The Murders in Praed Street

by

John Rhode

Contents

Part I.
The Crimes

Chapter I.
The Street

Praed Street is not at any time one of London’s brighter thoroughfares. Certainly it ends upon a note of hope, terminating as it does on the fringe of the unquestioned respectability of Bayswater, but for the rest of its course it is frankly lamentable. Narrow, bordered by small and often furtive shops, above which the squalid looking upper parts are particularly uninviting, it can never have been designed as more than a humble annexe of its more prosperous parent, the Edgware Road. And then, for no apparent reason, the Great Western Railway planted its terminus upon it, and Praed Street found itself called upon to become a main artery of traffic.

It seems to have done very little to adapt itself to its new rôle. Beyond an occasional grudging widening, it has left the unending streams of buses, of heavy railway lorries, of hurrying foot passengers, to shift for themselves as best they can. It almost seems as though Praed Street regarded Paddington Station as an intrusion, and those who throng to and from it as unwelcome strangers. It had its own interests long before the railway came—one of the termini of the Grand Junction Canal lies within a few yards of its sombre limits. Praed Street watches with indifference the thronging crowds which pass along, and they in turn take little heed of the uninviting thoroughfare through which their journey leads them.

Not that these philosophic reflections occupied the mind of Mr. James Tovey, which was far too full of an acute sense of annoyance and discomfort to find room for any other sensations. Mr. Tovey was not an inhabitant of Praed Street, although he lived in its neighbourhood. There was nothing secretive about Mr. Tovey, you could see his name and occupation painted in bold letters over a shop in Lisson Grove; James Tovey, Fruit and Vegetable Merchant. He was, in fact, a greengrocer, and, years ago, when Mr. Tovey had originally employed a small legacy in the purchase of the business, the sign had read: Tovey, Greengrocer, etc. But it was Mr. Tovey’s proud boast that he always moved with the times, and since his neighbours, the butcher and the grocer, had respectively converted themselves into Meat Purveyors and Provision Dealers, he had abandoned the vulgar term of greengrocer for the more high-sounding appellation.

Sunday was a day of strict observance with Mr. Tovey, its presiding deity his own comfort. One can hardly blame him for this indulgence, since the rest of the week left him little leisure for repose. His habit was to rise before six, in order to drive the van to Covent Garden. The van, a second-hand Ford, was the subject of the ribald mirth of his acquaintances. Every non-essential part had long since fallen off, as an aged elm sheds its branches, and the essentials were held together by odd pieces of rope. But to any suggestion of the van’s imperfections, Mr. Tovey merely shrugged his shoulders. “ ’Tisn’t ’er looks as matters,” he would reply. “So long as she does ’er job she’ll do for me.” And perhaps this phrase, applied to things at large, was a complete summing up of Mr. Tovey’s philosophy.

He opened the shop as soon as he returned from Covent Garden, and kept it open, winter and summer, till a late hour. Lisson Grove shops late, and it was usually ten o’clock before Mr. Tovey could reckon to get his bit of supper. It was therefore natural that so strenuous a week should be rewarded by a relaxation on Sunday. It was his invariable habit to stay in bed till noon, inhaling the savoury smell of the Sunday joint roasting in the kitchen, and only to rise and put on his best suit when the clock struck that hour. The afternoon was usually devoted to the peaceful somnolence of repletion, or sometimes in summer, if Mrs. Tovey’s legs felt equal to accompanying him, to a walk in the park. And in the evening there were always the thrilling columns of the Sunday paper.

Mr. Tovey hated to be disturbed in the evening of this day of rest. Especially on such an evening as the present. The day had been an eminently satisfactory one, from his point of view. The sirloin of beef, carefully selected by Mrs. Tovey from the stock of her friend the Meat Purveyor, over the way, had been of uncommon succulence; the Yorkshire pudding crisped to that exact degree of golden delicacy that Mr. Tovey’s heart desired. True, he had had a slight difference of opinion with Mrs. Tovey, but that had merely given a zest to a day which might otherwise have been uneventful. Mr. and Mrs. Tovey never really quarrelled. For one thing they were neither of them of a quarrelsome disposition, and for another they were both too fond of their own comfort to risk its disturbance by domestic rancour. But sometimes they did not see eye to eye, as in the present case.

It had begun when Mr. Tovey had come down to the kitchen, and noticed that only two places had been laid at the table. He had raised his eyebrows and glanced towards the massive form of Mrs. Tovey, bending over the glowing range.

“Hullo! Where’s Ivy, then?” he asked, in an almost querulous tone.

“Gone out with Ted,” replied Mrs. Tovey quietly, from among the saucepans. “He’s taken her home to dinner, and they’re going on to the pictures afterwards.”

Mr. Tovey clicked his tongue, his favourite expression of annoyance. Of course, Ted and Ivy had known one another since they were children. Old Sam Copperdock, Ted’s father, was Mr. Tovey’s oldest friend, and they had been near neighbours ever since the latter, as a newly married man, had bought the greengrocery business. Still, Mr. Tovey didn’t altogether like it. Ivy was twenty now, and young Ted Copperdock only three years older. Just the sort of age when young folks get the bit between their teeth and go and get married without a thought of the future. Old Sam was a thorough good chap, and his son was a very nice lad; Mr. Tovey would not have denied either of these facts for a moment. But Ted’s only prospects lay in his father’s shop in Praed Street, and Mr. Tovey had very different views of his only child’s future, very different.

Yet he had never put these views into words. Perhaps he would have found it very difficult to do so, for Mr. Tovey’s vocabulary was strictly limited. But they were there, just the same—had been ever since Ivy’s prowess at school had discovered her to be a “scholar.” From that moment Mr. Tovey had been at great pains to educate his daughter to an entirely different state of life from that which it had pleased God to call her. That she was by now tall, distinctly pretty, and extraordinarily self-possessed was not, one supposes, due to the efforts of Mr. Tovey. But she certainly owed the fact that she was an extremely competent shorthand typist to the pains he had devoted to her education.

Mr. Tovey, though naturally he would have been justifiably annoyed at such a suggestion, had an incurably romantic core to his plodding and material mind. Of course, in common with most of his class, he firmly believed that human happiness varied exactly with the social scale. “As happy as a king” was to him no mere catchword. He was convinced—and, to do him justice, he drew considerable satisfaction from the conviction—that the members of the Royal Family were the happiest persons in the land, and that this happiness descended in regular gradation through the ranks of the nobility and gentlefolk until it reached acute misery somewhere in the lower strata of those who dwelt in slums. From this outlook on life it necessarily followed that the more he could enable Ivy to better herself, the happier she must ultimately be.

How this betterment was to take place, Mr. Tovey never explained. But sometimes he had a vague intangible dream of Ivy, his Ivy, captivating the heart of some susceptible employer, preferably of the Upper Classes. His eye, diverted for the moment from the business of wrapping up a parcel of leeks, often caught sight of the Pictures in the newspaper which he was using for the purpose. “Lady Mary Mayfair (right) and the Countess of Piccadilly (left) on the lawn at Ascot.” Suppose that one day he should proudly open the paper to find Ivy with a smile like that, gracefully posing under the heading “A leader of Society in the paddock at Goodwood”? After all, why not?

But it was not until after the second helping of roast beef and Yorkshire that he made any further remark about his daughter to Mrs. Tovey. “I wouldn’t encourage young Ted to hang around Ivy too much, if I was you,” he said, as he pushed aside his plate.

“Encourage? He don’t want no encouraging,” replied Mrs. Tovey briskly. “He just comes in, cheerful like, nods to me, asks after you, says a word or two to Ivy, and away they goes together. Things ain’t the same now as they was when we was their age, Jim.”

“No, it’s a fact they ain’t,” agreed Mr. Tovey darkly.

“But let ’em alone,” continued Mrs. Tovey. “Ivy’s not the girl to make a fool of herself, you ought to know that by this time. Now you can go and sit in your chair by the fire. It’s not the sort of day for the likes of us to be going out.”

Mr. Tovey shook his head, as though unconvinced by his wife’s words, and looked out of the window. Much as he might disagree with her on the subject of their daughter, there was no doubt that she was right about the weather. It was the beginning of November, and the month was doing its best to live up to its reputation. A thin mist, precursor of the fog that must surely follow, filled the narrow streets, and through it filtered a cold raw drizzle, through which a few passing pedestrians hurried, muffled up to their ears.

Mr. Tovey grunted, and drew his chair up closer towards the fire. The weather could do what it liked, as long as it cleared up before the next morning. He certainly was not going out into it. He composed himself for his afternoon nap, from which he arose refreshed and eager for the lurid pages of his favourite Sunday paper. He studied this intently for some minutes, then turned animatedly to Mrs. Tovey.

“That brute what cut up the young woman he was walking out with is committed for trial at the Old Bailey,” he said.

“I reckoned he would be, the dirty brute,” replied Mrs. Tovey, who was almost as keen a criminologist as her husband. “And I’d see he didn’t get off, neither, if I was on the jury.”

Mr. Tovey turned and looked at her gravely. “ ’Tis all very well for you to talk like that,” he said reprovingly. “It’s a terrible thing to be on a jury when a man’s life depends on what you says. Nobody knows that better than I do, I’m sure.”

“Yes, I remember the state you was in that time,” replied Mrs. Tovey. “Dear, dear, best part of a week you was at it, and Ivy just born and all. What was the chap’s name? I remember he was a doctor who’d killed one of his patients by giving him a dose of something.”

“Morlandson, Dr. Morlandson,” said Mr. Tovey. “Lord, whenever I eats anything as disagrees with me I dreams of his face a-looking at us from the dock. Fair gave me the creeps, it did, for a long time after. We found him guilty, and I couldn’t help looking at him when the judge put on his black cap and sentenced him. Ugh!”

“But they didn’t ’ang ’im after all,” remarked Mrs. Tovey.

“No, he was reprieved, I don’t rightly know why. Because he’d been a big pot in his way, I suppose. Twenty years hard he got, though, and serve ’im right. This bloke I’m telling you about won’t get off so easy, though.”

Mr. Tovey returned to the perusal of his paper, and the evening wore on, the silence of the cosy kitchen broken only at intervals by the voice of Mr. Tovey, reading in a halting voice some more than usually spicy extract to his wife. Tea-time came and went, and still Ivy made no appearance. It was nearly nine o’clock when Mr. Tovey referred to her absence. “I can’t think where that girl’s got to,” he said irritably. “She’s no call to be out all this time.”

“Ted’ll have taken her home to have a bite of supper,” returned Mrs. Tovey equably. “His father likes to have her round there, cheers him up, she does. She’ll be back before long, never you worry.”

The reply which sprang to Mr. Tovey’s lips was checked by the urgent ringing of the telephone bell in the shop, separated from the kitchen by a door kept locked on Sundays.

“Hullo! What’s that?” he enquired in a startled tone. Mrs. Tovey had already moved towards the door. “I’ll go and see,” she replied shortly. Her husband, listening intently, could hear her steps on the bare boards, the sudden cessation of the ringing as she took up the receiver, her voice as she answered, then a pause.

Then he heard her call him from the other room. “Somebody wants to speak to you, Jim.”

With a muttered objurgation he dragged himself from his chair and went into the shop. His wife handed him the instrument. “Hullo!” he said and for a moment stood listening.

“Yes, I’m James Tovey.” A long pause, while Mrs. Tovey vainly tried to make sense of the faint sounds which reached her ears. “What’s that? Oh! a man, you say, thank the Lord for that! I thought for the moment it might be my daughter, she’s out a bit late to-night. Yes! I’ll be along at once.”

He put back the receiver and turned to his wife. “That’s a rum show!” he exclaimed, not without a tremor of excitement in his voice. “St. Martha’s Hospital, that was. There’s a fellow been run over, and they can’t find out who he is. The only thing in his pocket is a bit of paper with my name an’ address on. Now, who the dickens can it be?”

“Why, young Alf, as likely as not,” replied Mrs. Tovey unemotionally. “Why ’e ’asn’t been run over afore, goin’ about as he does with his ’ead in the air, is more than I can make out.”

Alf was the youth employed by Mr. Tovey to deliver the purchases of such of his customers as did not prefer to carry them home wrapped up in newspaper. But Mr. Tovey shook his head at the suggestion.

“Not it! Young Alf lives down Camberwell way, and he’s not likely to be up this way of a Sunday. Give us my coat, missus, and I’ll go along and see who it is.”

Mr. Tovey struggled into his coat, and turned the collar well up over his ears. It was a most unpleasant evening to be out in, but, after all, it was worth it. His mind had been steeped in sensation all the afternoon, and now he was himself about to take a leading part in some thrilling tragedy. In imagination he could see the account in the next issue of the Paddington Clarion and Marylebone Recorder. Headlines first: “Fatal Accident. Man crushed to death by Motor Bus.” Then his own name: “The body was identified by Mr. Tovey, the well-known Fruit and Vegetable Merchant of Lisson Grove.” This was fame indeed!

He stood at the corner of Lisson Grove for a moment, eyeing the buses as they passed him. Through their streaming window panes he could see that they were all full, a row of dejected looking passengers standing in each one of them. There was nothing for it, he would have to walk. It wasn’t very far, anyhow, not more than half a mile at most.

Mr. Tovey stepped out smartly along Chapel Street, across the Edgware Road, and entered Praed Street. Despite the depressing weather, the pavements seemed to be full of people, groups of whom overflowed into the roadway, only to be driven back helterskelter by the menacing onrush of the motor-buses. Mr. Tovey picked his way through the crowd with the consciousness of the importance of his mission. So intent was he upon reaching his goal, and, having played his part, upon regaining the comfort of his own fireside, that he scarcely spared a glance for the lighted window above Sam Copperdock’s shop. Ivy was behind that drawn curtain, no doubt. He might drop in and pick her up on his way home. He certainly could not stop now.

With a due sense of dignity he climbed the steps of the main entrance of St. Martha’s, and nodded familiarly to the porter in the hall. “My name’s Tovey,” he said, “you rang me up just now to come and identify an accident case.”

The porter looked at him incredulously. “Rang you up? ’Oo rang you up? First I’ve ’eard of it.”

Mr. Tovey clicked his tongue impatiently. “Why, not more than a quarter of an hour ago,” he replied. “Man been run over, and you couldn’t find out who he was.”

“We ain’t ’ad no accidents brought in the ’ole blessed day,” returned the porter stolidly. “You’ve made a bloomer, you ’ave. Wait ’ere a moment while I goes and sees if anybody knows anything about it. Tobey, did you say your name was?”

“Tovey!” replied that individual angrily. The porter turned his back upon him and disappeared, his boots clattering noisily upon the tiled floor. Mr. Tovey, with a sudden reaction from his excited imaginings, stood cold and miserable in the centre of a puddle formed by the drops from his overcoat.

After what seemed an interminable time the porter returned. “Somebody’s bin pulling your leg,” he said, with a malicious grin. “We ain’t ’ad no accidents, and nobody ’ere ain’t ever ’eard of you. Didn’t get the name of the ’orspital wrong, did you? Wasn’t St. George’s, was it, or maybe St. Thomas’s?”

Mr. Tovey shook his head. “No, it was St. Martha’s, right enough,” he replied. A sudden wave of anger at the hoax which had been played upon him surged through his brain, and without another word he turned and strode out of the hall. It was monstrous that he, a citizen and a rate-payer, should be dragged out into the streets on a fool’s errand like this. With his grievance rankling to the exclusion of every other thought, he pushed his way along Praed Street, his head down, his hands crammed into his overcoat pockets. The drizzle had turned to sleet, and the sting of it on his face added to his ill-humour.

Ahead of him was the Express Train, a public-house which had presumably been built and named at the time of the coming of the railway. It was closing time by now, and a stream of gesticulating figures was being disgorged upon the crowded pavement. Mr. Tovey looked up as he heard the turmoil. The cold air and comparative darkness, after the warmth and light of the bar, seemed to have had an unsteadying effect upon the ejected guests. They lurched about the pavement singing snatches of ribald songs, arguing heatedly in loud voices.

Mr. Tovey frowned. Nice way to spend a Sunday evening! Thank God, he didn’t live in Praed Street, anyhow. He wasn’t going to be barged off the pavement by a lot of drunken hooligans, not he. Putting his head a trifle further down, like a bull about to charge, he strode straight ahead in an undeviating line. One man lurched into him, another jostled him from behind, and a menacing voice, its effect somewhat marred by a loud hiccough, called out, “ ’ere, ’oo the ’ell d’yer think you’re pushin’?”

And then Mr. Tovey, with a queer strangled cry, suddenly collapsed in a heap upon the muddy pavement.

Chapter II.
The Herbalist

It is the proud boast of our modern educationalists that the process of forcing knowledge down unwilling throats, known as compulsory education, has resulted in the triumph of science over superstition. Alchemy and astrology, the magic of the Middle Ages, have given place to chemistry and astronomy, the mysteries of which are displayed before the wondering eyes of the elementary scholar. The Age of Superstition is commonly supposed to have fled before the progress of the Age of Materialism.

This supposition is demonstrably false. At no other age in the earth’s history has superstition owned so many votaries. From the most rapt spiritualist to the man who refuses to walk under a ladder, the world is full of people who allow superstition to play an important part in their lives. In the neighbourhood of Praed Street fortune tellers and interpreters of dreams are superstition’s most popular ministers, though it may come as a surprise to many that a brass plate nailed to the door of a house in the Harrow Road advertises the existence of the British College of Astrology.

Even Alchemy is not without its devotees, although the alchemist has forsaken the more picturesque apparatus of his stock-in-trade. He now owns a small shop, the darker the better, and fills the windows with a curious assortment of dried herbs, each with a notice affixed to it describing its virtues. You may go in and buy two pennyworth of some dried plant with a high-sounding Latin name, the herbalist assuring you that, mixed with boiling water and drunk as tea, it will cure the most obscure disease. If you have sufficient faith, it probably will.

But this is the least of the herbalist’s abilities. It is, in fact, merely the outward sign of an inward and spiritual wisdom. You can consult him, in the little back parlour behind the shop, upon all manner of subjects which you do not care to mention to your friends. And, for a consideration, he will give you advice which you may or may not follow. At all events, if the herbalist knows his business, he will contrive to command respect, and, at the same time, earn a surprising number of shillings.

The establishment of Mr. Elmer Ludgrove, the herbalist of Praed Street, was almost exactly opposite that of Mr. Samuel Copperdock, who dealt in another herb, namely tobacco. There was a considerable contrast between the two shops; that of Mr. Copperdock was always newly painted, and its windows full of tins and boxes bearing the brightest labels known to the trade. The herbalist’s window, on the other hand, was low and frowning, backed by a matchboard partition which effectually precluded any view into the shop. Between the partition and the glass were displayed the usual bunches of dried plants and dishes containing seeds and shrivelled flowers. The door of the shop closed with a spring, and if you had the curiosity to push this open you found yourself in a dark little room, across the centre of which ran a narrow counter. The noise of your entry would bring Mr. Ludgrove through a second door, shrouded by a heavy curtain, and he would ask you politely what he could do for you.

Mr. Ludgrove’s appearance was certainly in keeping with his calling. He was tall and thin, with a pronounced stoop and a deep but not unpleasant voice. But it was his head that you looked at instinctively. Above the massive forehead and powerfully-chiselled features was a wealth of long, snow-white hair, balanced by a flowing beard of the same colour. His eyes, behind his iron-rimmed spectacles, looked at you benignly, but they conveyed the impression that they saw further into your mind than the eyes of the mere casual stranger. If you were a mere customer for some simple remedy, you came away with the pleasant feeling of having been treated with unusual courtesy. If your business was such that Mr. Ludgrove invited you to discuss it with him in the room behind the curtain, you very soon found out that behind Mr. Ludgrove’s impressive presence there lay a wealth of wisdom and experience.

Praed Street, which beneath its squalor possesses a vein of native shrewdness, had very soon estimated Mr. Ludgrove’s worth. That neighbourhood had very few secrets, romantic or sordid, which, sooner or later, were not told in halting whispers behind the sound-defying curtain. And, whatever the secret might be, the teller of it never became swallowed up again in the stream of humanity which flowed past Mr. Ludgrove’s door without some grain of comfort, material or moral, which as often as not had cost the recipient nothing.

Mr. Samuel Copperdock had from the first taken a great fancy to old Ludgrove, as he called him. When the name had first appeared over the shop, which had stood empty for years, almost opposite his own premises, he had been intrigued at once. Curiosity—or perhaps it was not mere vulgar curiosity, but a thirst for information—was one of Sam Copperdock’s chief characteristics. He must have been one of Mr. Ludgrove’s first customers, if not the very first, for on the very day the herbalist’s shop was opened he had walked across the road, pushed open the door, and thumped upon the counter.

He stared quite frankly at Mr. Ludgrove as the latter came into the shop, and opened the conversation without delay. “Look here, you sell medicines, don’t you?” he inquired briskly.

Mr. Ludgrove smiled, and with a slight gesture seemed to indicate the long rows of drawers behind the counter. “Yes, if you like to call them such,” he replied gently. “What particular medicine do you require?”

“Well, I’m terrible troubled with rheumatics,” said Mr. Copperdock. “Mind, I don’t hold with any of them quack mixtures, but I thought I’d just step across and see if you had anything that was any good.”

Mr. Ludgrove smiled. Certainly Mr. Copperdock, short, red-faced, and inclined to stoutness, looked the picture of health. “Rheumatism, eh?” he remarked. “How long have you suffered from it?”

Mr. Copperdock laughed. There was something disarming in the attitude of this herbalist fellow. Besides, deception in any form was not Mr. Copperdock’s strong suit.

“Well, to tell the truth, I don’t worry much about them rheumatics,” he replied. “I came across neighbour-like, mainly to see what sort of a place you’ve got here.”

“I’m sure you’re very welcome,” replied Mr. Ludgrove courteously. The two men leant on the opposite sides of the counter, chatting for a while. At last Mr. Copperdock straightened himself up, half reluctantly. “Well, I must get back to business, I suppose,” he said.

“Look here, how serious were you about that rheumatism?” interposed Mr. Ludgrove. “Do you ever feel any twinges of it?”

“Oh, sometimes,” replied Mr. Copperdock nonchalantly. “Can’t say as it worries me much, though.”

“If you take my advice, you’ll stop it before it gets worse,” said Mr. Ludgrove, opening a drawer and taking from it a scoopful of some parched-looking seeds. “If you put a teaspoonful of these into half a tumbler of boiling water, and drink the liquid twice a day after meals, you won’t have any further trouble.”

He had poured the seeds into a paper bag as he spoke, and handed them across to Mr. Copperdock.

“How much?” asked the latter rather awkwardly, putting his hand in his trouser pocket.

But Mr. Ludgrove waved him away. “Try them first, my dear sir,” he said. “Then, if you find they do you good and you want some more, we’ll talk about payment.”

That first introduction had, in the course of years, ripened into friendship. Nearly every morning Mr. Copperdock was in the habit of stepping across the road and having a chat with old Ludgrove. Mr. Copperdock loved somebody to talk to. If you went into his shop to buy a packet of your favourite cigarettes you were lucky if you got out after less than five minutes conversation. In the evening, after the shop was closed, a select company in the saloon bar of the Cambridge Arms gave Mr. Copperdock the opportunities he sought. Mr. Copperdock, who had been a widower for many years, always talked of retiring in favour of his only child Edward.

“Does the lad good to be left in charge of the shop for a bit,” was his father’s justification for his morning talk with his friend the herbalist. And Mr. Ludgrove, whose trade was never very brisk in the mornings, always seemed glad to see him.

Thus, on the Monday following Mr. Tovey’s adventure it was to Mr. Ludgrove that Sam Copperdock hastened to unbosom himself. He was simply bursting with news, and he watched impatiently until the unlocking of Mr. Ludgrove’s shop door indicated that that gentleman was ready to receive visitors. Then he bustled across the road and into the shop. “Are you there, Ludgrove?” he called out.

“Come in, come in, Mr. Copperdock,” replied a welcoming voice from behind the curtain, and the tobacconist, with an air of supreme importance, passed into the inner room.

The room was half-parlour, half-laboratory. One side of it was entirely occupied by a long bench, upon which stood a variety of scientific instruments. At the other side, placed round a cheerful fire, were two comfortable arm-chairs, in one of which sat the herbalist himself. With a hospitable gesture he motioned Mr. Copperdock towards the other, but the tobacconist was too excited to perceive the invitation.

“I say, have you heard the news about poor Jim Tovey?” he exclaimed, without preliminary.

“My dear sir, I read my paper pretty thoroughly every morning, as you know,” replied Mr. Ludgrove with a glance at the sheet which lay on the table by his side.

But Sam Copperdock merely snorted impatiently. “Newspaper!” he exclaimed, “why, the newspapers don’t know nothing about it! I tell you I’ve been up three parts of the night over this affair.”

“Indeed? Then you probably know all the details,” replied the herbalist. “If you can spare the time, I should be very interested if you would sit down and tell me all about it.”

This was exactly what Mr. Copperdock had meant to do. He sank heavily into the chair with a portentous sigh. “Terrible thing, terrible,” he began, shaking his head. “I’ve known Jim Tovey ever since he first took that shop in Lisson Grove, and to think that a thing like this should happen to him! And his poor daughter Ivy spent the best part of the evening at my place, too.”

Mr. Ludgrove, who knew his friend’s methods of expression, was careful not to interrupt, and after a short pause the tobacconist resumed his relation.

“First I knew of it was from my boy Ted. You see, it was like this. Ted’s very sweet on Ivy, and a nice girl she is, too. None of your fly-away misses, but a nice steady girl what’ll make her way in the world. Ted brought her to my place for dinner, then they spends the afternoon at the pictures, and comes back for supper. About half-past nine or maybe quarter to ten Ivy says it’s time she was getting home, and she and Ted goes out together. I was thinking Ted was a long time a-seeing of her home, since it was a shocking night, and they weren’t likely to dawdle on the way, when in he comes white as a sheet, and all of a tremble. ‘Dad,’ he says, ‘Ivy’s father’s been murdered.’

“Well, I thought the boy had gone off his head. ‘Murdered?’ I says. ‘Why, what do you mean? Who’d want to murder Jim Tovey, I’d like to know?’ Then after a bit I manages to get the whole story out of him. It seems that when he and Ivy got to Lisson Grove, Jim Tovey was out. He’d been called to St. Martha’s to identify an accident case. He stayed there for a bit, when suddenly the door bell rings. Mrs. Tovey answers it, and in comes a policeman, with a message that Mrs. Tovey and Ivy were wanted at St. Martha’s at once. Mrs. Tovey goes upstairs to put her things on, and Ivy goes with her. Then the policeman asks Ted if he’s a friend of the family, and when he says he is, tells him that poor Jim has just been murdered in this very street, not a couple of hundred yards from where we’re sitting now.”

Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “A most extraordinary affair altogether,” he commented.

“Ah, you may well call it extraordinary,” agreed Mr. Copperdock significantly, “there’s more in it than meets the eye, that’s what I says. Well, as soon as I hears this I thinks of those two poor women, and off I goes to St. Martha’s to see if I could be of any use. There I finds a police inspector who asks me who I was. When he hears I was Jim Tovey’s oldest friend he tells me all about it. It seems that a policeman who had his eye on the lads coming out of the Express Train—they’re a rough crowd, as you know—saw a man fall down and then heard a lot of hollering. Thinking there was a scrap he went over and found Jim Tovey on the ground with a lot of fellows standing round him. It didn’t take him long to find out that Jim was dead, but nobody seemed to know how it happened. There was a crowd on the pavement outside the pub, and it was a foggy sort of night that you couldn’t see very clearly in.”

“I know,” put in Mr. Ludgrove. “I was out about that time myself. I always go for a walk after supper, rain or fine; it’s the only chance of exercise I get.”

“Yes, I know you do,” agreed Mr. Copperdock. “I often wonder you don’t catch your death of cold. Well, the policeman calls up the ambulance, and they gets poor Jim round to St. Martha’s. There they very soon finds out what’s the matter. There’s a great long knife, in shape rather like a butcher’s skewer, but without a handle, sticking into him. And the point’s right through his heart.”

Mr. Copperdock paused dramatically. There was no doubt that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and Mr. Ludgrove was far too good a listener to interrupt him.

“I took Mrs. Tovey and Ivy home,” he continued, “and the Inspector told me he’d come and have a chat with me later. It was past midnight when he turned up, and then of course he wanted to know all about poor Jim, and whether I knew of anybody who had a grudge against him. He couldn’t have come to a better man, for I know a lot about Jim Tovey that I don’t suppose he ever told anybody else. You’ve heard of the Express Train gang, I suppose?”

Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “It consists, I believe, of a number of young men who frequent the racecourses, and who meet in the evenings at the Express Train,” he replied.

“They were the fellows outside the pub when poor old Jim was murdered,” continued Mr. Copperdock significantly. “Now the police, who know a lot more than most people give them credit for, know all about that gang. They’d had every man jack of them rounded up before the Inspector came to see me and put them through it. As the Inspector said, if Jim Tovey had been beaten up with bits of iron pipe, or something like that, he could have understood it. But the knife trick didn’t sound like the gang, somehow. None of them had the guts for deliberate murder like that, and there seemed no reason why they should have set upon Jim Tovey. He’d nothing to do with racing, and he wasn’t likely to be carrying a lot of money about with him.”

Again Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “I see the point,” he said.

“Yes, but you don’t know what I know,” replied Mr. Copperdock darkly. “The leader of the gang is young Wal Snyder. Decent lad he used to be, I knew his father years ago before he died. He and my Ted used to go to school together, and I managed to get him a job as errand boy. Then he got into bad company, run away from his job, and has been hanging about doing nothing ever since. Now, if you please, this young rip had the sauce to walk into Tovey’s shop a few weeks ago, and ask if Miss Ivy was in. Jim asks him what he wants her for, and he says that he knew her as a child, and as she’d turned out such a fine girl he’d like to take her out on the spree one fine evening. Jim tole me he fair lost his temper at that; I don’t know exactly what he said to young Wal, but he let him know pretty straight that if he found him hanging round Ivy he’d put the police on his track. The young scamp cleared out, telling him he’d better look out for himself.”

“Ah, this throws a new light upon the matter!” commented Mr. Ludgrove, with polite interest.

“Better look out for himself,” repeated Mr. Copperdock with careful emphasis. “A regular threat, mark you. Jim didn’t say anything about Wal to Ivy or her mother, you never know how women will take these things. Of course, I told the Inspector about it, and he took it all down in his book. He’d already seen Wal, together with the rest of the gang. It seems they’d had a pretty good week, and most of ’em confessed they were a bit on, and didn’t remember much after they was chucked out of the pub. But young Wal said he remembered an old chap barging into him—he said he didn’t recognize him—and just behind him was a fellow who looked like a seaman. He couldn’t say much about this other fellow, except that he had a sort of woollen cap covering his head, a fierce-looking black beard, and a great scar right across his cheek. Said he looked like one of them Russian Bolsheviks. Of course, there was a lot of people on the pavement, but he was the only one he noticed.”

Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I am inclined to think that the story does credit to the young man’s imagination,” he said quietly. “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a Bolshevik sailor wandering about Praed Street on a Sunday evening.”

“Nor hasn’t anybody else,” replied Mr. Copperdock scornfully, “what’s more, the policeman, who was on the spot pretty sharp, didn’t see anybody like this man in the crowd. There’s no question but what Wal Snyder invented this story to cover himself. It’s all plain as daylight to me—ah, but there’s one thing I haven’t told you. Remember I said that poor old Jim had been sent for to St. Martha’s to identify an accident case? Well, that was all my eye. There hadn’t been no accident and St. Martha’s hadn’t rung him up at all. It was just a trick to get him out into Praed Street.”

“It ought to be possible for the police to trace where the call came from,” suggested Mr. Ludgrove.

“Of course. The Inspector told me they’d done that already, but it didn’t get them much further. The call came from one of the boxes at Paddington station, one of them automatic contraptions where you press the button when you’re through. If you’re sharp with the button, there’s nothing to tell the people you’re speaking to that you’re speaking from a box. And, of course, at a place like Paddington there’s no one to see who goes in and out of those boxes.”

“I see. And where was Wal Snyder when the call was made?”

“Oh, in the Express Train all right. He’d got his alibi fixed up, no fear of that. Put one of his pals on to that job, the cunning young devil. And then, of course, he’d watch till Jim came past the pub on his way home, and the rest was easy.”

“And what did your friend the Inspector think of all this?” inquired Mr. Ludgrove.

“He didn’t say much,” confessed Mr. Copperdock. “But the police ain’t such fools as you might think. Young Wal Snyder will have to go through it, you mark my words. Well, I’d best be getting back home. You never know when I shan’t be wanted to give evidence or something.”

And with that he rose and stalked out of the back room, leaving Mr. Ludgrove with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Chapter III.
The Inquest

The inquest upon Mr. Tovey, although it was reported at length in all the evening papers, did not throw any further light upon the identity of his murderer. The knife was produced and handed round for examination. There was, however, nothing extraordinary about it, except perhaps its inordinate length and the fact that it had no handle.

A cutler, called as an expert witness, identified it as the blade of a paper-cutter’s knife, carefully ground down so as to obliterate the maker’s name and also to produce an edge all the way up as well as at the point. Such blades were usually supplied with a wooden handle, into which they fitted loosely, being secured by means of a set-screw. This witness agreed that knives of this type were rarely seen in ordinary use, but that they were made in considerable quantities for use in certain trades. There would be no difficulty in purchasing one.

Wal Snyder, with a mixture of glibness and injured innocence, gave his version of the affair. But the atmosphere of the coroner’s court, so painfully reminiscent of the police court, reduced him in a very short time to stuttering incoherence. Yes, he had caught sight of somebody just as the dead man fell. Hadn’t never seen him before, biggish fellow with a lot of black hair, and an ugly-looking cut across his cheeks, like as if he’d been slashed with a knife. Asked why he thought he was a sailor, Wal replied that he wore a woollen cap and a coat and trousers like the sailors wear. He knew because he had got pals down the West India Dock Road. Asked again if he had any reason to suppose that this was the man who stabbed the deceased, Wal became more confused than ever. Well, then, had he seen him strike the blow? Wal had not, but incautiously advanced the opinion that he looked just the sort of cove who’d do a thing like that.

This brought the whole weight of the coroner’s displeasure upon his unlucky head. He was told to stand down and not talk nonsense. Then his appalled ear was assailed by an exact and monotonous catalogue of the misdemeanours committed by himself in particular and the Express Train gang in general; things which he fondly believed were known only to himself and a few chosen associates. They ranged from petty larceny to assault and battery, but the Inspector who recited them seemed to treat them with contempt. He smiled as he replied to the coroner’s questions.

“No, sir, I don’t believe any of them have the intelligence or the pluck to plan a murder like this,” he said, “nor do I think that they would be likely to play any of their games outside the Express Train, under the very eyes of the police. In fact, sir, we have no evidence that any of them was in any way connected with the crime.”

The constable who had been first on the scene proved an excellent witness, and earned the coroner’s commendation. He had been standing, at about half-past nine on the previous Sunday evening, on the pavement opposite the Express Train. There had been complaints of disorderliness in Praed Street at closing time. There had been a large number of people passing along the pavement, and the sudden surge of twenty or thirty men from the door of the public house caused a few moments confusion. He heard a lot of shouting, then saw a man fall on the pavement. A group immediately gathered round the fallen man and hid him from sight until he pushed them aside.

Asked if he could form any estimate of the time which elapsed between his seeing the man fall and his reaching his side, the constable said, it could not have been more than fifteen seconds. He did not see anybody resembling the black haired sailor described by a previous witness, but had there been such a man he would have had ample time to disappear in the crowd in the interval. He could not distinguish faces across the street, it was too foggy. His ambulance training had convinced him that the deceased was dead when he reached him.

A house-surgeon at St. Martha’s described the wound. It would not require the exercise of any great force to drive the knife in, but the location of the blow showed a certain knowledge of anatomy. The knife had passed right through the outer clothing of the deceased; it was only when the body was undressed that it was discovered. It seemed difficult to imagine how a man holding a blade without a handle could have driven it in so far. Death from such a wound would be practically instantaneous, but there would be no external hæmorrhage.

The coroner, addressing the jury, made it quite plain that although there was no doubt how deceased met his death there was no evidence as to how the blow was delivered. The jury, taking their clue from his remarks, found that the deceased had been murdered by some persons or persons unknown, and added a rider expressing their sympathy with his widow and daughter.

Mr. Samuel Copperdock, who had escorted Mrs. Tovey and Ivy to the court, brought them back to his place in Praed Street for tea. In Mr. Copperdock’s mind there still lingered a strong suspicion that Wal Snyder and the Express Train gang were in some way mixed up in the affair. His disappointment that someone had not been brought to book made him unusually silent, and it was not until tea was over, and he and Mrs. Tovey were ensconced in arm-chairs in his comfortable parlour, that he resumed his accustomed cheerfulness.

Mrs. Tovey, a voluminous figure in the deepest of black, had taken the tragedy with her accustomed philosophy. She was not the sort of woman to give way to despair; and all her life she had faced the ups and down of fortune with the same outward placidity. Her inner feelings were her own concern; even her husband had never attempted to probe their depth. Besides, Mrs. Tovey belonged to a class which cannot afford to let sentiment interfere with the practical considerations of the moment.

“I shall keep on the business,” she was saying. “ ’Tisn’t as though I’d been left without a penny, in a manner of speaking. Jim had a tidy bit put away; he always used to say he was saving it up for our old age. Then there’ll be the insurance money. Ivy’s a good girl, she hasn’t cost us nothing for the last year or two, and it’s her I’m thinking of mostly. She’ll want a home yet for a bit, and she couldn’t have a better one.”

Mr. Copperdock glanced over his shoulder towards the other end of the room, where Ivy and Ted were holding an earnest conversation in low tones. It was Thursday afternoon, early closing day, and the shop below was shut, a circumstance for which Ted appeared devoutly grateful.

“I shouldn’t wonder if you lost Ivy before very long,” said Mr. Copperdock slyly. “But she’s a good girl, as you say. But you’ll never manage the business by yourself, Mrs. Tovey. Who’s going along to do the bit of buying of a morning?”

“I’ll manage easy enough,” replied Mrs. Tovey confidently. “I shall take young Alf into the shop, and get another lad to drive the van. You’ll find I’ll manage to rub along very comfortable, Mr. Copperdock.”

They entered upon an earnest discussion of the science of greengrocery, heedless of the equally earnest discussion which was going on behind their backs.

“No, it’s no use, Ted, not yet,” Ivy was saying. “You none of you seem to understand quite. It’s different for Mum; she’s got the business to look after, and she doesn’t think of anything else. I can’t forget how good Dad always was to me, and we just couldn’t do anything he wouldn’t have liked.”

“You mean he wouldn’t have liked you to—to walk out with me?” put in Ted, half resentfully.

Ivy blushed in spite of herself. “It wasn’t that, exactly,” she replied. “Mind, he never said anything to me, but I’ve got it out of Mum since. He always wanted me to—to get on in the world, and be a credit to the education he’s given me. And I feel that even now he’s dead, I’ve got to try and do what he wanted.”

“It isn’t that there’s anybody else?” he suggested with a note of anxiety in his voice.

“There isn’t anybody else, Ted,” she replied, looking him straight in the face. “But I’m not going to promise anything until I’ve got over the shock of his being killed like that. Oh, Ted, who can have done it? He hadn’t an enemy in the world, not a real enemy, I mean.”

Ted shook his head helplessly. “I can’t make it out,” he replied. “I can’t believe Wal Snyder had anything to do with it. After all, if—if he wanted to be friends with you, it wasn’t the way to go about it.”

“Wal Snyder must have known perfectly well that I’d never have had anything to do with him,” exclaimed Ivy indignantly. The disclosure of that episode at the inquest had roused her to a pitch of anger she rarely displayed. “Besides, he’s too much of a worm to do a thing like that. I’d like to see him hanged, just the same.”

Ted tactfully disregarded this piece of feminine logic. “It must have been some lunatic, or perhaps, whoever it was mistook your father for someone else,” he replied vaguely.

“And sent him that telephone message first,” she struck in, with a touch of scorn. “No, poor Dad was murdered deliberately. Oh, Ted, if only I were a man, and could find out who did it!”

Ted, looking at her clenched hands and tear-filled eyes, felt suddenly the urge of a great resolve. “Ivy, if I were to find out who it was, would you marry me?” he exclaimed impulsively.

Her eyes dropped before his ardent gaze. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

Their further conversation was interrupted by the stately rising of Mrs. Tovey from her chair.

“Come along, Ivy,” she said. “It’s time we were getting along home.”

Ivy rose obediently, as Mr. Copperdock helped her mother into her cloak. “Ted’ll see you home, Mrs. Tovey,” he said. “I don’t like the thought of your being about the streets alone.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Copperdock,” replied Mrs. Tovey. “I really don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for all your goodness. You’ll come back to our place to-morrow and have a bit of something after the funeral?”

“I’d be very glad to, Mrs. Tovey,” said Mr. Copperdock. He walked with them as far as the door of the shop, and stood there a few seconds, until he lost sight of Mrs. Tovey’s ample form among the crowd. Then he walked slowly up the stairs, and flung himself into his own particular chair.

“I wonder if she suspects anything?” he muttered, with a reflective frown. “I’ll have to go cautious-like, I can see that.”

Mr. Copperdock sat for a long time, motionless, his usually cheerful face furrowed in deep thought. He hated being alone at any time, but somehow this evening it was doubly distasteful. Ted was a long time coming back; no doubt Mrs. Tovey, hospitable soul, had asked him to step in. It was no good stepping across to Elmer Ludgrove’s; Thursday afternoon was that gentleman’s busiest day of the week. The herbalist never closed on Thursday. His customers were for the most part people who were engaged in trade, and the weekly half-holiday was their only opportunity for consultations. Also it seemed a long time before it would be his usual hour for going to the Cambridge Arms. Mr. Copperdock consoled himself with the thought that, as one who had actually attended the inquest, he would not lack an attentive audience.

In due course Ted came back, with a suppressed light of excitement in his eyes. He said very little until they had finished tea, and then, à propos of nothing in particular, he burst out with the subject which occupied his mind. “I say, Dad, I would like to find out who killed poor old Tovey!” he exclaimed.

Mr. Copperdock glanced at him in astonishment. “Would you, my lad?” he replied sarcastically. “Think you’re a sucking Sherlock Holmes, perhaps? You take it from me, if the police can’t lay their hands on the chap, ’tain’t likely you will.”

Ted sighed heavily. In his heart of hearts he was of the same opinion himself. But the magnificence of the reward had blinded him to the difficulties which lay in his path. In every thriller which he had ever read the hero had at least the fragment of a clue to work upon. But rack his brains as he would, Ted could not hit upon the faintest idea of how to set about looking for one.

His father continued to look at him with a not unkindly smile. “I dessay you think that Ivy would give a lot to know, eh?” he said, his native shrewdness carrying him straight to the point. “Well, I wouldn’t be disheartened if I was you. Women’s queer folk, and they often takes the will for the deed, as the saying is. But you stick to the tobacco trade, my boy, and don’t go trying no detective tricks on your own, or you’ll find yourself in trouble.”

It was not until the following evening that Mr. Copperdock had a chance of a word with Mr. Ludgrove. The excitement engendered by Mr. Tovey’s funeral had kept him busy all the morning, and on his return from that ceremony he had found the herbalist’s shop full of people. But as he was coming back from his evening visit to the Cambridge Arms, he overtook Mr. Ludgrove, who was strolling with a leisurely air along the pavement of Praed Street.

They were glad to see one another. “I have been hoping for a chance of a chat with you ever since yesterday,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “Of course, I read the report of the inquest in the papers, but naturally I should be interested in a fuller description. As you see, I am on my way home from my usual evening stroll. Would you care to come in for a few minutes?”

Mr. Copperdock laid his hand on his friend’s arm. “No, no, you come over to my place,” he replied hospitably. “Ted’s sure to have a decent fire going, and there’s a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard. And it’s rarely enough you find time to come and see me, and that’s a fact.”

Mr. Ludgrove agreed, and for the second time the tobacconist went over the story of the inquest. His son listened attentively, not so much to his father’s words as to the comments of the herbalist. He had great faith in Mr. Ludgrove’s wisdom, and he felt that at any time he might suggest some clue which could be followed up.

But Mr. Ludgrove disappointed him. “It is really the most remarkable affair,” he said as his friend came to the end of his recital. “I confess that I have puzzled over it more than once since last Monday morning. In fact, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself by speculating upon it during the week-end.”

“Going away?” asked Mr. Copperdock incuriously.

Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “I hope to catch the 12.35 from Liverpool Street to-morrow,” he replied.

“Weed hunting, as usual?” said Mr. Copperdock facetiously.

“If you like to call it so,” answered Mr. Ludgrove. “As you know, I employ most of my week-ends looking for our rarer English plants. It has become the custom to sneer at the simple remedies of our ancestors, but I assure you that there are plants growing in the hedgerow, if one can only find them, which will cure almost any human complaint, and it is my favourite practice to seek for them.”

Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “Can’t say as I should find much fun in it,” he said. “Too lonely a business altogether. I likes to have someone to talk to when I’m on a holiday. And where might you be going this time?”

“A little place I know in Suffolk, not very far from Ipswich. Now why don’t you come with me, Mr. Copperdock? I shall stay at the inn, a most pleasant little place, and we could go out searching for plants together.”

But Mr. Copperdock was not to be tempted. “It’s very good of you, I’m sure,” he replied. “But, as a matter of fact, the country isn’t very alive, leastways not at this time of the year. Perhaps I’ll come with you some time in the summer, if you’re going to stay at a decent little pub. Some of them country pubs ain’t half bad if you’re thirsty.”

After a little further conversation Mr. Ludgrove took his departure, and Mr. Copperdock, after a final drink, retired to bed. But it is to be feared that his thoughts gave him very little rest. He almost regretted that he had not accepted Ludgrove’s invitation. For it was being slowly borne in upon him that his agitation would drive him to confide in the wisdom of the herbalist. Ludgrove could be trusted not to give him away, and would certainly give him good advice.

Chapter IV.
The Poisoned Pipe-stem

Mr. Ludgrove returned from Suffolk by a late train on Sunday night, burdened with a capacious suit-case, which he laid on the bench in the inner room. He made himself a cup of cocoa, and then proceeded leisurely to unpack the case.

It contained a carefully arranged mass of plants, which he laid out in rows, attaching to each a label upon which he scribbled its name. He was thus busily engaged, when he was interrupted by a loud knocking upon the door of the shop, which he had locked behind him.

The herbalist was not a man who allowed himself to be disturbed by trifles. He merely smiled and glanced at his plants, not a half of which were yet properly classified. Then he went towards the door. It had sometimes happened that one of his clients, in urgent need of his services, had hammered on the door during the hours when the shop was shut. Mr. Ludgrove, if he happened to be within, made a point of answering these summonses. At any hour he was prepared to do what he could to relieve pain or anxiety.

The door opened, disclosing a short, stout figure upon the step. The rather austere lines of Mr. Ludgrove’s face widened into a smile of hospitable welcome.

“Come in, Mr. Copperdock!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t been back more than a few minutes, but there’s a fire in the back room.”

Mr. Copperdock nodded. “Thanks, Ludgrove,” he said, as he came in. “I know you’re just back, I saw you come in. And I thought to myself that this was a very good chance of having a few minutes’ chat with you.”

“I’m only too glad you came over,” replied Mr. Ludgrove, leading the way to the back room. “Bring that chair up closer to the fire. I’ve just made myself a cup of cocoa. Will you have one, too? the kettle’s still boiling.”

“Not for me, thank you kindly all the same,” said Mr. Copperdock. “Cocoa’s not exactly in my line. A man of my age can’t afford to put on weight, you know.”

His eyes strayed towards a cupboard in the corner of the room, the door of which his host had already opened. From it appeared a bottle of whiskey and a siphon, which were placed on the table within reach of Mr. Copperdock’s hand. At a gesture from Mr. Ludgrove, the tobacconist poured himself out a drink and held it to his lips. It was noticeable that his hand trembled slightly as he did so.

For a minute or so Mr. Copperdock sat silently in his chair, glancing nervously about the room. It was obvious that he had something on his mind, but could not find the words in which to unburden himself. His host, skilled in the art of encouraging the tongue-tied, appeared not to notice his confusion, and strolled over towards the bench upon which his harvest was laid out.

Mr. Copperdock’s eyes followed him. “Hullo, did you bring that lot back with you this time?” he enquired in a tone which he endeavoured to render conversational.

“Yes, they’re rather a good collection,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “There are one or two quite scarce plants among them, of which I have been anxious to secure specimens for a long time. I had a most enjoyable time. You ought to have come with me, Mr. Copperdock.”

“I wish I had, I’d have been saved a deal of worry,” said Mr. Copperdock fervently. Then, with scarcely a pause, he added, “Do you know old Ben Colburn?”

“The baker at the other end of the street?” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “I always buy my bread at his shop, but I hardly know Ben Colburn himself, I have seen his son Dick several times. Isn’t Dick a friend of your lad’s?”

For an instant Mr. Copperdock made no reply. His face grew even redder than usual, and he picked with his fingers at the arms of his chair. Mr. Ludgrove, recognising the symptoms, knew that at last he was approaching the point of this late visit. He walked across the room, sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fire, and waited.

“Old Ben Colburn’s dead,” blurted out the tobacconist at last, as though the words had been torn from his lips.

Mr. Ludgrove raised his eyebrows, “Indeed?” he murmured. “Rather a sudden end, surely? I was in the shop on Friday, talking to Dick, and he said nothing of his father being ill.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Mr. Copperdock grimly, “He wasn’t taken ill until about two o’clock yesterday afternoon, and he was dead by tea-time.”

“The usual story in such cases, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “A diseased heart, and a sudden attack ending fatally?”

“Worse than that,” replied Mr. Copperdock slowly. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and looked fixedly at his host. “What do you know about young Dick?” he asked.

It was the herbalist’s turn to hesitate, “I might reply that I am a customer of his,” he said at last. “It would be the truth, but not the whole truth. To you, I do not mind admitting in the strictest confidence that he has several times come to me for advice. You will forgive me if I am unable to tell you anything further.”

Mr. Copperdock nodded. It was well known that Mr. Ludgrove had never divulged even a hint of the curious stories which had been told him in hesitating whispers in the privacy of this very room. It was the certain knowledge that this was so which gave so many of his clients the courage to confess to him their most secret troubles.

“Well, put it this way,” said Mr. Copperdock. “You know that young Dick and his father didn’t hit it off quite, don’t you?”

“I may as well confess to that knowledge, since neither of them have made any secret of the fact,” replied Mr. Ludgrove.

“Old Ben was a bit of a character in his way,” continued Mr. Copperdock. “He used to drop in sometimes at the Cambridge Arms, and I got to know him quite well, in an off-hand sort of way. He had the idea that he was the only man in London who could bake bread, and he often used to tell me that he spent all day and half the night in the bakehouse. He said it was the finest one of its size anywhere, and he used to take me round and look at it sometimes. I couldn’t see anything wonderful about it, but that don’t matter. Ever been there yourself?”

“Never into the bakehouse. I have been into the shop at least twice a week for the last four years,” replied Mr. Ludgrove.

“Well, the bakehouse is away behind, you go up a long passage from the shop to get to it. Old Ben spent most of his time in the bakehouse, leaving the shop to the lad. But he was a suspicious old cove, and he always had it in his mind that Dick was trying to make a bit out of the business. Couldn’t blame him if he had, the old man kept him short enough. But Dick hadn’t much chance. There’s a cash register in the shop, through which every penny of the takings has to pass.”

Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “I know, I’ve often noticed it,” he agreed.

“Every afternoon between two and three, when he’d had his dinner, old Ben used to come into the shop and sit at the cash register, checking the takings. And he always smoked a pipe while he was doing it. Queer thing he never smoked in the bakehouse, only just this one pipe in the day. He would smoke it through, then refill it and put it on a shelf in the corner of the shop, ready for the next day. I suppose he done the same thing every day for a dozen years or more. Now, you remember that Friday was poor Jim Tovey’s funeral?”

“I do,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “You remember that I came in to see you that same evening.”

“So you did. Well, while I was out, Old Ben comes round to my place to buy a pipe. He only kept one going at a time, and when the old one cracked he bought a new one. Always came to me for them, he did. Ted sold him one of the kind he always has, and out he goes.

“Mind you, this is what Ted tells me. The rest of the story, Ted told me last night, after I got back from the Cambridge Arms. Seems young Dick had been in when I was over there and told him all about it. Old Ben goes back to his place, fills his new pipe, and puts it on the shelf ready for his usual smoke on Saturday afternoon. Dick swears nobody touched it in the meantime. The old man was very fussy about his pipe, and it was always left alone.

“On Saturday, yesterday, that is, Ben comes back from his dinner a little after two, and the first thing he does is to pick up his pipe and light it. All at once he takes it out of his mouth and cusses. Dick asks him what’s the matter, and he says that the mouthpiece is rough and that he’s scratched his tongue on it. They have a look at the pipe together, and the old man finds a tiny splinter of glass stuck to the mouthpiece. He scrapes it off with a knife, lights his pipe again, and Dick goes out to get his dinner, same as he always does when the old man comes into the shop.”

Mr. Copperdock paused, and the herbalist, who had been listening attentively, took the opportunity of putting in a question. “Mrs. Colburn has been dead some little time, I believe?”

“Yes, ten years or more, if my memory serves me right. Dick and his father lived over the shop, with a charwoman to come in and do for them in the morning. When Dick comes back from his dinner, a little before three, the old man was still sitting at the cash register, and Dick sees at once that something is wrong. The old chap can hardly speak, says his tongue’s very swollen, and that he feels stiff all over. Dick slips out sharp and gets a doctor, and between them they gets Ben upstairs to bed. Doctor, he did what he could, but it wasn’t any use, and poor old Ben dies in two or three hours.”

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed Mr. Ludgrove.

“That’s what the doctor said. He wanted to find the bit of glass which had scratched old Ben’s tongue, and he and Dick had a hunt for it, but it must have fallen on the floor of the shop. It was only a tiny piece, anyway. Of course they never found it, but the doctor says there must have been some extraordinary powerful poison on it, and I can’t see how a bit of glass like that could get stuck on the mouthpiece of a pipe accidental like.”

“Of course, nicotine acts as a poison if it is injected into the blood,” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “It is just possible that the fragment of glass was harmless enough, but that the nicotine in the pipe found its way into the scratch.” But Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “It was a new pipe, what hadn’t ever been smoked before,” he replied. “Bought at my place the day before, as I told you.”

“Did your son examine the pipe before he gave it to Mr. Colburn?” asked Mr. Ludgrove quickly.

“That’s just what I asked him, and he says he can’t be sure. Of course, he didn’t see any glass or he’d have given old Ben another pipe. We gets them in dozens, each pipe twisted up in a bit of paper. Ted took the first that came out of the box, tore the paper off it, and handed it to Ben, who put it straight into his pocket. I’ve looked at the rest of the box since, and there’s no sign of any glass on any of them.”

“You say that Mr. Colburn filled the pipe as soon as he got home, and put it in the usual place,” said Mr. Ludgrove slowly. “It was lying there until two o’clock on Saturday. Anybody might have tampered with it in the meanwhile. The cash register, and I suppose the shelf where the pipe was kept, is within easy reach of anybody coming into the shop.”

“I’m afraid that won’t work,” replied Mr. Copperdock, shaking his head. “There’s not one in a thousand as goes into the shop that know’s the pipe’s there. You didn’t yourself till I told you just now, yet you say you’re a regular customer. No, if that pipe was tampered with, it was somebody on the other side of the counter what did it.”

“Then you are quite convinced in your own mind that Mr. Colburn was deliberately murdered?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “But what motive could anybody have for desiring his death?”

“What motive had anybody for murdering poor old Jim Tovey last week?” retorted Mr. Copperdock. “There’s only one person who gains anything by Ben’s death, and who that is you know as well as I do!”

“I can’t help thinking that you are taking too grave a view of the case,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “I admit that it is difficult to account for a piece of poisoned glass finding its way on to Mr. Colburn’s pipe by accident, but murder is a very grave charge, and there is hardly sufficient evidence at the moment to warrant it.”

Mr. Copperdock braced himself in his chair as though to give himself the strength to utter his next words. “Ludgrove,” he said impressively. “I know poor Ben Colburn was murdered, same as I know Jim Tovey was murdered. And it was the same hand as struck them both down.”

Mr. Ludgrove sank slowly back into his chair, and a faint smile twinkled for a moment at the corner of his lips. But before he could make any remark, Mr. Copperdock, who had been watching him closely, continued.

“It’s all very well for you to laugh, but neither you nor any other living soul knows what I do. Now just you listen, and see if I’m not right. Last Wednesday, I was in the Cambridge Arms in the evening, same as I almost always am. In comes old Ben Colburn, and comes straight over to me. He puts his hand in his pocket, and slaps an ordinary bone counter down on the table in front of me. ‘Now then, Sam, what’s the meaning of this little joke?’ he says.

“I looks at the counter and I looks at him. ‘What do you mean, what’s the joke?’ I says.

“Why, didn’t you send me this?” he says, suspicious like.

“I told him I hadn’t, and then he says that it came to him by post that morning, wrapped up in a bit of blank paper. ‘I made sure it was one of your jokes, Sam,’ he says. I picked up the counter and looked at it. On one side it had the figure II drawn on it in red ink. ‘What does it mean?’ I said. ‘That’s just what I want to know,’ says Ben. ‘You shove it in your pocket, Sam, you’re better at finding out that sort of thing than I am.’ So I shoved it in my pocket, and here it is.”

Mr. Ludgrove took the counter which the tobacconist handed him and looked at it curiously. It was just as Mr. Copperdock had described it, a white bone counter, about the size of a halfpenny, with the Roman numeral II, carefully traced upon it in red ink.

“I never thought about it again, until this afternoon,” continued Mr. Copperdock. “Naturally I didn’t connect it with Ben’s death. Why should I? But to-day, being Sunday, I went round to see Mrs. Tovey neighbour-like. You see, it was her first Sunday after Jim’s death, and I thought that she and Ivy might get brooding over things.”

Mr. Copperdock looked anxiously at his friend as he spoke, but the expression on the herbalist’s face was one of polite interest only. “Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure,” he murmured. “I hope that Mrs. Tovey is not taking her husband’s death too much to heart.”

“She’s bearing up as well as can be expected,” replied Mr. Copperdock. “She and I got to talking about Jim, and wondering whoever it could have been that murdered him. She was telling me all about the telephone call, and she went on to say that this was the second queer thing that happened just before he died. Naturally I asked her what the first was, and she told me that on the Friday morning before his death, a typewritten envelope came addressed to him. He opened it, and all there was inside was a white counter with the number I drawn on it in red ink. Now what do you make of that?”

Mr. Ludgrove sat silent for a moment under his friend’s triumphant gaze, a thoughtful frown upon his face. “This is most extraordinary,” he said at last. “If your facts are correct—not that I doubt them for a moment, but I know how fatally easy it is to find presages after the event—it means that both Mr. Tovey and Mr. Colburn received, a couple of days or so before their respective deaths, a white counter bearing a numeral in red ink. It is almost certain that both counters were sent by the same person, and, if they were intended as a warning, we may infer, as you said, that both men were murdered by the same hand.”

Mr. Copperdock nodded rather impatiently. “Just what I told you, all along,” he said.

“But, my dear sir, look at the difficulties which that theory entails,” objected Mr. Ludgrove. “We are agreed that it is impossible to think of any motive for the murder of Mr. Tovey, and I at least am inclined to say the same regarding the murder of Mr. Colburn. Yet now we are faced with the problem of finding a man who had a motive for murdering both of them. By the way, do you happen to know if they were ever associated in any way?”

“Never!” replied Mr. Copperdock emphatically. “Although they’d both lived in these parts most of their lives, I don’t suppose they even knew one another by sight.”

“The fact that they had nothing in common makes it all the more puzzling,” said Mr. Ludgrove reflectively. “But perhaps you have thought of a way out of the difficulty?”

A cloud came over Mr. Copperdock’s naturally cheerful face, and there was a marked hesitancy in his tone as he replied. “Aye, I have thought of something, and it’s that that’s been worrying me. Mind, I don’t believe it myself, but I’m in mortal fear lest someone else should see it too.”

“I think I can guess what you mean,” said Mr. Ludgrove gently. “I know as well as you do that it isn’t true, but we’re both of us too well aware of the mischief that can be caused by whispering tongues to treat it as unimportant. You mean that young Colburn was not on good terms with his father, that he and your son are great friends, and that your son sold Mr. Colburn the pipe which is supposed to have been the agency of his death.”

“I do mean that,” replied Mr. Copperdock deliberately. “I mean too that Ted is very sweet on Ivy Tovey, and that poor old Jim wasn’t very keen on the idea. Now you see the sort of lying whispers that might get about if all this was known. And I’m blest if I see what I can do about it.”

“I think you told me that you had some conversation with a Police Inspector last week on the subject of Mr. Tovey’s murder?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove.

“That’s right,” replied Mr. Copperdock. “Very decent sort of chap he was, too. What about him?”

“Do you know where and how to get hold of him?”

“Yes, he left me his card. I’ve got it at home somewhere.”

“Well, Mr. Copperdock, if you will take my advice you will go and see him, and tell him everything you know, as you have just told me. It’s all bound to come out, sooner or later, and if you have already informed the police, your position will be all the stronger. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” replied Mr. Copperdock reluctantly. “But it seems terrible, like giving evidence against my own flesh and blood.”

“On the contrary, you will be doing the very best for your son. A frank statement of facts is always the best defence of the innocent. Tell your friend the Inspector everything, not forgetting the curious incident of the numbered discs. He will know better than I do what advice to give you in the matter. And, if you feel that I can be of the slightest assistance to you, do not hesitate to come to me at once.”

After some further discussion Mr. Copperdock agreed to follow his friend’s advice, and, after a parting drink, went home, somewhat comforted. The herbalist, having locked the door behind him, returned to the interrupted classification of his plants. But, from the slight frown which passed across his face from time to time, one might have guessed that he was thinking more of his conversation with Mr. Copperdock than of the specimens before him.

Chapter V.
Inspector Whyland

The death of Mr. Colburn, following so closely upon that of Mr. Tovey, caused a distinct sensation in Praed Street and its immediate neighbourhood. Suspicion was, so to speak, in the air, and anybody known to have been intimate with either of the dead men was looked at askance, and became the subject of whispered comment when their backs were turned. Not that this floating suspicion actually settled down upon any individual head. But Praed Street discovered an uneasy feeling that the two inexplicable deaths of which it had been the scene indicated that it harboured a murderer.

On the Wednesday morning following Mr. Ludgrove’s visit to Suffolk, a man walked into his shop and rapped upon the counter. The herbalist emerged from the back room at the summons, and, as was his habit, glanced gravely at his customer. He saw before him a youngish man, immaculately dressed, who immediately turned towards him interrogatively. “Mr. Ludgrove?” he said.

The herbalist bowed. “That is my name,” he replied. “Can I be of any service to you?”

The stranger placed a card upon the counter, with an apologetic gesture. “I’m Detective Inspector Whyland, attached to the F Division,” he said. “And if you could spare me a few minutes, I should be very grateful. I’m awfully sorry to have to intrude in business hours.”

“Oh, pray do not apologize, I am rarely very busy in the morning,” replied Mr. Ludgrove courteously. “Perhaps you would not mind coming through this door. We shall be able to talk more privately.”

Inspector Whyland accepted the invitation, and sat down in the chair offered him. Mr. Ludgrove having pressed him to smoke, sat down in the opposite chair, and looked at him enquiringly.

“I daresay that you can guess what I have come to talk about,” began the Inspector, with a pleasant smile. “I may as well confess at once that I want your help. We policemen are not the super-men which some people think we ought to be, and most of us are only too anxious to ask for assistance wherever we are likely to get it. And I personally am under a debt of gratitude to you for persuading Mr. Copperdock to unburden himself to me.”

Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “Oh, he told you, did he?” he replied. “It was much the best thing he could do. I hope he convinced you, as he certainly did me, that both he and his son were completely innocent of any knowledge of these queer happenings.”

It was the Inspector’s turn to smile. “He did. I don’t think that Mr. Copperdock is of the stuff of which deliberate murderers are made, and from what I have seen of the son, I fancy the same applies to him. But may I, since you appear to be pretty intimate with Mr. Copperdock, ask you one or two questions about him? You needn’t answer them unless you like.”

“Most certainly I will answer them to the best of my ability,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely.

“Thank you. In the first place, can you suggest why he is so obviously confused when any reference is made to the Tovey family? I understand that his son and Tovey’s daughter are—well, great friends, but that could hardly account for his manner.”

Again Mr. Ludgrove smiled, this time with genuine amusement. “My dear sir, haven’t you guessed the reason? I did, some days ago. Mrs. Tovey is, I believe, a very charming woman, and by no means too old to consider the possibility of marrying again. Mind you, Mr. Copperdock is convinced that his secret is safely locked in his own breast, and I should forfeit his friendship if he had any inkling that I shared it.”

Inspector Whyland laughed with an obvious air of relief. “Oh, that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” he said. “You may rest assured that I shall be the soul of discretion. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew something that he did not care to tell me. Now, if I may trouble you with another question, what do you know of the relations between the Copperdocks and the Colburns?”

This time Mr. Ludgrove shook his head. “Nothing at first hand,” he replied, “only what Mr. Copperdock has told me, which is doubtless the same as what he told you.”

“You will forgive my pressing the point, Mr. Ludgrove,” persisted the Inspector. “But I gather from Mr. Copperdock’s remarks that you are to some extent in the confidence of young Colburn.”

Mr. Ludgrove looked him straight in the face. “Inspector Whyland,” he said gravely, “I should like you fully to realize my position. Many of the inhabitants of this part of London believe, rightly or wrongly, that my experience of the world is greater than theirs. Consequently they frequently seek my advice upon the most personal and intimate matters. I have been the recipient of many confidences, which it has been my invariable rule never to mention to a third person. Dick Colburn has consulted me more than once, and it is only because I believe it to be in his interest that I am prepared to break my rule in his case.”

“I fully appreciate your motives, Mr. Ludgrove,” replied the Inspector. “I will make no use of anything you care to tell me without your permission.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Mr. Ludgrove simply. “Dick Colburn informed me some months ago that he found it very difficult to get on with his father. His chief complaint was that although he performed the whole work of the shop, his father treated him as though he were still a child, and refused to allow him any share of the profits of the business. I advised him to persuade his father to admit him into partnership, and if he proved obdurate, to announce his intention of seeking work elsewhere. I think it is only fair to add that the lad came to see me yesterday evening, in order to assure me that he had no share in his father’s death.”

Inspector Whyland shrugged his shoulders. “In spite of appearances I am inclined to believe him,” he replied wearily. “Frankly, Mr. Ludgrove, I am completely at a loss. As you know, the jury at the inquest on Mr. Colburn returned an open verdict, but I think there can be very little doubt that he was deliberately murdered. We can rule out suicide, people don’t take such elaborate steps to kill themselves. And the circumstances seem too remarkable to be accidental, which brings us back to Mr. Copperdock and his remarkable story of the numbered discs. What do you make of that, Mr. Ludgrove?”

“Very little, although I have puzzled over it a good deal, since I heard it,” replied the herbalist. “Of course, it is possible that the receipt by Mr. Colburn of the one you have doubtless seen had nothing whatever to do with his death, and that the combined imagination of Mr. Copperdock and Mrs. Tovey evolved the first out of something equally harmless. Mrs. Tovey is the only person who claims to have seen it, I understand.”

“And yet her accounts of it are remarkably consistent,” said the Inspector. “I went to see her and introduced the subject as tactfully as I could. She described the incident in almost exactly the same words as Mr. Copperdock used, and added that her husband, attaching no importance to it, threw counter, envelope and all into the fire. Her daughter, Ivy, was not present at the time. And yet, if we apply the obvious deduction to the sending of these numbered counters, what possible motive could anybody have for murdering two peaceful and elderly tradesmen, apparently strangers to one another, or, still more, for warning them first? It only adds another problem to this extraordinary business.”

“Are you going to make the story of the numbered counters public?” asked Mr. Ludgrove.

“One of my reasons for coming to see you was to ask you to say nothing about it,” replied the Inspector. “We have decided that there is nothing to be gained by letting it be known. Bone counters of this size are very common, and we are not likely to learn where these particular ones originated. On the other hand, the minute the story becomes known, there will be an epidemic of counters bearing the number III in red ink. The Post Office will be overwhelmed by envelopes containing them, and every one of the recipients will come clamouring to us for protection. You may think this is an exaggeration. But you have no idea of the effect of crime upon some people’s mentality.”

Mr. Ludgrove laughed softly. “I think I have,” he replied. “I haven’t been a sort of confidential adviser to the poorer classes all these years for nothing. Nearly everybody who has been in this room for the last week has had definite knowledge of the murderer of Mr. Tovey, for which knowledge they seem to think it is my duty to pay a large sum of money. When I tell them to go to the police their enthusiasm evaporates with amazing rapidity. And since you people offered a reward for Wal Snyder’s sailor, the whole neighbourhood appears to have seen him.”

“So I imagine,” said the Inspector. “There is usually a queue at the police station waiting to claim the reward. But what could we do? I confess I was very sceptical about the existence of this man; but I’ve bullied the wretched Wal half a dozen times, drunk and sober, and he sticks to the story. ‘S’welp me, it’s as true as I’m standing here,’ he says, ‘a big tall bloke, dressed like a sailor, with a black beard, an ugly gash on his cheek, and a woollen cap.’ We had no option but to advertise for such a man.”

“Well, I hope you’ll find him, Inspector,” remarked Mr. Ludgrove. “But you’ll forgive my saying that I have grave doubts about it. Even Mr. Copperdock, who spends a large part of his time watching the people who pass his shop, has never seen anybody answering his description. And again I find it difficult to imagine a black-bearded sailor with a scar having a grudge against Mr. Tovey. Besides, he doesn’t sound the sort of person to deliver numbered counters in typewritten envelopes.”

The Inspector rose from his chair with a smile. “It is a maxim of the police never to admit defeat,” he said. “I am immensely obliged to you for your courtesy, Mr. Ludgrove. Perhaps if you hear of anything which has any possible bearing on the case you will send for me?”

The herbalist willingly consenting to this, Inspector Whyland took his departure. He had scarcely been gone five minutes before Mr. Ludgrove, who had returned to the back room, heard Mr. Copperdock’s voice in the shop.

“Come in, Mr. Copperdock,” called the herbalist genially.

The curtain was furtively drawn aside, and Mr. Copperdock came in, a look of deep anxiety upon his face. “That was Inspector Whyland in here just now, wasn’t it?” he enquired.

“It was,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “We had quite a long chat.” Then, with a sudden change of manner, he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look here, Mr. Copperdock,” he said earnestly, “get out of your head all idea that the police have any suspicions of you or your son. I can assure you that they have not, and that your straightforwardness in going to them and telling them all you know has impressed them greatly in your favour.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the tobacconist fervently. “I’ve been terrible worried these last few days. I’ve laid awake at nights and puzzled over it all again and again. I’ve even given up going to the Cambridge Arms of an evening. I sort of feel that the fellows there don’t talk to me quite in the way they did.”

“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Ludgrove. “You mustn’t let this prey on your mind. We all know as well as you do that you have done nothing to reproach yourself with. Now I must ask you to excuse me, for I think I hear a customer in the shop.”

As the days went by, and no further developments took place, Mr. Copperdock’s face regained its accustomed cheerfulness, and he resumed his visits to the Cambridge Arms. The newspapers found fresh sensations with which to fill their columns, and even Praed Street, in the stimulus to trade furnished by the approach of Christmas, began to forget the strange occurrences of which it had been the scene. Ted Copperdock developed a new smartness of appearance and carefulness of speech, no doubt the results of his frequent enjoyment of Ivy’s company. It was only natural that on Sundays, when the young people were out at the Pictures, Mr. Copperdock should walk over to Lisson Grove to console Mrs. Tovey’s loneliness. Only Mr. Ludgrove, as he regretfully explained to his friends, found himself too busy to spend one of those week-ends in the country which he so much enjoyed.

Indeed, it was not until the week-end before Christmas that he found an opportunity for leaving the shop for more than an hour or two at a time. He confided his intentions to Mr. Copperdock on the Friday. “I have just heard that a plant of which I have long been in search is to be discovered in a spot not far from Wokingham,” he said. “The nearest Inn appears to be at a village called Penderworth. I propose to go there to-morrow and spend the afternoon and Sunday searching for the herb. As I mean to come up by an early train on Monday, I have taken the liberty of telling Mrs. Cooper, who comes in every week-day to tidy my place up, that I have left the key with you. I suppose that it is no use asking you to come with me?”

Mr. Copperdock fidgeted uncomfortably. “Leave the key by all means,” he replied heartily. “I’ll look after it for you. Sorry I can’t come with you, but you see about Christmas time I—we—there’s a lot of folk comes to the shop and I can’t very well leave Ted alone.”

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Ludgrove, without a smile. “I shall leave Waterloo at 1.30 to-morrow, and reach that station again just before ten on Monday. If Mrs. Cooper has finished before then, she will bring you back the key.”

His arrangements thus made, the herbalist closed his shop at noon on Saturday, and, equipped with a suit-case which he always took with him, took the Tube to Waterloo station. On arrival at Wokingham, he hired a car to drive him to the Cross Keys at Penderworth. It was after three o’clock when he arrived, and after securing a room, writing his name and address in the register, and arranging for some supper to be ready for him at half-past seven, he went out again immediately, a haversack slung over his shoulder, and an ordnance map in his hand.

It was after seven when he returned, his boots covered with mud, and his haversack bulging with a miscellaneous collection of plants. A fine drizzle had come on during the afternoon, and he was very wet. But trifles like these never dampened his spirits, and he made remarkable headway with the cold beef and pickles produced for his delectation. His meal over, he made his way to the smoking-room fire, and, spreading a newspaper on the table, began to examine the contents of his haversack.

The rain, which by this time was falling steadily, seemed to have kept the regular customers of the Cross Keys at home. The smoking-room was empty, but for Mr. Ludgrove; and the landlord, after leaning idly against the bar at one end of the room, and staring inquisitively at his solitary guest, could restrain his curiosity no longer. Lifting the flap, he walked across the room, with the ostensible object of making up the fire.

Mr. Ludgrove looked up at his approach. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly.

“Good evening, sir,” replied the landlord, glancing at the plants laid out on the newspaper. “You’ve been having a walk round the country this afternoon, then.”

“Yes, and a very pleasant country it is for one of my interests,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “I have secured several very interesting specimens, and I hope to find others to-morrow.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the landlord. “Flowers and that aren’t much in my line. I’ve got a bit of garden, but it’s mostly vegetables. Pity the rain came on like it did.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the rain,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “Walking about the country as I do, I am compelled to take the weather as it comes. I can only get away from London during the week-ends.”

“I see you come from London by what you wrote in the book,” said the landlord slowly. “It’s Praed Street you lives in, isn’t it?”

Mr. Ludgrove smiled. The eagerness in the landlord’s voice was very transparent. “Won’t you sit down and have a drink with me?” he said. “Yes, I live in Praed Street. Perhaps you saw in the paper that we had some very unusual happenings there a few weeks ago.”

“I did, sir, and it was seeing you came from there made me think of them,” replied the landlord. He went back to the bar and got the drinks, which he brought to the fire. It immediately appeared that his interest in crime, as reported in the newspapers, was at least as keen as that of the late Mr. Tovey. But never before had it been his fortune to meet one who had personally known the victims of two unsolved murders.

“It’s a queer thing,” he said, “but a couple of days or so before this Mr. Tovey was murdered, I was polishing the glasses behind the bar in this very room, when I looked out of the window and sees a sailor, big chap he was, walking past. I didn’t rightly catch sight of his face, but he was carrying a bag and going towards London. Looked as if he was on the tramp, I thought. I never thought about it again till I sees the police advertising for this sailor chap, then, of course, I tells the constable at the Police Station up the village. I never heard whether they traced him or not.”

“You didn’t notice if he had a black beard or a scar?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove mildly.

“No, I didn’t see his face,” replied the landlord, with an air of a man brushing aside an irrelevant detail. “But that’s just like the police. You give ’em a bit of valuable information, and they hardly ever says thank you for it.”

The landlord, warming to his work, and finding Mr. Ludgrove an excellent listener, developed theory after theory, each more far-fetched than the last. It was not until the clock pointed to closing time, that he rose from his chair with evident reluctance. “You mark my words, there’s more in it than meets the eye,” he said darkly, as he leant over the table, “as my old dad, what kept this house afore I did, used to say, if there’s anything you can’t rightly understand, there’s bound to be a woman in it. Look at the things what you sees in the papers every week. How do you know that these two poor chaps as were killed wasn’t both running after the same woman? And if she was married couldn’t ’er ’usband tell you something about why they was murdered? You think it over, sir, when you gets back to London.”

And the landlord, nodding his head with an air of superlative wisdom, disappeared in the direction of the tap-room. By the time he returned, Mr. Ludgrove had collected his belongings and retired to bed.

By the following morning the rain had ceased, and Mr. Ludgrove was enabled to pursue his explorations in comfort. He went out directly after breakfast and returned to the Inn in time for lunch. In the afternoon he followed a different direction, arriving back shortly after dark. When he repaired to the smoking-room after supper, he found that his fame as a personal acquaintance of the murdered men had preceded him. Mr. Ludgrove was before all things a student of human nature, and he seemed almost to enjoy taking part with the leading men of Penderworth in an interminable discussion of the unsolved crimes. Perhaps he reflected that the looker-on sees most of the game, and that these men, viewing the circumstances from a distance, might have hit upon some point in the evidence which had escaped the observers on the spot.

At all events, he went to bed on Sunday night with the remark that he had thoroughly enjoyed his visit to Penderworth. A car had been ordered to take him to Wokingham station early on Monday morning. His first act upon reaching the platform was to buy a paper and open it. Across the top of the centre page lay spread the ominous headline:

Another tragedy in Praed Street

Chapter VI.
A Middle-aged Poet

Mr. Richard Pargent’s public was a very limited one. A few lines of type, of unequal length, would appear from time to time in one of the ultra-artistic magazines, and would be hailed by critics of the new school as yet another deadly blow at the shackles which have hitherto fettered the feet of the muse of poetry. The general public found them incomprehensible, which was perhaps a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Pargent’s reputation.

But, in spite of Mr. Pargent’s extreme literary modernity, his surroundings and circumstances were typically mid-Victorian. His age was between fifty and sixty, and he lived with his sister Clara in a tall, narrow house in Bavaria Square, Bayswater. It was, as a matter of fact, the house in which he and his two sisters had been born. On their parents’ death he and Miss Clara Pargent had elected to remain where they were and keep house together. Miss Margaret, younger and more adventurous, had taken unto herself a companion—of the female sex—and migrated to a house in the little town of West Laverhurst, in Wiltshire.

It will be gathered from this that the Pargent family were not dependent upon Mr. Richard Pargent’s literary earnings. Each member of it was comparatively well off, and lived according to the standards of mid-Victorian comfort. In their own phrase, they knew quite a number of nice people, and sometimes they found it difficult to make time in which to perform all their social duties. As a consequence, they had little opportunity left for doing anything useful.

Although many years had elapsed since Miss Margaret had shaken the dust of Bayswater off her feet and retired to the intellectual wilderness of West Laverhurst, her brother and sister had never completely recovered from the shock of such a revolutionary proceeding. Never before, within the memory of man, had any member of the Pargent family done anything but what was expected of them. And even now, when any of their friends asked after Miss Margaret, they replied with an almost imperceptible hesitation, with the apologetic smile we adopt when speaking of anyone who exhibits such remarkable eccentricity.

Not that Miss Margaret’s departure had entirely broken the bonds which united the family. She and Miss Clara exchanged letters every day, although it must exceed the comprehension of ordinary mortals what they found to write about. Further than this, West Laverhurst was the object of a regular fortnightly pilgrimage on the part of Richard Pargent. Every other Saturday he caught the 10:45 at Paddington, which reached West Laverhurst at 12:25, giving him ample time to lunch with his sister and catch the 3.10 up, which deposited him at Paddington at 4.55. Miss Clara always had tea ready for him in the drawing-room in Bavaria Square. A No. 15 bus from Paddington took him almost to his door.