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, apropos 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 weekend.”
“Going away?” asked Mr. Copperdock incuriously.
Mr. Ludgrove nodded. “I hope to catch the 12:35 from Liverpool Street tomorrow,” 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 weekends 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.
IV
The Poisoned Pipe-Stem
Mr. Ludgrove returned from Suffolk by a late train on Sunday night, burdened with
