Of course, I complied gladly; and when the inspector departed a few minutes later he took with him a couple of excellent wax impressions to console him for the necessity of parting with the original.
As soon as he was gone I proceeded to execute a plan that had already formed in my mind. First I packed the two wax impressions very carefully in lint and bestowed them in a tin tobacco-box, which I made up into a neat parcel and addressed it to Dr. Thorndyke. Then I wrote him a short letter giving him the substance of my talk with Inspector Follett and asking for an appointment early in the following week to discuss the situation with him. I did not suppose that the wax impressions would convey, even to him, anything that would throw fresh light on this extraordinarily obscure crime. But one never knew. And the mere finding of the coin might suggest to him some significance that I had overlooked. In any case, the new incident gave me an excuse for reopening the matter with him.
I did not trust the precious missives to the maid, but as soon as the letter was written I took it and the parcel in my own hands to the post, dropping the letter into the box but giving the parcel the added security of registration. This business being thus despatched, my mind was free to occupy itself with pleasurable anticipations of the projected visit to Highgate on the morrow and to deal with whatever exigencies might arise in the course of the Saturday evening consultations.
VI
Marion D’Arblay at Home
Most of us have, I imagine, been conscious at times of certain misgivings as to whether the Progress of which we hear so much has done for us all that it is assumed to have done; whether the undoubted gain of advancing knowledge has not a somewhat heavy counterpoise of loss. We moderns are accustomed to look upon a world filled with objects that would have made our forefathers gasp with admiring astonishment; and we are accordingly a little puffed up by our superiority. But the museums and galleries and ancient buildings sometimes tell a different tale. By them we are made aware that these same “rude forefathers” were endowed with certain powers and aptitudes that seem to be denied to the present generation.
Some such reflections as these passed through my mind as I sauntered about the ancient village of Highgate, having arrived in the neighbourhood nearly an hour too early. Very delightful the old village was to look upon, and so it had been, even when the mellow red brick was new and the plaster on the timber houses was but freshly laid; when the great elms were saplings and the stage-wagon with its procession of horses rumbled along the road which now resounds to the thunder of the electric tram. It was not Time that had made beautiful its charming old houses and pleasant streets and closes, but fine workmanship guided by unerring taste.
At four o’clock precisely, by the chime of the church clock, I pushed open the gate of Ivy Cottage, and as I walked up the flagged path, read the date, 1709, on a stone tablet let into the brickwork. I had no occasion to knock, for my approach had been observed, and as I mounted the threshold the door opened and Miss D’Arblay stood in the opening.
“Miss Boler saw you coming up the Grove,” she explained, as we shook hands. “It is surprising how much of the outer world you can see from a bay window. It is as good as a watch tower.” She disposed of my hat and stick, and then preceded me into the room to which the window appertained, where, beside a bright fire, Miss Boler was at the moment occupied with a brilliantly burnished copper kettle and a silver teapot. She greeted me with an affable smile, and as much of a bow as was possible under the circumstances, and then proceeded to make the tea with an expression of deep concentration.
“I do like punctual people,” she remarked, placing the teapot on a carved wooden stand. “You know where you are with them. At the very moment when you turned the corner, Sir, Miss Marion finished buttering the last muffin and the kettle boiled over. So you won’t have to wait a moment.”
Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “You speak as if Dr. Gray had staggered into the house in a famished condition, roaring for food,” said she.
“Well,” retorted Miss Boler, “you said ‘tea at four o’clock,’ and at four o’clock the tea was ready and Dr. Gray was here. If he hadn’t been he would have had to eat leathery muffins, that’s all.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Miss D’Arblay. “One doesn’t like to think of it; and there is no need to, as it hasn’t happened. Remember that this is a gate-legged table, Dr. Gray, when you sit down. They are delightfully picturesque, but exceedingly bad for the knees of the unwary.”
I thanked her for the warning, and took my seat with due caution. Then Miss Boler poured out the tea and uncovered the muffins with the grave and attentive air of one performing some ceremonial rite.
As the homely, simple meal proceeded, to an accompaniment of desultory conversation on everyday topics, I found myself looking at the two women with a certain ill-defined surprise. Both were garbed in unobtrusive black, and both, in moments of repose, looked somewhat tired and worn. But in their manner and the subjects of their conversation, they were astonishingly ordinary and normal. No stranger, looking at them and listening to their talk, would have dreamed of the tragedy that overshadowed their lives. But so it constantly happens. We go into a house of mourning, and
