“And you have nothing else in view?”
“Nothing by which I could earn a real living. For the last year or two I have worked at writing and illuminating; addresses, testimonials, and church services, when I could get them, and filled in the time writing special window-tickets. But that isn’t very remunerative, whereas the wax figures would yield quite a good living. And then,” she added, after a pause, “I have the feeling that Daddy would have liked me to carry on his work, and I should like it myself. He taught me quite a lot and I think he meant me to join him when he got old.”
As she had evidently made up her mind, and as her decision seemed quite a wise one, I concurred with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
“I am glad you agree,” said she, “and I know Arabella does. So that is settled, subject to my being able to carry out the plan. And now, if we have finished, I should like to show you some of my father’s works. The house is full of them and so, even, is the garden. Perhaps we had better go there first before the light fails.”
As the treasures of this singularly interesting home were presented, one after another, for my inspection, I began to realize the truth of Miss Boler’s statement. Julius D’Arblay had been a remarkably versatile man. He had worked in all sorts of mediums and in all equally well. From the carved stone sundial and the leaden garden figures to the clock-case decorated with gilded gesso and enriched with delicate bronze plaquettes, all his works were eloquent of masterly skill and a fresh, graceful fancy. It seems to me little short of a tragedy that an artist of his ability should have spent the greater part of his time in fabricating those absurd, posturing effigies that simper and smirk so grotesquely in the enormous windows of Vanity Fair.
I had intended, in compliance with the polite conventions, to make this, my first visit, a rather short one; but a tentative movement to depart only elicited protests, and I was easily persuaded to stay until the exigencies of Dr. Cornish’s practice seemed to call me. When at last I shut the gate of Ivy Cottage behind me and glanced back at the two figures standing in the lighted doorway, I had the feeling of turning away from a house with which, and its inmates, I had been familiar for years.
On my arrival at Mecklenburgh Square I found a note which had been left by hand earlier in the evening. It was from Dr. Thorndyke, asking me, if possible, to lunch with him at his chambers on the morrow. I looked over my visiting list, and finding that Monday would be a light day—most of my days here were light days—I wrote a short letter accepting the invitation and posted it forthwith.
VII
Enlarging Thorndyke’s Knowledge
“I am glad you were able to come,” said Thorndyke, as we took our places at the table. “Your letter was a shade ambiguous. You spoke of discussing the D’Arblay case, but I think you had something more than discussion in your mind.”
“You are quite right,” I replied. “I had in my mind to ask if it would be possible for me to retain you—I believe that is the correct expression—to investigate the case, as the police seem to think there is nothing to go on; and if the costs would be likely to be within my means.”
“As to the costs,” said he, “we can dismiss them. I see no reason to suppose that there would be any costs.”
“But your time, Sir—” I began.
He laughed derisively. “Do you propose to pay me for indulging in my pet hobby? No, my dear fellow, it is I who should pay you for bringing a most interesting and intriguing case to my notice. So your questions are answered. I shall be delighted to look into this case, and there will be no costs unless we have to pay for some special services. If we do, I will let you know.”
I was about to utter a protest, but he continued:
“And now, having disposed of the preliminaries, let us consider the case itself. Your very shrewd and capable inspector believes that the Scotland Yard people will take no active measures unless some new facts turn up. I have no doubt he is right, and I think they are right, too. They can’t spend a lot of time—which means public money—on a case in which hardly any data are available, and which holds out no promise of any result. But we mustn’t forget that we are in the same boat. Our chances of success are infinitesimal. This investigation is a forlorn hope. That, I may say, is what commends it to me; but I want you to understand clearly that failure is what we have to expect.”
“I understand that,” I answered gloomily, but nevertheless rather disappointed at this pessimistic view. “There seems to be nothing whatever to go upon.”
“Oh, it isn’t so bad as that,” he rejoined. “Let us just run over the data that we have. Our object is to fix the identity of the man who killed Julius D’Arblay. Let us see what we know about him. We will begin with the evidence at the inquest. From that we learned:
“1. That he is a man of some education, ingenious, subtle, resourceful. This murder was planned with extraordinary ingenuity and foresight. The body was found in the pond with no telltale mark on it but an almost invisible pinprick in the back. The chances were a thousand to one, or more, against that tiny puncture ever being observed; and if it had not been observed, the verdict would have been ‘Found drowned,’ or ‘Found dead,’ and the fact of the murder would never have been discovered.
“2. We also learn that
