meals – were served at one and four o’clock; the charge was 1s. 6d., including butcher’s meat and cheese.
30
Noscitur e sociis*
In my work as private agent for Mr Tredgold, I had learned to follow my nose. It has rarely let me down. There was a distinct smell about Mr Lewis Pettingale, though I knew nothing about him, only that he appeared to be a close associate of Daunt’s. But this was enough for me to give up an hour or two of my time, with the object of making his acquaintance, and to see what might come of it. I had my opening planned. It might be instructive, I thought, to discuss the subject of forged cheques.
On the first floor, a painted name-plate greeted me: ‘Mr L. J. Pettingale’. I put my ear to the door. Someone within coughs. An inner door closes. I knock softly – it would not do simply to walk in – but no one answers. So I enter.
It is a large, well-appointed chamber, with oak panel-work, a stone fireplace, and a plaster ceiling of the Stuart period. To my left as I enter are two tall windows that give out onto the court below. A fire blazes pleasantly in the dog-grate† on the hearth, on either side of which two comfortable chairs are set. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a bay horse, a terrier at its feet, standing in a park landscape. In the corner of the room, to my right, is another door, closed, through which I can hear the sound of someone attempting, in a thin tenor voice, a version of the aria
I decide to leave the singer to his ablutions, settle myself in one of the chairs, feet on the fender, and light up a cigar. I have almost finished smoking it when the door in the corner opens and a tall, thin man emerges, wearing an ornately fashioned brocade dressing-robe, Persian slippers, and a tasselled skull-cap made of red velvet, from beneath which a few meagre strands of straw-coloured hair descend almost to his shoulders. He is about my own age, but looks prematurely aged. His skin is sallow and papery, and from where I am sitting I am not sure that he possesses eyebrows.
‘Good morning,’ I say, smiling broadly, and throwing my cigar butt into the fire.
He stands for a moment, disbelief on his skull-like face. ‘Who the devil are you?’
His voice, like everything else about him, is thin, with a reedy, querulous tremor about it.
‘Grafton, Edward Grafton. Pleased to meet you. Cigar? No? Oh well, bad habit, I’m sure.’
He is taken aback for a moment by my coolness, and then asks haughtily whether he knows me.
‘Well, now, there’s a question,’ I reply. ‘Are you of a philosophical turn? For we might spend a good few hours considering the nature of knowledge. It is a large subject. We might begin with Aquinas, who said that, for any knower, knowledge is after the fashion of his own nature; or, as St Augustine put it …’
But Mr Pettingale seems disinclined to enter into a discussion on this interesting question. He angrily stamps a slippered foot, threatens to call for assistance if I do not leave at once, and grows quite red – almost replicating the colour of his skull-cap – with the exertion of it all. I tell him to calm himself; that I have merely come to seek a professional opinion; and that I knocked at the door but could not make myself heard. Somewhat calmer, he asks whether I am in the profession myself – an instructing solicitor, perhaps? Alas, no, I tell him; my interest is personal, though it is a matter of law on which I wish to consult him. I invite him, with a broad smile, to sit down, which he does, a little reluctantly, looking pleasingly foolish in his dandyish get-up. As he takes his seat, I vacate my own chair and stand with my back to one of the tall windows, through which soft sunshine is now pouring.
‘Here it is, Mr Pettingale,’ I say. ‘I put a case to you. Some years ago, two rascals masquerading as gentlemen swindle a firm of solicitors out of a considerable amount of money – let us say, for the sake of argument, fifteen hundred pounds. The thing is done cleverly – one almost admires the cleverness – and the two scallywags come out the other end without a stain on their characters, but considerably richer than when they started. There is a third rascal, but we shall come to him in a moment. More than this, they so contrive matters that, when all is done, an innocent man is sent to the other side of the world, to toil his life out, on their behalf, in the wilderness of Van Diemen’s Land.* Now, the question on which I wish to seek your professional opinion is this: knowing, as I believe I do, the identity of two of the three persons I have described, how may I best lay a charge against them, so that they can be brought at last to justice?’
The effect of my speech is most gratifying. His mouth falls open; he reddens even more, and begins to sweat.
‘You say nothing, Mr Pettingale? A lawyer with nothing to say! A most uncommon sight. But by your uncomfortable demeanour, I see you have perceived that I have been playing a little game with you. Well then; let us be more direct, shall we? What is done is done. Your secret is safe with me – for the time being, at least. I have no argument with you, Mr Pettingale. My real interest lies in your friend, the distinguished author. You know to whom I allude?’
He nods dumbly.
‘I wish to know a little more about your association with this gentleman. I will not trouble you with my reasons.’
‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ says Pettingale mournfully, taking off his cap and using it to wipe his perspiring brow. ‘Though how you come to know all about it is beyond me.’
‘Blackmail? Why yes, you have it, Mr Pettingale. A palpable hit! You are a sharp one, I see. So: the floor is yours. Be quick, be bold, hold nothing back. I would particularly wish that you do not hold anything back. Let us be completely frank with one another. And, for good measure, you may throw in a few words concerning the third rascal. Again, I’m sure you know to whom I am referring?’
Once more he nods, but does not speak. I wait; but still he says nothing. He bites his lip, and his knuckles turn white with gripping the arms of the chair so hard. I begin to get a little impatient, and tell him so.
‘I cannot,’ he says at last, with a kind of faltering moan. ‘They – they will—’
As he is speaking, I see him give a sudden darting glance towards the door, and in a flash he is on his feet. But I am ready for him. I throw him back into his chair and stand over him. I ask again for him to begin his recitation, but still he will not sing out. For the third and last time, I tell him to speak, taking out one of my pocket-pistols, and laying it with exaggerated deliberation on the table. He blanches, but shakes his head. I try another means of encouragement, and
The prospect of having your fingers broken one by one appears to be a mighty incentive to do as you are told; and in no time at all he capitulates. Here, then, though a little more persuading was required as we went along, is what Mr Lewis Pettingale, of Gray’s-Inn, told me on that October afternoon.
