Singing Bone or The Adventures of Dr. Thorndyke — A Case of Premeditation: Part One

THE ELIMINATION OF MR.

PRATT

The wine merchant who should supply a consignment of _petit vin_ to a customer who had ordered, and paid for, a vintage wine, would render himself subject to unambiguous comment.

Nay!

more; he would be liable to certain legal penalties.

And yet his conduct would be morally indistinguishable from that of the railway company which, having accepted a first-class fare, inflicts upon the passenger that kind of company which he has paid to avoid.

But the corporate conscience, as Herbert Spencer was wont to explain, is an altogether inferior product to that of the individual.

Such were the reflections of Mr. Rufus Pembury when, as the train was about to move out of Maidstone (West) station, a coarse and burly man (clearly a denizen of the third class) was ushered into his compartment by the guard.

He had paid the higher fare, not for cushioned seats, but for seclusion or, at least, select companionship.

The man’s entry had deprived him of both, and he resented it.

But if the presence of this stranger involved a breach of contract, his conduct was a positive affront--an indignity; for, no sooner had the train started than he fixed upon Mr. Pembury a gaze of impertinent intensity, and continued thereafter to regard him with a stare as steady and unwinking as that of a Polynesian idol.

It was offensive to a degree, and highly disconcerting withal.

Mr. Pembury fidgeted in his seat with increasing discomfort and rising temper.

He looked into his pocket book, read one or two letters and sorted a collection of visiting-cards.

He even thought of opening his umbrella.

Finally, his patience exhausted and his wrath mounting to boiling-point, he turned to the stranger with frosty remonstrance.

“I imagine, sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me, should we ever meet again--which God forbid.

” “I should recognize you among ten thousand,” was the reply, so unexpected as to leave Mr. Pembury speechless.

“You see,” the stranger continued impressively, “I’ve got the gift of faces.

I never forget.

” “That must be a great consolation,” said Pembury.

“It’s very useful to me,” said the stranger, “at least, it used to be, when I was a warder at Portland--you remember me, I dare say: my name is Pratt.

I was assistant-warder in your time.

God-forsaken hole, Portland, and mighty glad I was when they used to send me up to town on reckernizing duty.

Holloway was the house of detention then, you remember; that was before they moved to Brixton.

” Pratt paused in his reminiscences, and Pembury, pale and gasping with astonishment, pulled himself together.

“I think,” said he, “you must be mistaking me for some one else.

” “I don’t,” replied Pratt.

“You’re Francis Dobbs, that’s who you are.

Slipped away from Portland one evening about twelve years ago.

Clothes washed up on the Bill next day.

No trace of fugitive.

As neat a mizzle as ever I heard of.

But there are a couple of photographs and a set of finger-prints at the Habitual Criminals Register.

P’r’aps you’d like to come and see ’em?

” “Why should I go to the Habitual Criminals Register?

” Pembury demanded faintly.

“Ah!

Exactly.

Why should you?

When you are a man of means, and a little judiciously invested capital would render it unnecessary?

” Pembury looked out of the window, and for a minute or more preserved a stony silence.

At length he turned suddenly to Pratt.

“How much?

” he asked.

“I shouldn’t think a couple of hundred a year would hurt you,” was the calm reply.

Pembury reflected awhile.

“What makes you think I am a man of means?

” he asked presently.

Pratt smiled grimly.

“Bless you, Mr. Pembury,” said he, “I know all about you.

Why, for the last six months I have been living within half-a-mile of your house.

” “The devil you have!

” “Yes.

When I retired from the service, General O’Gorman engaged me as a sort of steward or caretaker of his little place at Baysford--he’s very seldom there himself--and the very day after I came down, I met you and spotted you, but, naturally, I kept out of sight myself.

Thought I’d find out whether you were good for anything before I spoke, so I’ve been keeping my ears open and I find you are good for a couple of hundred.

” There was an interval of silence, and then the ex-warder resumed-- “That’s what comes of having a memory for faces.

Now there’s Jack Ellis, on the other hand; he must have had you under his nose for a couple of years, and yet he’s never twigged--he never will either,” added Pratt, already regretting the confidence into which his vanity had led him.

“Who is Jack Ellis?

” Pembury demanded sharply.

“Why, he’s a sort of supernumerary at the Baysford Police Station;

does odd jobs; rural detective, helps in the office and that sort of thing.

He was in the Civil Guard at Portland, in your time, but he got his left forefinger chopped off, so they pensioned him, and, as he was a Baysford man, he got this billet.

But he’ll never reckernize you, don’t you fear.

” “Unless you direct his attention to me,” suggested Pembury.

“There’s no fear of that,” laughed Pratt.

“You can trust me to sit quiet on my own nest-egg.

Besides, we’re not very friendly.

He came nosing round our place after the parlour maid--him a married man, mark you!

But I soon boosted him out, I can tell you; and Jack Ellis don’t like me now.

” “I see,” said Pembury reflectively; then, after a pause, he asked: “Who is this General O’Gorman?

I seem to know the name.

” “I expect you do,” said Pratt.

“He was governor of Dartmoor when I was there--that was my last billet--and, let me tell you, if he’d been at Portland in your time, you’d never have got away.

” “How is that?

” “Why, you see, the general is a great man on bloodhounds.

He kept a pack at Dartmoor and, you bet, those lags knew it.

There were no attempted escapes in those days.

They wouldn’t have had a chance.

” “He has the pack still, hasn’t he?

” asked Pembury.

“Rather.

Spends any amount of time on training ’em, too.

He’s always hoping there’ll be a burglary or a murder in the neighbourhood so as he can try ’em, but he’s never got a chance yet.

P’r’aps the crooks have heard about ’em.

But, to come back to our little arrangement: what do you say to a couple of hundred, paid quarterly, if you like?

” “I can’t settle the matter off-hand,” said Pembury.

“You must give me time to think it over.

” “Very well,” said Pratt.

“I shall be back at Baysford to-morrow evening.

That will give you a clear day to think it over.

Shall I look in at your place to-morrow night?

” “No,” replied Pembury; “you’d better not be seen at my house, nor I at yours.

If I meet you at some quiet spot, where we shan’t be seen, we can settle our business without any one knowing that we have met.

It won’t take long, and we can’t be too careful.

” “That’s true,” agreed Pratt.

“Well, I’ll tell you what.

There’s an avenue leading up to our house; you know it, I expect.

There’s no lodge, and the gates are always ajar, excepting at night.

Now I shall be down by the six-thirty at Baysford.

Our place is a quarter of an hour from the station.

Say you meet me in the avenue at a quarter to seven.

” “That will suit me,” said Pembury; “that is, if you are sure the bloodhounds won’t be straying about the grounds.

” “Lord bless you, no!

” laughed Pratt.

“D’you suppose the general lets his precious hounds stray about for any casual crook to feed with poisoned sausage?

No, they’re locked up safe in the kennels at the back of the house.

Hallo!

This’ll be Swanley, I expect.

I’ll change into a smoker here and leave you time to turn the matter over in your mind.

So long.

To-morrow evening in the avenue at a quarter to seven.

And, I say, Mr. Pembury, you might as well bring the first instalment with you--fifty, in small notes or gold.

” “Very well,” said Mr. Pembury.

He spoke coldly enough, but there was a flush on his cheeks and an angry light in his eyes, which, perhaps, the ex-warder noticed; for when he had stepped out and shut the door, he thrust his head in at the window and said threateningly-- “One more word, Mr. Pembury-Dobbs: no hanky-panky, you know.

I’m an old hand and pretty fly, I am.

So don’t you try any chickery-pokery on me.

That’s all.

” He withdrew his head and disappeared, leaving Pembury to his reflections.

The nature of those reflections, if some telepathist--transferring his attention for the moment from hidden court-yards or missing thimbles to more practical matters--could have conveyed them into the mind of Mr. Pratt, would have caused that quondam official some surprise and, perhaps, a little disquiet.

For long experience of the criminal, as he appears when in durance, had produced some rather misleading ideas as to his behaviour when at large.

In fact, the ex-warder had considerably under-estimated the ex-convict.

Rufus Pembury, to give his real name--for Dobbs was literally a _nom de guerre_--was a man of strong character and intelligence.

So much so that, having tried the criminal career and found it not worth pursuing, he had definitely abandoned it.

When the cattle-boat that picked him up off Portland Bill had landed him at an American port, he brought his entire ability and energy to bear on legitimate commercial pursuits, and with such success that, at the end of ten years, he was able to return to England with a moderate competence.

Then he had taken a modest house near the little town of Baysford, where he had lived quietly on his savings for the last two years, holding aloof without much difficulty from the rather exclusive local society; and here he might have lived out the rest of his life in peace but for the unlucky chance that brought the man Pratt into the neighbourhood.

With the arrival of Pratt his security was utterly destroyed.

There is something eminently unsatisfactory about a blackmailer.

No arrangement with him has any permanent validity.

No undertaking that he gives is binding.

The thing which he has sold remains in his possession to sell over again.

He pockets the price of emancipation, but retains the key of the fetters.

In short, the blackmailer is a totally impossible person.

Such were the considerations that had passed through the mind of Rufus Pembury, even while Pratt was making his proposals; and those proposals he had never for an instant entertained.

The ex-warder’s advice to him to “turn the matter over in his mind” was unnecessary.

For his mind was already made up.

His decision was arrived at in the very moment when Pratt had disclosed his identity.

The conclusion was self-evident.

Before Pratt appeared he was living in peace and security.

While Pratt remained, his liberty was precarious from moment to moment.

If Pratt should disappear, his peace and security would return.

Therefore Pratt must be eliminated.

It was a logical consequence.

The profound meditations, therefore, in which Pembury remained immersed for the remainder of the journey, had nothing whatever to do with the quarterly allowance; they were concerned exclusively with the elimination of ex-warder Pratt.

Now Rufus Pembury was not a ferocious man.

He was not even cruel.

But he was gifted with a certain magnanimous cynicism which ignored the trivialities of sentiment and regarded only the main issues.

If a wasp hummed over his tea-cup, he would crush that wasp; but not with his bare hand.

The wasp carried the means of aggression.

That was the wasp’s look-out.

_His_ concern was to avoid being stung.

So it was with Pratt.

The man had elected, for his own profit, to threaten Pembury’s liberty.

Very well.

He had done it at his own risk.

That risk was no concern of Pembury’s. _His_ concern was his own safety.

When Pembury alighted at Charing Cross, he directed his steps (after having watched Pratt’s departure from the station) to Buckingham Street, Strand, where he entered a quiet private hotel.

He was apparently expected, for the manageress greeted him by his name as she handed him his key.

“Are you staying in town, Mr. Pembury?

” she asked.

“No,” was the reply.

“I go back tomorrow morning, but I may be coming up again shortly.

By the way, you used to have an encyclopaedia in one of the rooms.

Could I see it for a moment?

” “It is in the drawing-room,” said the manageress.

“Shall I show you?

--but you know the way, don’t you?

” Certainly Mr. Pembury knew the way.

It was on the first floor; a pleasant old-world room looking on the quiet old street; and on a shelf, amidst a collection of novels, stood the sedate volumes of _Chambers’s Encyclopædia_.

That a gentleman from the country should desire to look up the subject of “hounds” would not, to a casual observer, have seemed unnatural.

But when from hounds the student proceeded to the article on blood, and thence to one devoted to perfumes, the observer might reasonably have felt some surprise; and this surprise might have been augmented if he had followed Mr. Pembury’s subsequent proceedings, and specially if he had considered them as the actions of a man whose immediate aim was the removal of a superfluous unit of the population.

Having deposited his bag and umbrella in his room, Pembury set forth from the hotel as one with a definite purpose; and his footsteps led, in the first place, to an umbrella shop on the Strand, where he selected a thick rattan cane.

There was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps; but the cane was of an uncomely thickness and the salesman protested.

“I like a thick cane,” said Pembury.

“Yes, sir; but for a gentleman of your height” (Pembury was a small, slightly-built man) “I would venture to suggest----” “I like a thick cane,” repeated Pembury.

“Cut it down to the proper length and don’t rivet the ferrule on.

I’ll cement it on when I get home.

” His next investment would have seemed more to the purpose, though suggestive of unexpected crudity of method.

It was a large Norwegian knife.

But not content with this he went on forthwith to a second cutler’s and purchased a second knife, the exact duplicate of the first.

Now, for what purpose could he want two identically similar knives?

And why not have bought them both at the same shop?

It was highly mysterious.

Shopping appeared to be a positive mania with Rufus Pembury.

In the course of the next half-hour he acquired a cheap handbag, an artist’s black-japanned brush-case, a three-cornered file, a stick of elastic glue and a pair of iron crucible-tongs.

Still insatiable, he repaired to an old-fashioned chemist’s shop in a by-street, where he further enriched himself with a packet of absorbent cotton-wool and an ounce of permanganate of potash; and, as the chemist wrapped up these articles, with the occult and necromantic air peculiar to chemists, Pembury watched him impassively.

“I suppose you don’t keep musk?

” he asked carelessly.

The chemist paused in the act of heating a stick of sealing wax, and appeared as if about to mutter an incantation.

But he merely replied: “No, sir.

Not the solid musk; it’s so very costly.

But I have the essence.

” “That isn’t as strong as the pure stuff, I suppose?

” “No,” replied the chemist, with a cryptic smile, “not so strong, but strong enough.

These animal perfumes are so very penetrating, you know; and so lasting.

Why, I venture to say that if you were to sprinkle a table-spoonful of the essence in the middle of St. Paul’s, the place would smell of it six months hence.

” “You don’t say so!

” said Pembury.

“Well, that ought to be enough for anybody.

I’ll take a small quantity, please, and, for goodness’ sake, see that there isn’t any on the outside of the bottle.

The stuff isn’t for myself, and I don’t want to go about smelling like a civet cat.

” “Naturally you don’t, sir,” agreed the chemist.

He then produced an ounce bottle, a small glass funnel and a stoppered bottle labelled “Ess.

Moschi,” with which he proceeded to perform a few trifling feats of legerdemain.

“There, sir,” said he, when he had finished the performance, “there is not a drop on the outside of the bottle, and, if I fit it with a rubber cork, you will be quite secure.

” Pembury’s dislike of musk appeared to be excessive, for, when the chemist had retired into a secret cubicle as if to hold converse with some familiar spirit (but actually to change half-a-crown), he took the brush-case from his bag, pulled off its lid, and then, with the crucible-tongs, daintily lifted the bottle off the counter, slid it softly into the brush case, and, replacing the lid, returned the case and tongs to the bag.

The other two packets he took from the counter and dropped into his pocket, and, when the presiding wizard, having miraculously transformed a single half-crown into four pennies, handed him the product, he left the shop and walked thoughtfully back towards the Strand.

Suddenly a new idea seemed to strike him.

He halted, considered for a few moments and then strode away northward to make the oddest of all his purchases.

The transaction took place in a shop in the Seven Dials, whose strange stock-in-trade ranged the whole zoological gamut, from water-snails to Angora cats.

Pembury looked at a cage of guinea-pigs in the window and entered the shop.

“Do you happen to have a dead guinea-pig?

” he asked.

“No; mine are all alive,” replied the man, adding, with a sinister grin: “But they’re not immortal, you know.

” Pembury looked at the man distastefully.

There is an appreciable difference between a guinea-pig and a blackmailer.

“Any small mammal would do,” he said.

“There’s a dead rat in that cage, if he’s any good,” said the man.

“Died this morning, so he’s quite fresh.

” “I’ll take the rat,” said Pembury; “he’ll do quite well.

” The little corpse was accordingly made into a parcel and deposited in the bag, and Pembury, having tendered a complimentary fee, made his way back to the hotel.

After a modest lunch he went forth and spent the remainder of the day transacting the business which had originally brought him to town.

He dined at a restaurant and did not return to his hotel until ten o’clock, when he took his key, and tucking under his arm a parcel that he had brought in with him, retired for the night.

But before undressing--and after locking his door--he did a very strange and unaccountable thing.

Having pulled off the loose ferrule from his newly-purchased cane, he bored a hole in the bottom of it with the spike end of the file.

Then, using the latter as a broach, he enlarged the hole until only a narrow rim of the bottom was left.

He next rolled up a small ball of cotton-wool and pushed it into the ferrule; and having smeared the end of the cane with elastic glue, he replaced the ferrule, warming it over the gas to make the glue stick.

When he had finished with the cane, he turned his attention to one of the Norwegian knives.

First, he carefully removed with the file most of the bright, yellow varnish from the wooden case or handle.

Then he opened the knife, and, cutting the string of the parcel that he had brought in, took from it the dead rat which he had bought at the zoologist’s. Laying the animal on a sheet of paper, he cut off its head, and, holding it up by the tail, allowed the blood that oozed from the neck to drop on the knife, spreading it over both sides of the blade and handle with his finger.

Then he laid the knife on the paper and softly opened the window.

From the darkness below came the voice of a cat, apparently perfecting itself in the execution of chromatic Scales; and in that direction Pembury flung the body and head of the rat, and closed the window.

Finally, having washed his hands and stuffed the paper from the parcel into the fire-place, he went to bed.

But his proceedings in the morning were equally mysterious.

Having breakfasted betimes, he returned to his bedroom and locked himself in.

Then he tied his new cane, handle downwards, to the leg of the dressing-table.

Next, with the crucible-tongs, he drew the little bottle of musk from the brush-case, and, having assured himself, by sniffing at it, that the exterior was really free from odour, he with drew the rubber cork.

Then, slowly and with infinite care, he poured a few drops--perhaps half-a-teaspoonful--of the essence on the cotton-wool that bulged through the hole in the ferrule, watching the absorbent material narrowly as it soaked up the liquid.

When it was saturated he proceeded to treat the knife in the same fashion, letting fall a drop of the essence on the wooden handle--which soaked it up readily.

This done, he slid up the window and looked out.

Immediately below was a tiny yard in which grew, or rather survived, a couple of faded laurel bushes.

The body of the rat was nowhere to be seen; it had apparently been spirited away in the night.

Holding out the bottle, which he still held, he dropped it into the bushes, flinging the rubber cork after it.

His next proceeding was to take a tube of vaseline from his dressing-bag and squeeze a small quantity onto his fingers.

With this he thoroughly smeared the shoulder of the brush case and the inside of the lid, so as to ensure an airtight joint.

Having wiped his fingers, he picked the knife up with the crucible-tongs, and, dropping it into the brush-case, immediately pushed on the lid.

Then he heated the tips of the tongs in the gas flame to destroy the scent, packed the tongs and brush-case in the bag, untied the cane--carefully avoiding contact with the ferrule--and, taking up the two bags, went out, holding the cane by its middle.

There was no difficulty in finding an empty compartment, for first-class passengers were few at that time in the morning.

Pembury waited on the platform until the guard’s whistle sounded, when he stepped into the compartment, shut the door and laid the cane on the seat with its ferrule projecting out of the off-side window, in which position it remained until the train drew up in Baysford station.

Pembury left his dressing-bag at the cloak-room, and, still grasping the cane by its middle, he sallied forth.

The town of Baysford lay some half-a-mile to the east of the station; his own house was a mile along the road to the west; and half-way between his house and the station was the residence of General O’Gorman.

He knew the place well.

Originally a farmhouse, it stood on the edge of a great expanse of flat meadows and communicated with the road by an avenue, nearly three hundred yards long, of ancient trees.

The avenue was shut off from the road by a pair of iron gates, but these were merely ornamental, for the place was unenclosed and accessible from the surrounding meadows--indeed, an indistinct footpath crossed the meadows and intersected the avenue about half-way up.

On this occasion Pembury, whose objective was the avenue, elected to approach it by the latter route; and at each stile or fence that he surmounted, he paused to survey the country.

Presently the avenue arose before him, lying athwart the narrow track, and, as he entered it between two of the trees, he halted and looked about him.

He stood listening for a while.

Beyond the faint rustle of leaves no sound was to be heard.

Evidently there was no one about, and, as Pratt was at large, it was probable that the general was absent.

And now Pembury began to examine the adjacent trees with more than a casual interest.

The two between which he had entered were respectively an elm and a great pollard oak, the latter being an immense tree whose huge, warty bole divided about seven feet from the ground into three limbs, each as large as a fair-sized tree, of which the largest swept outward in a great curve half-way across the avenue.

On this patriarch Pembury bestowed especial attention, walking completely round it and finally laying down his bag and cane (the latter resting on the bag with the ferrule off the ground) that he might climb up, by the aid of the warty outgrowths, to examine the crown; and he had just stepped up into the space between the three limbs, when the creaking of the iron gates was followed by a quick step in the avenue.

Hastily he let himself down from the tree, and, gathering up his possessions, stood close behind the great bole.

“Just as well not to be seen,” was his reflection, as he hugged the tree closely and waited, peering cautiously round the trunk.

Soon a streak of moving shadow heralded the stranger’s approach, and he moved round to keep the trunk between himself and the intruder.

On the footsteps came, until the stranger was abreast of the tree; and when he had passed Pembury peeped round at the retreating figure.

It was only the postman, but then the man knew him, and he was glad he had kept out of sight.

Apparently the oak did not meet his requirements, for he stepped out and looked up and down the avenue.

Then, beyond the elm, he caught sight of an ancient pollard hornbeam--a strange, fantastic tree whose trunk widened out trumpet-like above into a broad crown, from the edge of which multitudinous branches uprose like the limbs of some weird hamadryad.

That tree he approved at a glance, but he lingered behind the oak until the postman, returning with brisk step and cheerful whistle, passed down the avenue and left him once more in solitude.

Then he moved on with a resolute air to the hornbeam.

The crown of the trunk was barely six feet from the ground.

He could reach it easily, as he found on trying.

Standing the cane against the tree--ferrule downwards, this time--he took the brush-case from the bag, pulled off the lid, and, with the crucible-tongs, lifted out the knife and laid it on the crown of the tree, just out of sight, leaving the tongs--also invisible--still grasping the knife.

He was about to replace the brush-case in the bag, when he appeared to alter his mind.

Sniffing at it, and finding it reeking with the sickly perfume, he pushed the lid on again and threw the case up into the tree, where he heard it roll down into the central hollow of the crown.

Then he closed the bag, and, taking the cane by its handle, moved slowly away in the direction whence he had come, passing out of the avenue between the elm and the oak.

His mode of progress was certainly peculiar.

He walked with excessive slowness, trailing the cane along the ground, and every few paces he would stop and press the ferrule firmly against the earth, so that, to any one who should have observed him, he would have appeared to be wrapped in an absorbing reverie.

Thus he moved on across the fields, not, however, returning to the high road, but crossing another stretch of fields until he emerged into a narrow lane that led out into the High Street.

Immediately opposite to the lane was the police station, distinguished from the adjacent cottages only by its lamp, its open door and the notices pasted up outside.

Straight across the road Pembury walked, still trailing the cane, and halted at the station door to read the notices, resting his cane on the doorstep as he did so.

Through the open doorway he could see a man writing at a desk.

The man’s back was towards him, but, presently, a movement brought his left hand into view, and Pembury noted that the forefinger was missing.

This, then, was Jack Ellis, late of the Civil Guard at Portland.

Even while he was looking the man turned his head, and Pembury recognized him at once.

He had frequently met him on the road between Baysford and the adjoining village of Thorpe, and always at the same time.

Apparently Ellis paid a daily visit to Thorpe--perhaps to receive a report from the rural constable--and he started between three and four and returned between seven and a quarter past.

Pembury looked at his watch.

It was a quarter past three.

He moved away thoughtfully (holding his cane, now, by the middle), and began to walk slowly in the direction of Thorpe--westward.

For a while he was deeply meditative, and his face wore a puzzled frown.

Then, suddenly, his face cleared and he strode forward at a brisker pace.

Presently he passed through a gap in the hedge, and, walking in a field parallel with the road, took out his purse--a small pigskin pouch.

Having frugally emptied it of its contents, excepting a few shillings, he thrust the ferrule of his cane into the small compartment ordinarily reserved for gold or notes.

And thus he continued to walk on slowly, carrying the cane by the middle and the purse jammed on the end.

At length he reached a sharp double curve in the road whence he could see back for a considerable distance; and here opposite a small opening, he sat down to wait.

The hedge screened him effectually from the gaze of passers-by--though these were few enough--without interfering with his view.

A quarter of an hour passed.

He began to be uneasy.