the incident, as short as I could make it, for my teeth were
chattering and explanations were chilly work. However, he rose nobly
to the occasion. “You’ll catch your death of cold!” he exclaimed,
starting up. “Come in here, and slip off your things at once, while I
go for some blankets.”
He led me into a little den behind the shop, and, having lighted a gas
fire, went out by a back door. I lost no time in peeling off my
dripping clothes, and by the time that he returned I was in a state in
which I ought to have been when I took my plunge.
“Here you are,” said he. “Put on this dressing-gown and wrap yourself
in the blankets. We’ll draw this chair up to the fire, and then you
will be all right for the present.”
I followed his directions, pouring out my thanks as well as my
chattering teeth would let me.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said he. “If you will empty your pockets, the
missus can put some of the things through the wringer, and then
they’ll soon dry. There happens to be a good fire in the kitchen; some
advance cooking on account of the funeral. You can dry your hat and
boots here. If any one comes to the shop you might just press that
electric bell-push.”
When he had gone, I drew the Windsor armchair close to the fire and
made myself as comfortable as I could, dividing my attention between
my hat and my boots, which called for careful roasting, and the
contents of the room. The latter appeared to be a sort of store for
the reserve stock-in-trade, and certainly this was a most amazing
collection. I could not see a single article for which I would have
given sixpence. The array on the shelves suggested that the shop had
been stocked with the sweepings of all the stalls in Market-street,
with those of Shoreditch High-street thrown in. As I ran my eye along
the ranks of dial-less clocks, cracked fiddles, stopperless decanters,
and tattered theological volumes, I found myself speculating
profoundly on how Mr. Morris made a livelihood. He professed to be a
“dealer in antiques,” and there was assuredly no question as to the
antiquity of the goods in this room. But there is little pecuniary
value in the kind of antiquity that is unearthed from a dust bin.
It was really rather mysterious. Mr. Morris was a somewhat superior
man, and he did not appear to be poor. Yet this shop did not seem
capable of yielding an income that would have been acceptable to a
rag-picker. And during the whole of the time in which I sat warming
myself, there was not a single visitor to the shop. However, it was no
concern of mine; and I had just reached this sage conclusion when Mr.
Morris returned with my clothes.
“There,” he said, “they are very creased and disreputable, but they
are quite dry. They would have had to be cleaned and pressed, in any
case.”
With this he went out into the shop and resumed his filing, while I
put on the stiff and crumpled garments. When I was dressed, I followed
him and thanked him effusively for his kind offices, leaving also a
grateful message for his wife. He took my thanks rather stolidly, and
having wished me “good night,” picked up his file and fell to work
again.
I decided to walk home; principally, I think, to avoid exhibiting
myself in a public vehicle. But my self-consciousness soon wore off,
and when, in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, I perceived Dr. Usher,
on the opposite side of the street, I crossed the road and touched his
arm. He looked round quickly, and, recognizing me, shook hands
cordially.
“What are you doing on my beat at this time of night?” he asked. “You
are not still at Cornish’s, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but not for long. I have just made my last visit
and signed the death certificate.”
“Good man,” said he. “Very methodical. Nothing like finishing a case
up neatly. They didn’t invite you to the funeral, I suppose?”
“No,” I replied, “and I shouldn’t have gone if they had.”
“Quite right,” he agreed. “Funerals are rather outside medical
practice. But you have to go sometimes. Policy, you know. I had to go
to one the day before yesterday. Beastly nuisance it was. Chappie
would insist on putting me down at my own door in the mourning coach.
Meant well, of course, but it was very awkward. All the neighbours
came to their shop doors and grinned as I got out. Felt an awful fool;
couldn’t grin back, you see. Had to keep up the farce to the end.”
“I don’t see that it was exactly a farce,” I objected.
“That is because you weren’t there,” he retorted. “It was the silliest
exhibition you ever saw. Just think of it! The parson who ran the show
had actually got a lot of schoolchildren to stand round the grave and
sing a blooming hymn: ‘Safe in the arms of’—you know the confounded
doggerel.”
“Well, why not?” I protested. “I daresay the friends of the deceased
liked it.”
“No doubt,” said he. “I expect they put the parson up to it. But it
was sickening to hear those kids bleating that stuff. How did they
know where he was—an old rip with malignant disease of the pancreas,
too!”
“Really, Usher!” I exclaimed, laughing at his quaint cynicism, “you
are unreasonable. There are no pathological disqualifications for the
better land, I hope.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed, with a grin. “Don’t have to show a clean
bill of health before they let you in. But it was a trying business,
you must admit. I hate cant of that sort; and yet one had to pull a
long face and join in the beastly chorus.”
The picture that his last words suggested was too much for my gravity.
I laughed long and joyously. However, Usher was not offended; indeed,
I suspect that he appreciated the humour of the situation as much as I
did. But he had trained himself to an outward solemnity of manner that
was doubtless a valuable asset in his particular class of practice,
and he walked at my side in unmoved gravity, taking an occasional,
quick, critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our ways he
once more shook my hand warmly and delivered a little farewell speech.
“You’ve never been to see me, Gray. Haven’t had time, I suppose. But
when you are free you might look me up one evening to have a smoke and
a glass and talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going,
you know.”
I promised to drop in before long, and he then added: “I gave you one
or two tips when I saw you last. Now I’m going to give you another.
Never neglect your appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself
with respect and the world will respect you. No need to be a dandy.
But just keep an eye on your tailor and your laundress—especially your
laundress. Clean collars don’t cost much and they pay; and so does a
trousers press. People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now you
mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I want you to get
on. So long, old chap. Look me up as soon as you can”; and without
giving me the opportunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off,
swinging his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive
illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words served as a
reminder which caused me to pursue the remainder of my journey by way
of side-streets neither too well lighted nor too much frequented.
As I let myself in with my key and closed the street door, Cornish
stepped out of the dining-room.
“I thought you were lost, Gray,” said he. “Where the deuce have you
been all this time?” Then, as I came into the light of the hall lamp,
he exclaimed: “And what in the name of Fortune have you been up to?”
“I have had a wetting,” I explained. “I’ll tell you all about it
presently.”
“Dr. Thorndyke is in the dining-room,” said he; “came in a few minutes
ago to see you.” He seized me by the arm and ran me into the room,
where I found Thorndyke methodically filling his pipe. He looked up as
I entered and regarded me with raised eyebrows.
“Why, my dear fellow, you’ve been in the water!” he exclaimed. “But
yet your clothes are not wet. What has been happening to you?”
“If you can wait a few minutes,” I replied, “while I wash and change,
I will relate my adventures. But perhaps you haven’t time.”
“I want to hear all about it,” he replied, “so run along and be as
quick as you can.”
I bustled up to my room, and having washed and executed a lightning
change, came down to the dining-room, where I found Cornish in the act
of setting out decanters and glasses.
“I’ve told Dr. Thorndyke what took you to Hoxton,” said he, “and he
wants a full account of everything that happened. He is always
suspicious of cremation cases, as you know from his lectures.”
“Yes, I remember his warnings,” said I. “But this was a perfectly
commonplace, straightforward affair.”
“Did you go for your swim before or after the examination?” Thorndyke
asked.
“Oh, after,” I replied.
“Then let us hear about the examination first,” said he.
On this I plunged into a detailed account of all that had befallen
since my arrival at Market-street, to which Thorndyke listened, not
only patiently, but with the closest attention, and even
cross-examined me to elicit further details. Everything seemed to
interest him, from the construction of the coffin to the contents of
Mr. Morris’ shop. When I had finished, Cornish remarked:
“Well, it is a queer affair. I don’t understand that rope at all.
Ropes don’t uncleat themselves. They may slip, but they don’t come
right off the cleat. It looks more as if some mischievous fool had
cast it off for a joke.”
“But there was no one there,” said I. “The shed was empty when I
examined it, and there was not a soul in sight on the tow-path.”
“Could you see the shed when you were in the water?” Thorndyke asked.
“No. My head was below the level of the tow-path. But if any one had
run out and made off, I must have seen him on the path when I came
out. He couldn’t have got out of sight in the time. Besides, it is
incredible that even a fool should play such a trick as that.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But every explanation seems incredible. The only
plain fact is that it happened. It is a queer business altogether; and
not the least queer feature in the case is your friend Morris. Hoxton
is an unlikely place for a dealer in antiques, unless he should happen
to deal in other things as well; things, I mean, of ambiguous
ownership.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Cornish. “Sounds uncommonly like a
fence. However, that is no business of ours.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, rising and knocking out his pipe. “And now I
must be going. Do you care to walk with me to the bottom of
Doughty-street, Gray?”
I assented at once, suspecting that he had something to say to me that
he did not wish to say before Cornish. And so it turned out; for as
soon as we were outside he said:
“What I really called about was this: it seems that we have done the
police an injustice. They were more on the spot than we gave them
credit for. I have learned—and this is in the strictest
confidence—that they took that coin round to the British Museum for
the expert’s report. Then a very curious fact came to light. That coin
is not the original which was stolen. It is an electrotype in gold,
made in two halves very neatly soldered together and carefully worked
on the milled edge to hide the join. That is extremely important in
several respects. In the first place, it suggests an explanation of
the otherwise incredible circumstance that it was being carried loose
in the waistcoat pocket. It had probably been recently obtained from
the electrotyper. That suggests the question, is it possible that
D’Arblay might have been that electrotyper? Did he ever work the
electrotype process? We must ascertain whether he did.”
“There is no need,” said I. “It is known to me as a fact that he did.
The little plaquettes that I took for castings are electrotypes, made
by himself. He worked the process quite a lot, and was very skilful in
finishing. For instance, he did a small bust of his daughter in two
parts and brazed them together.”
“Then, you see, Gray,” said Thorndyke, “that advances us considerably.
We now have a plausible suggestion as to the motive and a new field of
investigation. Let us suppose that this man employed D’Arblay to make
electrotype copies of certain unique objects with the intention of
disposing of them to collectors. The originals, being stolen property,
would be almost impossible to dispose of with safety, but a copy would
not necessarily incriminate the owner. But when D’Arblay had made the
copies, he would be a dangerous person, for he would know who had the
originals. Here, to a man whom we know to be a callous murderer, would
be a sufficient reason for making away with D’Arblay.”
“But do you think that D’Arblay would have undertaken such a decidedly
fishy job? It seems hardly like him.”
“Why not?” demanded Thorndyke. “There was nothing suspicious about the
transaction. The man who wanted the copies was the owner of the
originals, and D’Arblay would not know or suspect that they were
stolen.”
“That is true,” I admitted. “But you were speaking of a new field of
investigation.”
“Yes. If a number of copies of different objects have been made, there
is a fair chance that some of them have been disposed of. If they
have, and can be traced, they will give us a start along a new line,
which may bring us in sight of the man himself. Do you ever see Miss
D’Arblay now?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite one of the family at Highgate. I
have been there every Sunday lately.”
“Have you!” he exclaimed with a smile. “You are a pretty locum tenens.
However, if you are quite at home there you can make a few discreet
inquiries. Find out, if you can, whether any electros had been made
recently, and if so, what they were and who was the client. Will you
do that?”
I agreed readily, only too glad to take an active part in the
investigation; and having by this time reached the end of
Doughty-street, I took leave of Thorndyke, and made my way back to
Cornish’s house.