THE MAN FROM BURTON'S
Doctor Bathurst visited the house a second time on the day following
that when the Squire met with his injury. He reported that all was going
on as well as could be expected, though the patient still remained in an
unconscious state.
A telegram had reached Laurence early in the afternoon, informing him
that "Nurse arrives nine to-night," and at precisely the hour specified
in the message a cab drew up at the outside gate of the Manse, and
presently a tall cadaverous individual in sombre garments, that somehow
suggested the undertaker, was ushered into the dining-room, where supper
and Laurence awaited him.
"The--ahem--gentleman from Burton's!" said the young man as the
nurse-detective stepped briskly into the room.
"Between yourself and me, yes; to others simply Potter, a qualified
nurse," was the new-comer's reply.
"Ah, then your name is Potter?"
"Yes, Oliver Potter, formerly of New Scotland Yard. And the matter
requiring my help?"
Laurence proceeded to explain, first motioning to the man to seat
himself and try his hand at the viands. Not only did he describe the
attempts on his father's life, but detailed his visit to the Dene, his
adventure in the barn, and the incidents of the bicycle, which had been
taken and eventually returned, and of the appearance of Meadows in the
yard on the previous night.
"Ha! quite a nice little mystery," the detective remarked, with his
mouth full, when Laurence had finished his narration of the events that
seemed to have any bearing on the case in point; "a nice little mystery,
apparently somewhat tangled, but no doubt quite superficial."
"I warrant that you will find it anything but superficial," responded
Carrington, somewhat nettled at the remark, which seemed a reflection
upon the efforts of Lena and himself to obtain some clue that might lead
to the detection of the would-be murderer of the Squire. He went on to
sketch briefly Miss Scott's undoubtedly ingenious manner of accounting
for the various mysterious circumstances.
The detective smiled sarcastically.
"Ingenious, as you say, but most improbable. There must certainly be a
simpler solution," he said. "But what of the patient--is he progressing
as could be expected? Yes. That is good. It will leave me more time to
work in my investigating capacity. By the way, Mr. Carrington, I suppose
you don't know if your father belongs to any societies--of an unusual
kind, I mean? Nihilistic, for instance, or of a secret nature?"
"No, I am not aware of his connection with any illegal institutions,"
replied Laurence coldly. "I may as well mention that my father is a
gentleman and a magistrate."
"Quite so. I ascertained that such was the case before I left
London--reference books, you know. I should have discovered by this
time, though, that he was a gentleman by your boots."
"My boots!"
"Exactly. I can always tell a gentleman by his boots and a lady by her
fingers--rings, you know. If you are a gentleman presumably your father
is also."
It was Laurence's turn to smile. He perceived that Mr. Potter was trying
to impress him, but he was not impressed in the least.
"You're going to treat this case too lightly," he said; "it's something
out of the common. There are none of your cheap-fictional secret
societies in this mystery. There's something much deeper in it than
that. A plot it is, and a well-laid one, too, that will take even you a
fair amount of skill to bring to light."
There was a marked emphasis on the word "you" that did not escape Mr.
Oliver Potter's notice.
"Then you think we can, in your father's case, exclude any idea of a
secret connection with some society, such as that I refer to? Take that
useful word 'jar,' then, and remove the centre letter."
"Really, Mr. Potter, I fail to understand you. Is this professional
jargon necessary? Personally, I am a plain-spoken person." Laurence had
taken an almost immediate dislike to the man from Burton's, whom he
perceived to be as full of the sense of his own importance as the
proverbial egg is full of meat.
The imperturbable detective, however, seemed accustomed to what he no
doubt considered the amateur jealousy of his employers, and merely
explained that he was forgetting Laurence's presence.
"You see," he said, "I always classify my notes in a simple
form--invented by myself--my own idea, sir. In such a case as this I
start from the commencement. There must be some cause of these repeated
attacks on Mr. Carrington's life. What is it? The possible ones are
jealousy, anarchy, robbery--J. A. R., see? Rather novel, isn't it? You
can't forget things when you select a word to remember them by. Well,
then, you say anarchy is out of the question. This leaves us with
jealousy and robbery. Are you aware of anything having been stolen on
the occasion of last night's attempt at murder? No. Well, perhaps you
haven't had time to find out whether any valuable has disappeared. Are
you aware, then, of anyone who is jealous of your father? Any woman with
whom there was some engagement or arrangement in byegone days? Any
fellow-magistrate with a grudge? Anyone of that kind? No. Then the
problem is harder than I anticipated. J. A. R., it must be one of those.
My selection of the words is almost infallible. Stay! There's still the
robbery possibility undecided. Perhaps your father possessed something,
of the existence of which you were not aware. Yes, it must be a case of
robbery. At any rate, we will start with that idea. Squire attacked
twice. On first occasion out-of-doors. Presumably, the article the
attacking party wants is something the Squire carries about on his
person, incriminating letter, or what not. On the second attempt he
evidently captures the 'something,' and decamps, leaving the Squire half
dead--or, let me see, it was three-quarters dead, wasn't it?" (This
without the ghost of a smile.) "Problem, find the desperate party, and
restore Squire to health. Yes, a nice little job. Thanks for sending for
me. I don't often fail; never, I might say, except, of course, in very
knotty cases. Well, good-night, Mr. Carrington, or perhaps you won't
mind taking me to the sick-room? I've my bag here containing
everything--nothing like a bag, you know, for holding things--and I'll
take night duty to-day. Your good housekeeper'll want a little rest, no
doubt. Upstairs, then."
Laurence opened the door and led the way to the Squire's bedroom.
Horrified is the only word that will adequately express his impression
of the man from Burton's. He had heard so much of the adroitness and
ability of the nurse-detectives that he was at a loss to understand
Potter's behaviour, which was almost that of a lunatic. The thin,
garrulous specimen of humanity, with his absurd "ingenious words" and
his nonsensical hypotheses, seemed more like a mummer than an
investigator of crime. But no sooner had he entered the sick-room than
the young man saw that whatever his very evident shortcomings as a
detective might be, he was an experienced nurse. Every action pointed to
that fact, and when Laurence, accompanied by Mrs. Featherston, left the
sick-room with the intention of retiring to bed, he was quite satisfied
that his unconscious parent was in safe hands. But he felt instinctively
that, as an assistant in solving the mystery, Lena was worth a dozen
such as Oliver Potter.
Possibly young Mr. Carrington would have been surprised had he seen the
change that came over the features of the man from Burton's when left
alone with his insensible patient.
The stupid, grinning expression on his face gave place to one of cunning
and delight.
"Aha, young man," he muttered to himself, "you've put me down as a fool,
as I intended that you should. We'll see who is the fool before long. It
was very necessary," he went on, "that he should think me a fool, too,
for otherwise he would be eternally suspicious. As it is, he will
consider me a mere child in the investigating line, which will give me
the opportunities I want.
"As if I couldn't see through the whole thing! Green's 'Landed Gentry'
told me how much Laurence would gain by his father's death. No doubt the
youth has got into hot water. Creditors pressing. Bills much overdue. I
know the sort of thing. I only wonder he wasn't more artful in making
his plans. He looked a smart fellow, but then, appearances are
deceitful. At any rate, he seems a duffer to have failed to murder the
old chap both times.
"I wonder nobody has seen through his game before. I must find the
accomplice who played the part of the cycling highwayman on the heath.
The idea of his being on a cycle is novel.
"I presume, when he found that the accomplice hadn't polished the old
chap off, he decided to do the job himself. In order to avoid the
possible suspicion of the women staying in the house he invents the
story of the interview with the imaginary Major Jones-Farnell, and goes
off to this Durley Dene, or pretends to. No sooner does he find that the
old man has retired to bed than he goes in and makes a desperate attempt
to kill him. He knows that he must kill the Squire outright, or he will
be exposed immediately, should the old man live and be able to tell the
tale. Unfortunately for him he is interrupted in some way, and leaves
his father only half dead. The doctor compels him to send for me,
otherwise he would not probably have done so. So long as the Squire
remains unconscious Laurence is safe. If he recovers, then his assailant
is done for. Therefore, the chances are that a final attempt to do for
the poor old man will be made, if there is any probability of his
recovering consciousness. I must be on the alert."
But he was not as good as his word, and evidently made but a feeble
defence against the onslaught of Morpheus, for within a very few minutes
of settling down in the cosy arm-chair by the bedside he was fast
asleep.
And while he slept that which he anticipated came to pass.