Dr. Thorndyke Intervenes E-Book

R. Austin Freeman

• Herausgeber: Jovian Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 476

Beschreibung

What would you do if you opened a package to find a man's head? What would you do if the headless corpse had been swapped for a case of bullion? What would you do if you knew a brutal murderer was out there, somewhere, and waiting for you? Some people would run. Dr Thorndyke intervenes.

Leseprobe

DR. THORNDYKE INTERVENES

R. Austin Freeman

JOVIAN PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by R. Austin Freeman

Published by Jovian Press

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

ISBN: 9781537800295

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. — OF A STRANGE TREASURE TROVE AND A DOUBLE LIFE

II.— MR. BUFFHAM’S LEGAL FRIEND

III. — MR. PIPPET GIVES EVIDENCE

IV. — THE FINDING OF THE JURY

V. — THE GREAT PLATINUM ROBBERY

VI. — MR. BRODRIBB’S DILEMMA

VII. — THE FINAL PREPARATIONS

VIII. — THE OPENING OF THE CASE

IX. — THE EVIDENCE OF CHRISTOPER J. PIPPET

X. — JOSIAH?

XI. — PLUMBER’S ODDMENTS AND OTHER MATTERS

XII. — THORNDYKE BECOMES INTERESTED

XIII. — THE DENE HOLE

XIV. — DR. THORNDYKE’S EVIDENCE

XV. — A JOURNEY AND A DISCUSSION

XVI. — THE STATEMENT OF FREDERICK BUNTER

XVII. — THE UNCONSCIOUS RECEIVERS

XVIII. — THE END OF THE CASE AND OTHER MATTERS

XIX. — JOSIAH?

XX. — THORNDYKE RESOLVES A MYSTERY

XXI. — JERVIS COMPLETES THE STORY

I. — OF A STRANGE TREASURE TROVE AND A DOUBLE LIFE

~

THE ATTENDANT AT THE CLOAK room at Fenchurch Street Station glanced at the ticket which had just been handed to him by a tall, hawk-faced and rather anxious-looking man, and ran an inquiring eye over the assemblage of trunks, bags and other objects that crowded the floor of the room.

“Wooden, iron-bound case, you said?” he remarked.

“Yes. Name of Dobson on the label. That looks like the one,” he added, craning over the barrier and watching eagerly as the attendant threaded his way among the litter of packages.

“Dobson it is,” the man confirmed, stooping over the case, and, with an obviously puzzled expression, comparing the ticket that had been pasted on it with the counterfoil which he held in his hand. “Rum affair, though,” he added. “It seems to be your case but it has got the wrong number on it. Will you come in and have a look at it and see that it is all right?”

The presumptive owner offered no objection. On the contrary, he raised the bar of the barrier with the greatest alacrity and took the shortest route among the trunks and portmanteaux until he arrived at the place where the case was standing. And then his expression became even more puzzled than that of the attendant.

“This is very extraordinary,” he exclaimed.

“What is?” demanded the attendant.

“Why!” the other explained, “it is the right name and the same sort of case; but this is not the label that I wrote and I don’t believe that it is the same case.”

The attendant regarded him with a surprised grin and again remarked that “it was a rum affair,” adding, after a reflective pause: “It rather looks as if there had been some mistake, as there easily might be with two cases exactly alike and the same name on both. Were the contents of your case of any particular value?”

“They were, indeed!” the owner exclaimed in an agitated tone. “That case contained property worth several thousand pounds.”

The attendant whistled and apparently began to see things in a new light, for he asked a little anxiously: “When do you say you deposited the case?”

“Late on Saturday evening.”

“Yes, I thought I remembered,” said the attendant. “Then the muddle, if there has been one, must have happened yesterday. I wasn’t here then. It was my Sunday off. But are you quite sure that this is really not your case?”

“It certainly is not the label that I wrote,” was the reply. “But I won’t swear that it is a different case; though I don’t think that it is the right one. But you see, as the name on the label is my name and the address is my address, it can’t be a matter of a simple mistake. It looks like a case of deliberate substitution. And that seems to be borne out by the fact that the change must have been made on a Sunday when the regular attendant was not here.”

“Yes,” the other agreed, “there’s no denying that it does look a bit fishy. But look here, sir; if your name and address is on the label, you are entitled to assume that this is your case. As you say, it is either yours or it is a deliberate substitute, and, in either case, you have the right to open it and see if your property is inside. That will settle the question right away. I can lend you a screw-driver.”

The presumptive owner caught eagerly at the suggestion and began forthwith to untie the thick cord which surrounded the case. The screw-driver was produced, and, while the official turned away to attend to two other clients, it was plied vigorously on the eight long screws by which the lid of the case was secured.

The two newcomers, of whom one appeared to be an American and the other an Englishman, had come to claim a number of trunks and travelling-bags; and as some of these, especially those belonging to the American gentleman, were of imposing dimensions, the attendant prudently admitted them that they might identify their packages and so save unnecessary hauling about. While they were carrying out their search he returned to Mr. Dobson and watched him as he extracted the last of the screws.

“Now we shall see whether there has been any jiggery pokery,” he remarked, when the screw had been laid down with the others, and Mr. Dobson prepared to raise the lid. And in fact they did see; and a very singular effect the sight had on them both. Mr. Dobson sprang back with a gasp of horror and the attendant uttered the single word “Golly!”

After staring into the case incredulously for a couple of amazed seconds, Dobson slammed down the lid and demanded, breathlessly, “Where can I find a policeman?”

“You’ll find one somewhere near the barrier or else just outside the station. Or you could get on the phone and—”

Mr. Dobson did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence but darted out towards the barrier and disappeared in the direction of the main entrance. Meanwhile, the two strangers, who had apparently overheard Mr. Dobson’s question, abandoned for the time being the inspection of their luggage and approached the case, on which the attendant’s eyes were still riveted.

“Anything amiss?” the Englishman asked.

The attendant made no reply but silently lifted the lid of the case, held it up for a moment or two and then let it drop.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Englishman, “it looks like a man’s head!”

“It is a man’s head,” the attendant confirmed. And, in fact, there was no doubt about it, though only a hairy crown was visible, through a packing of clothes or rags.

“Who is the chappie who has just bolted out?” the Englishman inquired. “He seemed mightily taken aback.”

“So would you have been,” the attendant retorted, “if you had come to claim a package and found this in its place.” He followed up this remark with a brief summary of the circumstances.

“Well!” observed the American, “I have heard it said that exchange is no robbery, but I guess that the party who made this exchange got the best of the deal.”

The Englishman grinned. “You are right there, Mr. Pippet,” said he. “I’ve heard of a good many artful dodges for disposing of a superfluous corpse, but I have never heard of a murderer swapping it for a case of jewellery or bullion.”

The three men stood silently looking at the case and occasionally glancing round in the direction of the entrance. Presently the American inquired:

“Is there any particular scarcity of policemen in this city?”

The attendant looked round again anxiously towards the entrance.

“He is a long time finding that policeman,” said he in reply to the implied comment.

“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Pippet; “and I guess that policeman will be a long time finding him.”

The attendant turned on him with a distinctly startled expression.

“You don’t think he has done a bunk, do you?” he asked uneasily.

“Well,” replied Pippet, “he didn’t waste any time in getting outside, and he doesn’t seem to have had much luck in what he went for. I reckon one of us had better have a try. You know the place better than I do, Buffham.”

“Yes, sir, if you would,” urged the attendant. “I can’t leave the place myself. But I think we ought to have a constable as soon as possible, and it does rather look as if that gent had mizzled.”

On this, Mr. Buffham turned and rapidly made his way through the litter of trunks and packages and strode away towards the entrance through which he vanished, while the attendant reluctantly tore himself away from the mysterious case to hand out one or two rugs and suit-cases, and Mr. Pippet resumed his salvage operations on his trunks and portmanteaux. In less than three minutes Mr. Buffham was seen returning with a constable, and the attendant raised the barrier to admit them. Apparently, Mr. Buffham had given the officer a general sketch of the circumstances as they had come along, for the latter remarked, as he eyed the case:

“So this is the box of mystery, is it? And you say that there is a person’s head inside it?”

“You can see for yourself,” said the attendant; and with this he raised the lid, and, having peered in, he looked at the constable, who, after an impassive and judicial survey, admitted that it did look like a man’s head, and produced from his pocket a portentous, black note book.

“The first question,” said he, “is about this man who has absconded. Can you give me a description of him?”

The three men consulted and between them evolved a description which might have been illuminating to anyone who was intimately acquainted with the absent stranger, but furnished indifferent material for the identification of an unknown individual. They agreed, however, that he was somewhat tall and dark, with a thin face, a Torpedo beard and moustache, and a rather prominent nose; that he was dressed in dark-coloured clothing and wore a soft felt hat. Mr. Pippet further expressed the opinion that the man’s hair and beard were dyed.

“Yes,” said the constable, closing his note book, “he seems to have been a good deal like other people. They usually are. That’s the worst of it. If people who commit crimes would only be a bit more striking in their appearance and show a little originality in the way they dress, it would make things so much more simple for us. But it’s a queer affair. The puzzle is what he came here for, and why, having come, he proceeded to do a bolt. He couldn’t have known what was in the case, or he wouldn’t have come. And, if the case wasn’t his, I don’t see why he should have hopped it and put himself under suspicion. I had better take your names and addresses, gentlemen, as you saw him, though you don’t seem to have much to tell. Then I think I will get on the phone to headquarters.”

He re-opened the note book and, having taken down the names and addresses of the two gentlemen, went out in search of the telephone.

As he departed, Mr. Pippet, apparently dismissing the mysterious case from his mind as an affair finished and done with, reverted to the practical business of sorting out his luggage, in which occupation he was presently joined by Mr. Buffham.

“I am going to get a taxi,” said the former, “to take me to my hotel—the Pendennis in Great Russell Street. Can I put you down anywhere? I see you’re travelling pretty light.”

Mr. Buffham cast a deprecating eye on the modest portmanteau which contained his entire outfit and a questioning eye on the imposing array of trunks and bags which appertained to his companion, and reflected for a moment.

“The taxi-man will jib at your lot,” said he, “without adding mine to it.”

“Yes,” agreed Pippet, “I shall have to get two taxis in any case, so one of them can’t complain of an extra package. Where are you putting up?”

“I am staying for a few days at a boarding house in Woburn Place; not so very far from you. But I was thinking that, when we have disposed of our traps, you might come and have some dinner with me at a restaurant that I know of. What do you say?”

“Why, the fact is,” said Pippet, “that I was just about to make the very same proposal, only I was going to suggest that we dine together at my hotel. And, if you don’t mind, I think it will be the better plan, as I have got a suite of rooms that we can retire to after dinner for a quiet yarn. Do you mind?”

Mr. Buffham did not mind. On the contrary, he accepted with something approaching eagerness. For his own reasons, he had resolved to cultivate the not very intimate acquaintanceship which had been established during the voyage from New York to Tilbury, and he was better pleased to do so at Mr. Pippet’s expense than at his own; and the mention of the suite of rooms had strongly confirmed him in his resolution. A man who chartered a suite of rooms at a London hotel must be something more than substantial. But Mr. Pippet’s next observation gave him less satisfaction.

“You are wondering, I suppose, what a solitary male like me can want with a suite of rooms all to himself. The explanation is that I am not all by myself. I am expecting my daughter and sister over from Paris tomorrow, and I can’t have them hanging about in the public rooms with no corner to call their own. But, until they arrive, I am what they call en garçon over there.”

Having thus made clear his position, Mr. Pippet went forth and shortly returned accompanied by two taxi-men of dour aspect and taciturn habit, who silently collected the baggage and bore it out to their respective vehicles, which, in due course, set forth upon their journey.

Before following them, we may linger awhile to note the results of the constable’s mission. They were not very sensational. In the course of a few minutes, an inspector arrived, and, having made a brief confirmatory inspection, called for the screws and the screwdriver and proceeded in an impassive but workmanlike manner to replace the former in their holes and drive them home. Then he, in his turn, sent out for a taxi-man, by whom the case with its gruesome contents was borne out unsuspectingly to the waiting vehicle and spirited away to an unknown destination.

When Mr. Buffham’s solitary portmanteau had been dumped down in the hall of a somewhat seedy house in Woburn Place, the two taxis moved on to the portals of the quiet but select hotel in Great Russell Street, where the mountainous pile of baggage was handed over to the hotel porter with brief directions as to its disposal. Then the two men, after the necessary ablutions, made their way to the dining-room and selected a table in a comparatively retired corner, where Mr. Buffham waited in some anxiety as to the quality of the entertainment. His experience of middle-aged American men had given him the impression that they were not, as a class, enthusiastic feeders, and it was with sensible relief that he discovered in his host the capacity to take a reasonable interest in his food. In fact, the gastronomic arrangements were so much to his satisfaction that, for a time, they engaged his entire attention; for, if the whole truth must be told, this dinner was not an entirely unforeseen contingency, and, as he had providently modified his diet with that possibility in view, he was now in a condition to do complete justice to the excellent fare provided. Presently, however, when the razor-edge had been taken off his appetite, his attention reverted to larger interests and he began cautiously to throw out feelers. Not that an extreme amount of caution was really necessary, for Mr. Pippet was a simple, straightforward, open-minded man; shrewd enough in the ordinary business of life and gifted with a massive common-sense. But he was quite devoid of cunning, and trustful of his fellow-creatures to an extent that is somewhat unusual in citizens of the United States. He was, in fact, the exact opposite in mental and moral type of the man who faced him across the table.

“Well!” said Buffham, raising his newly-refilled glass, “here’s to a successful beano. I suppose you contemplate laying a delicate wash of carmine over the British landscape. Or is it to be a full tint of vermilion?”

“Now you are talking in tropes and metaphors,” said Pippet, with an indulgent smile, “but, as I interpret the idiom, you think we are going to make things hum.”

“I assume that you are over here to have a good time.”

“We always like to have a good time if we can manage it, wherever we may be,” said Pippet, “and I hope to pass the time pleasantly while I am in the Old Country. But I have come over with a more definite purpose than that; and, if I should tell you what that purpose is, I should make you smile.”

“And a very pleasant result, too,” said Buffham. “I like to be made to smile. But, of course, I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, even for the sake of a smile.”

“My private affairs will probably soon be public affairs,” said Pippet, “so I need not maintain any particular reticence about them; and, in any case, there’s nothing to be ashamed or secret about. If it interests you to know, my visit to England is connected with a claim to an English title and the estates that go with it.”

Buffham was thunderstruck. But he did not smile. The affair was much too serious for that. Instead, he demanded in a hushed voice: “Do you mean that you are making a claim on your own behalf?”

Mr. Pippet chuckled. “Sounds incredible, doesn’t it? But that is the cold-drawn fact. I am setting up a claim to the Earldom of Winsborough and to the lands and other property that appertain to it, all of which I understand to be at present vacant and calling aloud for an owner.”

Mr. Buffham pulled himself together. This looked like a good deal bigger affair than he had anticipated. Indeed, he had not anticipated anything in particular. His professional habits—if we may so designate them—led him to cultivate the society of rich men of all kinds, and by preference that of wealthy Americans making an European tour. Not that the globe-trotting American is a peculiarly simple and trustful soul. But he is in a holiday mood; he is in unaccustomed surroundings and usually has money to spend and a strong inclination to spend it. Mr. Buffham’s role was to foster that inclination, and, as far as possible, to collaborate in the associated activities. He had proposed to fasten upon Mr. Pippet, if he could, in a Micawber-like hope that something profitable might turn up. But the prospect opened up by Mr. Pippet’s announcement was beyond his wildest dreams.

“I suppose,” Mr. Pippet continued after a brief pause, “you are wondering what in creation a middle-aged American in comfortable circumstances wants with an English title and estates?”

“I am not wondering anything of the kind,” replied Buffham. “The position of a great English nobleman is one that might well tempt the ambition of an American if he were twenty times a millionaire. Think of the august dignity of that position! Of the universal deference that it commands! Think of the grand old mansions and the parks planted with immemorial trees, the great town house and the seat in the House of Lords, and—and—”

“Yes, I know,” chuckled Pippet, “I’ve had all that rubbed into me, and, to tell the bald truth, I wouldn’t give a damn for the whole boiling if I had only myself to consider. I don’t want to have people calling me ‘My Lord’ and making me feel like a fool; and I’ve no use for baronial mansions or ancestral halls. A good comfortable hotel where they know how to cook answers all my requirements. But I’ve got to go in for this business whether I like it or not. My womenfolk have got me fairly in tow, especially my sister. She’s just mad to be Lady Arminella—in fact, if I hadn’t put my foot down she’d have settled the matter in advance and taken the title on account, so to speak.”

“I suppose,” said Buffham, “you have got your claim pretty well cut and dried? Got all your evidence, I mean, and arranged with your lawyer as to the plan of campaign?”

“Well, no!” replied Pippet, “at present things are rather in the air. But, if we have finished, perhaps we might take our coffee up in my sitting room. We can talk more freely there. But don’t let me bore you. After all, it isn’t your funeral.”

“My dear sir!” exclaimed Buffham, with genuine sincerity, “you are not boring me. I assure you that I am profoundly interested. If you won’t consider me inquisitive, I should like to hear the whole story in as much detail as you care to give.”

Mr. Pippet nodded and smiled. “Good!” said he, as they ascended the stairs to the private suite, “you shall have all the detail you want. I shall enjoy giving it to you, as it will help to get the affair into my own head a trifle more clearly. It’s a queer story and I must admit that it does not sound any too convincing. The whole claim rests upon a tradition that I heard from my father.”

Mr. Buffham was a little disappointed; but only a little. As his host had said, it—the claim—was not his funeral. A wild cat claim might answer his purpose as well as any other; perhaps even better. Nevertheless, he remarked with an assumption of anxiety: “I hope there is something to go on besides the tradition. You’ll have to deal with a court of law, you know.”

“Yes, I realize that,” replied Pippet, “and I may say that there is some corroborative matter. I’ll tell you about that presently. But there’s this much about the tradition; that it admits of being put to the test, as you’ll see when I give you the story. And I will do that right away.

“The tradition, then, as I had it from my father from time to time, in rather disjointed fragments, was that his father was a very remarkable character; in fact, he was two characters rolled into one, for he led a double life. As my father and mother knew him, he was Mr. Josiah Pippet, the landlord of a house of call in the City of London known as ‘The Fox and Grapes.’ But a persistent tradition had it that the name of Josiah Pippet was an assumed name and that he was really the Earl of Winsborough. It is known that he was in the habit of absenting himself from his London premises from time to time and that when he did so he disappeared completely, leaving no hint of his whereabouts. Now, it seems that the Earl, who was a bachelor, was a somewhat eccentric gentleman of similar habits. He also was accustomed periodically to absent himself from the Castle, and he also used to disappear, leaving no clue to his whereabouts. And rumour had it that these disappearances were, as the scientists would say, correlated; like the little figures in those old-fashioned toy houses that foretold the weather. When the old man came out, the old woman went in, and vice versa. So it was said that when Josiah disappeared from ‘The Fox and Grapes,’ his lordship made his appearance at Winsborough Castle; and when his lordship disappeared from the Castle, Josiah popped up at ‘The Fox and Grapes.’”

“Is there any record of the movements of the two men?” Buffham asked.

“Well, there is a diary, along with a lot of letters and other stuff. I have just glanced at some of it but I can’t I say of my own observation that there is a definite record. However, my sister has gone through the whole lot and she says that it is all as plain as a pike-staff.”

Buffham nodded with an air of satisfaction that was by no means assumed. He began to see splendid possibilities in his host’s case.

“Yes,” said he, “this is much more hopeful. If you can show that these disappearances coincided in time, that will be a very striking piece of evidence. You have got these documents with you?”

“Yes, I have got them in a deed box in my bedroom. I have been intending to make a serious attack on them and to go right through them.”

“What would be much more to the point,” said Buffham, “would be to hand the box to your lawyer and let him go through them. He will be accustomed to examining documents, and he will see the significance—the legal significance, I mean—of little, inconspicuous facts that might easily escape a non-professional eye. I think you said you had a lawyer?”

“No. That’s a matter that I shall have to attend to at once; and I don’t quite know how to go about it. I understand that they don’t advertise in this country.”

“No,” said Buffham, “certainly not. But I see your difficulty. You naturally want to get a suitable man, and it is most important. You want to secure the services of a solicitor whose position and character would command the respect and confidence of the court, and who has had experience of cases of a similar kind. That is absolutely vital. I recall a case which illustrates the danger of employing a lawyer of an unsuitable kind. It was, like yours, a case of disputed succession. There were two claimants whom we may call ‘A’ and ‘B.’ Now Mr. ‘A’ had undoubtedly the better case. But unfortunately for him, he employed a solicitor whose sole experience was concerned with commercial law. He was an excellent man, but he knew practically nothing of the intricacies of succession to landed property. Mr. ‘B,’ on the other hand, had the good fortune to secure a lawyer whose practice had been very largely concerned with these very cases. He knew all the ropes, you see; and the result was that the case was decided in Mr. ‘B’s’ favour. But it ought not to have been. I had it, in confidence, from his lawyer (whom I happened to know rather well) that if he had been acting for Mr. ‘A,’ instead of for Mr. ‘B,’ the decision would certainly have gone the other way. ‘A’ had the better claim, but his lawyer had not realized it and had failed to put it before the court in a sufficiently convincing manner.”

Having given this striking instance, Buffham looked anxiously at his host, and was a trifle disappointed at its effect. Still more so was he with that gentleman’s comment.

“Seems to me,” the latter remarked, “that that court wasn’t particularly on the spot if they let your lawyer friend bluff them into giving Mr. ‘B’ the property that properly belonged to Mr. ‘A.’ And I shouldn’t have thought that your friend would have found it a satisfactory deal. At any rate, I am not wanting any lawyer to grab property for me that belongs to somebody else. As long as I believe in this claim myself, I’m going for it for all I am worth. But I am not going to drop my egg into somebody else’s rightful nest, like your Mr. B.’”

“Of course you are not!” Buffham hastened to reply, considerably disconcerted by his host’s unexpected attitude; so difficult is it for a radically dishonest man to realize that his is not the usual and normal state of mind. “But neither do you want to find yourself in the position of Mr. ‘A.’”

“No,” Pippet admitted, “I don’t. I just want a square deal, and I always understood that you could get it in an English court.”

“So you can,” said Buffham. “But you must realize that a court can only decide on the facts and arguments put before it. It is the business of the lawyers to supply those facts and arguments. And I think you are hardly just to my lawyer friend—his name, by the way, is Gimbler—a most honourable and conscientious man. I must point out that a lawyer’s duty is to present his client’s case in the most forcible and convincing way that he can. He is not concerned with the other man’s case. He assumes—and so does the court—that the opposing lawyer will do the same for his client; and then the court will have both cases completely presented. It is the client’s business to employ a lawyer who is competent to put his case properly to the court.”

Mr. Pippet nodded. “Yes,” he said, reflectively, “I see the idea. But the difficulty in the case of a stranger like myself is to find the particular kind of lawyer who has the special knowledge and experience that is required. Now, as to this friend of yours, Gimbler; you say that he specializes in disputed claims to property.”

“I didn’t say that he specialized in them, but I know that he has had considerable experience of them.”

“Well, now, do you suppose that he would be willing to take up this claim of mine?”

Mr. Buffham did not suppose at all. He knew. Nevertheless he replied warily:

“It depends. He wouldn’t want to embark on a case that was going to result in a fiasco. He would want to hear an about the claim and what evidence there is to support it. And especially he would want to go very carefully through those documents of yours.”

“Yes,” said Pippet, “that seems to be the correct line, and that is what I should want him to do. I’d like to have an expert opinion on the whole affair before I begin to get busy. I am not out to exploit a mare’s nest and make a public fool of myself. But we didn’t finish the story. We only got to the Box and Cox business of Josiah and the Earl. It seems that this went on for a number of years, and nothing seems to have been thought of it at the time. But when Josiah’s wife died and his son—my father—was settled, he appears to have wearied of the complications of his double life and made up his mind to put an end to them. And the simplest and most conclusive way to write Finis on the affair seemed to him to be to die and get buried. And that is what he did. According to the story, he faked a last illness and engineered a sham death. I don’t know how he managed it. Seems to me pretty difficult. But the rumour had it that he managed to get people to believe that he had died, and he had a funeral with a dummy coffin, properly weighted with lumps of lead, and that this was successfully planted in the family vault. I am bound to admit that this part of the story does sound a trifle thin. But it seems to have been firmly believed in the family.”

It would have been a relief to Mr. Buffham to snigger aloud. But sniggering was not his role. Still, he felt called on to make some kind of criticism. Accordingly, he remarked judicially:

“There do certainly seem to be difficulties; the death certificate, for instance. You would hardly expect a doctor to mistake a live, healthy man for a corpse—unless Josiah made it worth his while. It would be simple enough then.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Pippet, “that doctors often used to give a certificate without viewing the body. But the lawyer will know that. At any rate, it is obvious that someone must have been in the know; and that is probably how the rumour got started.”

“And when did the Earl die?”

“That I can’t tell you, off hand. But it was some years after Josiah’s funeral.”

“And who holds the title and estate now?”

“Nobody; at least, so I understand. The last—or present—Earl went away to Africa or some other uncivilized place, big game shooting, and never came back. As there was never any announcement of the Earl’s death, things seem to have drifted on as if he was alive. I have never heard of any claimant.”

“There couldn’t be until the Earl’s death was either proved or presumed by the permission of the court. So the first thing that you will have to do will be to take proceedings to have the death of the Earl presumed.”

“Not the first thing,” said Pippet. “There is one question that will have to be settled before we definitely make the claim. The tradition says that Josiah’s death was a fake and that his coffin was a dummy weighted with lead. Now, that is a statement of fact that admits of proof or disproof. The first thing that we have got to do is to get that coffin open. If we find Josiah inside, that will settle the whole business, and I shan’t care a hoot whether the Earl is alive or dead.”

Once again Mr. Buffham was sensible of a slight feeling of disappointment. In a man who was prepared to consider seriously such a manifestly preposterous cock and bull story as this, he had not looked for so reasonable a state of mind. Of course, Pippet was quite right from his own idiotic point of view. The opening of the coffin was the experimentum crucis. And when it was opened, there, of course, would be the body, and the bubble would be most effectively burst. But Mr. Buffham did not want the bubble burst. The plan which was shaping itself vaguely in his mind was concerned with keeping that bubble in a healthy state of inflation. And again, his crooked mind found it hard to understand Pippet’s simple, honest, straightforward outlook. If he had been the claimant, his strongest efforts would have been devoted to seeing that nobody meddled with that coffin. And he had a feeling that his friend Gimbler would take the same view.

“Of course,” he conceded, “you are perfectly correct; but there may be difficulties that you don’t quite realize. I don’t know how it is in America, but in this country you can’t just dig up a coffin and open it if you want to know who is inside. There are all sorts of formalities before you can get permission; and I doubt whether faculty would be granted until you had made out some sort of a case in the courts. So the moral is that you must get as impressive a body of evidence together as you can. Have you got any other facts besides what you have told me? For instance, do you know what these two men—Josiah and the Earl—were like? Do they appear to have resembled each other?”

Mr. Pippet grinned. “If Josiah and the Earl,” said he, “were one and the same person, they would naturally be a good deal alike. I understand that they were. That is one of the strong points of the story. Both of them were a bit out-size; well over six feet in height. Both were fair, blue-eyed men with a shaved upper lip and long sandy side-whiskers.”

“You can prove that, can you?”

“I can swear that I had information to that effect from my father, who knew one and had seen the other. And there is one other point; only a small one, but every little bit of corroboration helps. My father told me on several occasions that his father—Josiah—had often told him that he was born in Winsborough Castle.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Buffham, “that’s better. That establishes a definite connexion. It’s a pity, though, that he was not more explicit. And now, with regard to these documents that you spoke of; what is the nature of them?”

“To tell you the truth,” replied Pippet, “I don’t know much about them. I’ve been used to an active life and I’m not a great reader, so I’ve not done much more than glance over them. But, as I mentioned, my sister has gone through them carefully and she reckons that they as good as prove that Josiah and the Earl were one and the same person. Would you like to have a look at them?”

A mere affirmative would have been inadequate to express Mr. Buffham’s ravenous desire to see whether there was or was not the making of a possible legal case. Nevertheless, he replied in a tone of studied indifference:

“My opinion is not much to the point, but I should certainly like to see what sort of material you will be able to give your lawyer.”

Thereupon Mr. Pippet retired to the bedroom, from which he presently emerged carrying a good-sized deed box. This he placed on the table, and, having gone deliberately through a large bunch of keys, eventually selected one and carefully fitted it into the lock while Buffham watched him hungrily. The box being opened, the two men drew their chairs up to the table and peered into its interior; which was occupied by a collection of bundles of papers, neatly tied up with red tape, each bundle being distinguished by means of a label inscribed in an old-fashioned feminine handwriting. In addition, there were seven small, leather-bound volumes.

Buffham picked out the bundles, one after another, and read the labels. “Letters from J.S. to his wife,” “Letters from various persons to J.S.,” “Copies of letters from J.S. to various persons,” “Various tradesmen’s bills and accounts,” and so on. Having asked his host’s permission, he untied one or two of the bundles and read samples of the letters and tradesmen’s bills with a feeling of stupefaction, mingled with astonished speculations as to the mental peculiarities of his host’s sister.

“Yes,” he said, gloomily replacing the last of them, “I dare say a careful analysis of these letters may yield some relevant information, but it will need the expert eye of the trained lawyer to detect the relevancy of some of them. There is, for instance, a bill for two pounds of pork sausages and a black pudding, which seems rather beside the mark. But you never know. Important legal points may be involved in the most unexpected matter. What are those little books? Are they the diaries that you spoke of?”

Mr. Pippet nodded and handed one of them to him, which proved to be the diary for the year 1833. He turned over the leaves and scanned the entries with more interest but still with a feeling of bewilderment. After examining a few sample pages, he handed the volume back to Pippet, remarking a little wearily:

“The late Josiah didn’t go into much detail. The entries are very dry and brief and seem to be concerned chiefly with the trivial happenings of his life from day to day and with money paid or received.”

“Well, isn’t that what diaries are usually filled with?”

Pippet protested, not unreasonably. “And don’t you think that those simple, commonplace entries are just the ones to give us the information that we want? My sister said that she learned quite a lot about Josiah’s ways of life from those diaries.”

“Did she?” said Buffham. “I am glad to hear it; because it suggests that a trained lawyer, going through those diaries with the legal issues in his mind, noting, collating and analyzing the entries, will probably discover significances in the most unexpected places. Which brings us back to the point that you ought to get competent legal assistance without delay.”

“Yes, I think you are right,” agreed Pippet. “I’ve got to secure a lawyer sooner or later, so I might as well start right away. Now, to come down to brass tacks, what about this lawyer friend of yours? You say that this case of mine would be in his customary line of business; and you think he would be willing to take it on?”

Mr. Buffham had no doubts whatever, but he did not think it expedient to say so. A retreating tendency on the part of the bait is apt to produce a pursuing tendency on the part of the fish.

“Naturally,” said he, “I can’t answer for another man’s views. He is a busy man, and he might not be prepared to give time to what he might regard as a somewhat speculative case. But we can easily find out. If you like, I will call on him and put the case to him in as favourable a light as possible, and, if he doesn’t seem eager to take it up, I might use a little gentle pressure. You see, I know him pretty well. Then, if I am successful, I might arrange for you to have an interview, at which, perhaps, it might be advisable for your sister to be present, as she knows more about the affair than you do. Then he could tell you what he thought of your chances and you could let him know what you are prepared to do. What do you think of that plan?”

Mr. Pippet thought that it seemed to meet the case, provided that it could be carried out without delay.

“You understand,” said he, “that my sister and daughter will be arriving here tomorrow, and they will be red-hot to get the business started, especially my sister.”

“And quite naturally, too,” said Buffham. “I sympathize with her impatience and I promise that there shall be no delay on my part. I will call at Gimbler’s office tomorrow morning the first thing, before he has had time to begin his morning’s work.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Pippet, as his guest rose to take his leave, “to interest yourself in this way in the affairs of a mere stranger.”

“Not at all,” Buffham rejoined cheerily. “You are forgetting the romance and dramatic interest of your case. Anyone would be delighted to lend you a hand in your adventure. You may depend on hearing from me in the course of tomorrow. Good night and good luck!”

Mr. Pippet, having provided his guest with a fresh cigar, accompanied him down to the entrance and watched him with a meditative eye as he walked away down the street. Apparently, the dwindling figure suggested a train of thought, for he continued to stand looking out even after it had disappeared. At length he turned with a faint sigh and thoughtfully retraced his steps to his own domain.

II.— MR. BUFFHAM’S LEGAL FRIEND

~

NO AMOUNT OF NATIVE SHREWDNESS can entirely compensate for deficiency of knowledge. If Mr. Christopher Pippet had been intimately acquainted with English social customs, he would have known that the neighbourhood of Kennington in general and Kennington Grove in particular, is hardly the place in which to look for the professional premises of a solicitor engaged in important Chancery practice. He did, indeed, survey the rather suburban surroundings with a certain amount of surprise, noting with intelligent interest the contrast between the ways of New York and those of London. He even ventured to comment on the circumstance as he halted at the iron gate of a small garden and read out the inscription on a well-worn brass plate affixed to the gate aforesaid; which set forth the name and professional vocation of Mr. Horatio Gimbler, Solicitor and Advocate.

“Buffham didn’t tell me that he was an advocate as well as a solicitor,” Mr. Pippet remarked, as he pushed the gate open.

“He wouldn’t,” replied his companion, “but left you to find out for yourself. Of course he knew you would, and then you would give him credit for having understated his friend’s merits. It’s just vanity.”

At the street door, which was closed and bore a duplicate plate, Mr. Pippet pressed an electric bell-push, with the result that there arose from within a sound like the “going off” of an alarm clock and simultaneously the upper half of a face with a pair of beady black eyes appeared for an instant above the wire blind of the adjacent window. Then, after a brief interval, the door opened and revealed an extremely alert youth of undeniably Hebraic aspect.

“Is Mr. Gimbler disengaged?” Mr. Pippet inquired.

“Have you got an appointment?” the youth demanded.

“Yes; eleven o’clock; and it’s two minutes to the hour now. Shall I go in here?”

He turned towards a door opening out of the hall and marked “Waiting Room.”

“No,” the youth replied, hastily, emphatically and almost in a tone of alarm. “That’th for clienth that haven’t got an appointment. What name thall I thay?”

“Mr. and Miss Pippet.”

“Oh, yeth, I know. Jutht thtep thith way.”

He opened an inner door leading into a small inner hall, which offered to the visitors a prospect of a flight of shabbily carpeted stairs and a strong odour of fried onions. Here he approached a door marked “Private Office” and knocked softly, eliciting a responsive but inarticulate roar; whereupon he opened the door and announced: “Mr. and Miss Pippet.”

The opened door revealed a large man with a pair of folding pince-nez insecurely balanced on the end of a short, fat nose, apparently writing furiously. As the visitors entered, he looked round with an interrogative frown as if impatient of being interrupted. Then, appearing suddenly to realize who they were, he made a convulsive grimace, which dislodged the eyeglasses and left them dangling free on their broad black ribbon, and was succeeded by a wrinkly but affable smile. Then he rose, and, holding out a large, rather fat hand, exclaimed:

“Delighted to see you. I had no idea that it was so late. One gets so engrossed in these—er—fascinating—”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Pippet, “though I thought it was the documents that got engrossed. However, here we are. Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss Arminella Pippet.”

Mr. Gimbler bowed, and, for a brief space there was a searching mutual inspection. Miss Pippet saw a physically imposing man, large in all dimensions—tall, broad, deep-chested and still more deep in the region immediately below the chest; with a large, massive head, rather bald and very closely cropped, a large, rather fat face, marked with wrinkles suggestive of those on the edge of a pair of bellows, and singularly small pale blue eyes, which tended to become still smaller, even to total disappearance, when he smiled. Through those little blue eyes, Mr. Gimbler saw a woman, shortish in stature but majestic in carriage and conveying an impression of exuberant energy and vivacity. And this impression was reinforced by the strong, mobile face with its firm mouth set above the square, pugnacious chin and below a rather formidable Roman nose, which latter gave to her a certain suggestive resemblance to a bird, a resemblance accentuated by her quick movements. But the bird suggested was not the dove. In short, Miss Arminella Pippet was a somewhat remarkable-looking lady with a most unmistakeable “presence.” She might have been a dame of the old French noblesse; and Mr. Gimbler, looking at her through his little blue eyes and bearing in mind the peerage claim, decided that she looked the part. He also decided—comparing her with her mild-faced brother—that the grey mare was the better horse and must claim his chief attention. He was not the first who had undervalued Mr. Christopher Pippet.

“I suppose,” said the latter, sitting down with some care on a rather infirm cane-bottomed chair (Miss Arminella occupied the only easy chair), “Mr. Buffham has given you some idea of the matter on which we have come to consult you?”

“He has done more than that,” said Mr. Gimbler, “and would have done more still if I had not stopped him. He is thrilled by your romantic story and wildly optimistic. If we could only get a jury of Buffhams you would walk into your inheritance without a breath of opposition.”

“And what do you think of our chances with the kind of jury that we are likely to get?”

Mr. Gimbler pursed up his lips and shook his massive head.

“We mustn’t begin giving opinions at this stage,” said he. “Remember that I have only heard the story at second hand from Mr. Buffham; just a sketch of the nature of the case. Let us begin at the beginning and forget Mr. Buffham. You are claiming, I believe, to be the grandson of the late Earl of Winsborough. Now, I should like to hear an outline of the grounds of your claim before we go into any details.”

As he spoke, he fixed an inquiring eye on Miss Pippet, who promptly responded by opening her hand-bag and drawing therefrom a folded sheet of foolscap paper.

“This,” said she, “is a concise statement of the nature of the claim and the known facts on which it is based. I thought it would save time if I wrote it out, as I could then leave the paper with you for reference. Will you read it or shall I?”

Mr. Gimbler looked at the document, and, observing that it was covered with closely-spaced writing in a somewhat crabbed and angular hand, elected to listen to the reading in order that he might make a few notes. Accordingly Miss Pippet proceeded to read aloud from the paper with something of the air of a herald reading a royal proclamation, glancing from time to time at the lawyer to see what kind of impression it was making on him. The result of these inspections must have been a little disappointing, as Mr. Gimbler listened attentively with his eyes shut, rousing only at intervals to scribble a few words on a slip of paper.

When she had come to the end of the statement—which repeated substantially, but in a more connected form, the story that her brother had told to Buffham—she laid the paper on the table and regarded the lawyer with an interrogative stare. Mr. Gimbler, having opened his eyes to their normal extent, directed them to his notes.

“This,” said he, “is a very singular and romantic story. Romantic and strange, and yet not really incredible. But the important question is, to what extent is this interesting tradition supported by provable facts? For instance, it is stated that when Josiah Pippet used to disappear from his usual places of resort, the Earl of Winsborough made his appearance at Winsborough Castle. Now, is there any evidence that the disappearance of Josiah coincided in time with the appearance of the Earl at the Castle, andvice versa?”

“There is the diary,” said Miss Pippet.

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gimbler, genuinely surprised. “The diary makes that quite plain, does it?”

“Perfectly,” the lady replied. “Any way, it is quite clear to me. Whenever Josiah was about to make one of his disappearances, he noted in his diary quite unmistakably: ‘Going away tomorrow for a little spell at the old place.’ Sometimes, instead of ‘the old place,’ he says plainly ‘the Castle.’ Then there is a blank space of more than half a page before he records his arrival home at ‘The Fox and Grapes.’’’

“H’m, yes,” said Mr. Gimbler, swinging his folded eyeglass on its ribbon like a pendulum. “And you think that by the expression ‘the old place’ or ‘the Castle’ he means Winsborough Castle?”

“I don’t see how there can be any doubt of it. Obviously, ‘the old place’ must have been Winsborough Castle, where he was born.”

“It would seem probable,” Mr. Gimbler admitted. “By the way, is there any evidence that he was born at the castle?”

“Well,” Miss Pippet replied a little sharply, “he said he was; and I suppose he knew.”

“Naturally, naturally,” the lawyer agreed. “And you can prove that he did say so?”

“My brother and I have heard our father repeat the statement over and over again. We can swear to that.”

“And with regard to the Earl? Is there any evidence that, when Josiah returned home to ‘The Fox and Grapes,’ his Lordship disappeared from the Castle?”

“Evidence!” Miss Pippet exclaimed, slapping her hand-bag impatiently. “What evidence do you want? The man couldn’t be in two places at once!”

“Very true,” said Mr. Gimbler, fixing a slightly perplexed eye on his dangling glasses; “very true. He couldn’t. And with regard to the sham funeral. Naturally there wouldn’t be any reference to it in the diary, but is it possible to support the current rumour by any definite facts?”

“Don’t you think the fact that my father—Josiah’s own son—was convinced of it is definite enough?” Miss Pippet demanded, a trifle acidly.

“It is definite enough,” Gimbler admitted, “but in courts of law there is a slight prejudice against hearsay evidence. Direct, first-hand evidence, if it is possible to produce it, has a good deal more weight.”

“So it may,” retorted Miss Pippet, “but you can’t expect us to give first-hand evidence of a funeral that took place before we were born. I suppose even a court of law has a little common sense.”

“Still,” her brother interposed, “Mr. Gimbler has put his finger on the really vital spot. The sham funeral is the kernel of the whole business. If we can prove that, we shall have something solid to go on. And we can prove it—or else disprove it, as the case may be. But it need not be left in the condition of what the late President Wilson would have called a peradventure. If that funeral was a sham, there was nothing in the coffin but some lumps of lead. Now, that coffin is still in existence. It is lying in the family vault; and if we can yank it out and open it, the Winsborough Peerage Claim will be as good as settled. If we find Josiah at home to visitors, we can let the claim drop and go for a holiday. But if we find the lumps of lead, according to our program, we shall hang on to the claim until the courts are tired of us and hand over the keys of the Castle. Mr. Gimbler is quite right. That coffin is the point that we have got to concentrate on.”

As Mr. Pippet developed his views, the lawyer’s eyeglasses, dangling from their ribbon, swung more and more violently, and their owner’s eyes opened to an unprecedented width. He had never had the slightest intention of concentrating on the coffin. On the contrary, that obvious means of exploding the delusion and toppling over the house of cards had seemed to be the rock that had got to be safely circumnavigated at all costs. In his view, the coffin was the fly in the ointment; and the discovery that it was the apple of Mr. Pippet’s eye gave him a severe shock. And not this alone. He had assumed that the lady’s invincible optimism represented the state of mind of both his clients. Now he realized that the man whom he had written down an amiable ass, and perhaps a dishonest ass at that, combined in his person two qualities most undesirable in the circumstances—hard common sense and transparent honesty.

It was a serious complication; and as he sat with his eyes fixed on the swinging eyeglasses, he endeavoured rapidly to shape a new course. At length he replied:

“Of course you are quite right, Mr. Pippet. The obvious course would be to examine the coffin as a preliminary measure. But English law does not always take the obvious course. When once a person is consigned to the tomb, the remains pass out of the control of the relatives and into that of the State; and the State views with very jealous disapproval any attempts to disturb those remains. In order to open a tomb or grave, and especially to open a coffin, it is necessary to obtain a faculty from the Home Secretary authorizing an exhumation. Now, before any such faculty is granted, the Home Secretary requires the applicant to show cause for the making of such an order.”

“Well,” said Mr. Pippet, “we can show cause. We want to know whether Josiah is in that coffin or not.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Gimbler. “A perfectly reasonable motive. But it would not be accepted by the Home Office. They would demand a ruling from a properly constituted court to the effect that the claim had been investigated and a