Chapter VI.A Middle-aged PoetMr. 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.The Saturday before Christmas happened to be the occasion for one of these fortnightly visits. It was usual for Mr. Pargent to walk the short half mile which separated West Laverhurst from his sister’s house, but, the afternoon being wet and Mr. Pargent very careful of his health, he asked Miss Margaret to requisition a car to drive him to the station. He arrived there in plenty of time, and in due course the 3.10 came in punctually. Mr. Pargent took a corner seat in a first-class non-smoking carriage, and immediately became immersed in a book which he had brought with him for the purpose of reading in the train. He inwardly congratulated himself upon having secured a seat in an empty carriage.The 3.10 up from West Laverhurst stops twice before reaching Reading, and then runs fast up to London. The stop at Reading is a somewhat long one, owing to the fact that tickets are collected there. On this particular afternoon, the train had run into the station a minute or two before time, and the stop was even longer than usual, giving a tall man in a rather tight-fitting overcoat ample time to walk leisurely the whole length of the train and select an empty first-class smoking carriage close to the engine. The train started at last, Mr. Pargent being left in undisputed possession of his compartment.The train arrived at Paddington punctually at five minutes to five. Mr. Pargent had observed that the rain was falling more heavily than ever, but, from his long experience of Paddington station, he knew how to reach the stopping place of the No. 15 bus, keeping under cover nearly all the way. He had only to follow the subway which leads to the Underground booking-office, and then climb the stairway which leads into Praed Street. The No. 15 bus stops nearly opposite on the further side of the street.The passenger who had got in at Reading seemed to know his way about as well as did Mr. Pargent. This man, who somehow vaguely suggested a retired ship’s officer, had an iron-grey beard and a curious patch of crimson, such as is popularly known as a port-wine mark, on his left cheek. He walked slowly down the subway, so slowly that Mr. Pargent overtook him before he reached the foot of the stairway. The two ascended it together, only a few steps separating them, Mr. Pargent leading.The mouth of the stairway was blocked, as it so often is in wet weather, by a knot of people unfurling their umbrellas and waiting for an interval in the traffic to dash across to the refuge in the middle of the road. Mr. Pargent unfolded his umbrella like the rest, and seizing his opportunity, ran for the island. The interval was a narrow one; an almost unceasing stream of buses and taxis was pouring down Praed Street. Only two or three followed Mr. Pargent’s example, among them the Reading passenger. In the blinding rain and the flurry of the traffic nobody noticed a swift movement of the latter’s arm, nor did they watch him as he left the refuge immediately and gained the far side of the road.The clock above the entrance of the station showed it to be exactly five o’clock. The Reading passenger glanced at it, walked swiftly a few yards westward up Praed Street, then, seizing his opportunity, crossed the road again. This brought him to the slope leading to the departure platform of Paddington station. He hurried through the booking office on to No. 1 platform, at which stood the 5.5 train for Bristol, which stops for the first time at Reading. He showed the ticket collector a third-class single ticket for Reading, and the man hastily opened a carriage door and pushed him in. “Near shave that, sir!” he remarked.The passenger was far too short of breath to do anything but nod his head in reply. He sank down exhausted upon the seat as the guard blew his whistle and the train drew out of the station. There were only two men beside himself in the carriage, and they, with true British indifference, took no further notice of him. The train had nearly reached Reading when he walked down the corridor to the lavatory. He did not return to the carriage, but stepped Straight from the corridor to the platform as the train came to rest. He mingled unnoticed with the stream passing the barriers. He noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes to six.Meanwhile Mr. Pargent had stood for an instant upon the refuge in the middle of Praed Street, a puzzled expression on his face. An approaching taxi-driver noticed his swaying form and swerved sharply, just in time to avoid him as he crashed forward into the road-way. The taxi-driver’s action caused a sudden check to the traffic, and for an instant there was a chaos of skidding vehicles, screeching brakes, and blasphemous language. Then the nearest drivers jumped from their seats and clustered round the prone form. A majestic policeman, setting a calm and undeviating course through the tumult, knelt down and turned the body over. Mr. Pargent was dead.The newspaper which Mr. Ludgrove bought at Wokingham station and read carefully during his journey to Waterloo contained nothing more than a bare statement that the famous poet, Richard Pargent, had fallen dead in Praed Street, and that, upon the body being conveyed to the mortuary, a blade was found in it, with the point entering the heart. Round these facts a formidable structure of conjecture and reminiscence was built up. There was an obituary notice, in which Mr. Pargent’s Christian names and the titles of his published works were incorrectly stated. There was a résumé of the case of Mr. Tovey, and a photograph of Praed Street, with heavy black crosses marking the places where the murders had taken place. Finally there was a leading article, in which the responsibility for the murders was ingeniously fixed upon the Government, which in consequence came in for severe criticism. In fact, the murder of Mr. Pargent was evidently the topic of the day.Mr. Ludgrove sat with his haversack beside him on the carriage seat, even his beloved plants unheeded. He read every bit of the paper over and over again, seeking for some clue which might account for the crime. The description ended with the words “the police are, however, in possession of a clue, the nature of which they are not at present prepared to divulge, but which, they are confident, will lead to startling developments in the near future.” Mr. Ludgrove smiled rather cynically as he read them. They seemed to him to have a somewhat familiar ring.He had the paper in his hand as he walked into Mr. Copperdock’s shop to get his key, and his friend caught sight of it. “So you’ve seen the news, then?” he said excitedly.Mr. Ludgrove nodded gravely. “I have been reading the account as I came up in the train,” he replied.“We didn’t know a thing about it till eight o’clock on Saturday evening,” continued Mr. Copperdock eagerly. “I was just going across to the Cambridge Arms when Inspector Whyland came in and asked me casual-like what I’d been doing all the afternoon. As a matter of fact neither Ted nor I had hardly left the shop, and so I told him. It wasn’t till then that he let on that three hours before a gentleman had been murdered not a hundred yards away, exactly the same as poor Tovey. Then I remembered that a customer had told me something about an accident outside Paddington station, but, being busy, I hadn’t taken any heed of it. And, that reminds me, the Inspector left a message for you, asking if you would let him know when you got back. I’ll ring him up from here if you like, I’ve got his number.”“I wish you would, I have no telephone, as you know,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “Has Mrs. Cooper brought my key back yet?”Mr. Copperdock felt in his pocket and handed the herbalist a Yale key. “She brought it in ten minutes ago. She was terribly upset, and talked about our all being murdered in our beds next. It’s a terrible thing to have happened just before Christmas like this. People will be afraid to go out of doors after dark.”Mr. Ludgrove nodded rather absently, and took the key which his friend offered him. “You’ll let Inspector Whyland know I’m back?” he said, and, without awaiting Mr. Copperdock’s reply, he left the shop, crossed the road, and entered his own premises, a thoughtful frown upon his face.Inspector Whyland lost no time in acting upon Mr. Copperdock’s message. The murder of Mr. Richard Pargent, following so soon upon that of Mr. Tovey, and perpetrated by the same method, had made a great sensation, not only among the public, but, which was far more important to the Inspector, at Headquarters. He had been given a pretty direct hint that unless he could find some clue within the next few days, the case would be taken out of his hands and given to some more capable officer. All the machinery at the disposal of the police had been put into action, but so far without the slightest result. And in Inspector Whyland’s despair it seemed to him that the only hope left of gaining any information was through the herbalist, with his peculiar inner knowledge of the inhabitants of the district.He arrived to find Mr. Ludgrove busily engaged in writing up descriptions of his botanical trophies in a large manuscript book. The herbalist greeted him warmly, and invited him to a seat in the best chair. The two sat for a moment in silence, until the Inspector spoke abruptly.“Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, what do you know about this man who’s been killed?”“Richard Pargent?” replied the herbalist quietly. “I know nothing about him personally. I have seen his name mentioned once or twice as a writer of verse, but I doubt if I should have remembered it had it not been recalled to me by what I read in the papers this morning.”“Do you know anything about this poetry of his?” continued the Inspector.Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I am no judge of poetry,” he replied. “But I can hardly imagine that it was bad enough to inspire anyone with a desire to murder him.”Inspector Whyland shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “There doesn’t seem to have been anything about the man to provide a motive for his murder. Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, you’re not the sort of man to go round spinning yarns to your friends. I’ll make a bargain with you. You get to know all sorts of things that never come to our ears. Tell me your honest opinion about these murders, and I’ll tell you what we’ve found out so far.”For a moment Mr. Ludgrove made no reply. When at length he spoke it was with a deep note of earnestness in his voice. “I am honoured by your confidence, Inspector. As you have guessed, I have been very much concerned by these murders. I have feared that they would be traced to one or other of my clients, some of whom, I regret to say, have little respect for the law. I know much of the inner history of Praed Street and its neighbourhood, and I regret to say that much of it is almost incredibly sordid. I refer of course to its underworld, and not to its respectable inhabitants, who are greatly in the majority. But of two facts I can assure you. The first is that in all my experience I have never heard of a crime committed by any of the class to which I refer except for some specific purpose, either gain or revenge, and the second is that none of them would resort to murder except perhaps in a sudden access of passion.”The Inspector nodded. “That’s very much my own experience of regular crooks,” he replied. “But you say you’ve thought a lot about this business. Haven’t you any theory of your own?”“The only theory I can form is that the murders are the work of some irresponsible maniac,” said Mr. Ludgrove quietly.“Would an irresponsible maniac have put a piece of poisoned glass on the end of Colburn’s pipe?” countered the Inspector quickly. “No, I am afraid that theory won’t do, Mr. Ludgrove.”“I think it is the only theory which fits in with the assumption that these three men were all murdered by the same hand,” replied the herbalist.“Yet I don’t think you can get away from that assumption,” said Inspector Whyland. “I don’t mind telling you something that worries me a bit, since it’s bound to come out at the inquest. One of the first things we found when we searched Pargent’s pockets in the mortuary was this.”He put his hand in his pocket, then held it out with extended palm toward Mr. Ludgrove.The herbalist leant forward with an exclamation of surprise. “Ah, a white counter with the figure III drawn on it in red ink!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, Inspector, I wondered if anything of the kind had been found. That is really interesting.”“Interesting!” grumbled the Inspector. “Aye, the reporters will find it interesting enough, you may bet. We couldn’t keep it dark, even if we wanted to. This fellow Pargent got it by post on Saturday morning. He told his sister, Miss Clara, that it must be a secret token from some admirer of his work. He was so pleased about it that he took it down to Penderworth to show his other sister. It was on his way back from there that he was killed. Oh yes, it’s interesting enough. We shall have to say that Tovey and Colburn got counters like this, and then there’ll be a fearful outcry against us for keeping it dark. ‘Had the police not displayed this criminal reticence, the victim would have understood the purport of the warning and adequate measures could have been taken to protect him.’ Oh yes, I know what’s coming all right.”Inspector Whyland gazed savagely at the counter for a few seconds, then continued abruptly.“Fortunately the envelope in which this one came had been kept. The counter was wrapped up in a piece of cheap writing paper, and put in a square envelope of the same quality. The address was typewritten. Our people at the Yard are trying to trace the machine it was done with. I wish them joy of the job. They can tell the make all right; but there must be thousands of them scattered through London.”“If you don’t mind my suggesting it, it doesn’t follow that because Mr. Pargent received a counter he was murdered by the same hand that killed Mr. Tovey or Mr. Colburn,” said the herbalist quietly.Inspector Whyland glanced at him quickly. “No, it doesn’t exactly follow,” he agreed. “But we’ll return to that later. I want to show you something else first. Look here.”This time he produced from his pocket a paper packet, which he proceeded to unroll. From it he withdrew two sinister-looking blades, each stained a dull brown.“These are the knives with which Tovey and Pargent were killed,” he said. “Don’t touch them, but tell me if you can tell one from the other.”Mr. Ludgrove adjusted his spectacles, and bent over the knives. They were exactly similar, thin, with an extremely sharp point, about half an inch wide and eight inches long. Neither of them showed any sign of having ever possessed a handle.“No, I can see no difference between them,” agreed Mr. Ludgrove. “I admit that they strengthen the supposition that Mr. Tovey and Mr. Pargent died by the same hand. But, admitting that this was the case, it only bears out my theory that the murders were the actions of a maniac. If they were not, if both men were killed with some definite motive, you have to discover some connection between them. Yet they moved in entirely distinct orbits, and, I should imagine, had nothing whatever in common.”Inspector Whyland shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Theory’s all very well in its way, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, as he replaced the knives in his pocket. “I can’t waste my time establishing connections. There’s evidence enough here to convince a jury that the same man killed all three of them. And I don’t fancy it’ll be very long before I lay hands upon him.”“I sincerely hope your expectations will be realized, Inspector,” replied the herbalist, in a tone of faint irony which was lost upon Whyland. “I suppose it is indiscreet to ask whether you have any suspicions? I confess that for my part I am entirely at a loss. What about young Snyder, for instance?”“Master Wal Snyder is out of this,” returned the Inspector shortly. “He was pinched a week ago for picking pockets in a tube lift, and is safely under lock and key. But I don’t mind telling you in confidence, Mr. Ludgrove, that I know the murderer lives somewhere in this district.”Mr. Ludgrove lifted his eyebrows in real or assumed astonishment. “Indeed?” he exclaimed. “That is indeed a great step forward. Pray, how did you come to that conclusion?”If the Inspector perceived the irony in his tone, he paid no heed to it. “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” he replied. “All three men were murdered in Praed Street, to begin with. Then, there’s another thing. The envelope in which the counter was sent to Pargent bore the post-mark of this district, London, W.2. You can’t get away from it, everything points to the murderer living somewhere about here.”Again Inspector Whyland paused. Then suddenly he rose and stood over the herbalist where he sat in his chair. “There’s another thing, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, almost menacingly. “You said just now that it didn’t follow that because Pargent received a counter he was killed by the same man that murdered the other two. Do you see where that leads you? If the third counter was sent by a different hand, it can only have been sent by one of the very few who knew of the receipt of the first two. And all of them live in this district, you will remember.”Mr. Ludgrove gazed up at him in mock alarm. “They do, indeed,” he replied. “It makes my blood run cold to think that I am one of them. Really, I am quite relieved to think that I have an alibi in the case of this last murder, at least.”Inspector Whyland laughed shortly. “Oh, for that matter, I’m as much under suspicion as you,” he said. “But, you see, there are some people we know who couldn’t produce an alibi for the time when any of the murders were committed.”And with that he turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room.
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.
The Saturday before Christmas happened to be the occasion for one of these fortnightly visits. It was usual for Mr. Pargent to walk the short half mile which separated West Laverhurst from his sister’s house, but, the afternoon being wet and Mr. Pargent very careful of his health, he asked Miss Margaret to requisition a car to drive him to the station. He arrived there in plenty of time, and in due course the 3.10 came in punctually. Mr. Pargent took a corner seat in a first-class non-smoking carriage, and immediately became immersed in a book which he had brought with him for the purpose of reading in the train. He inwardly congratulated himself upon having secured a seat in an empty carriage.
The 3.10 up from West Laverhurst stops twice before reaching Reading, and then runs fast up to London. The stop at Reading is a somewhat long one, owing to the fact that tickets are collected there. On this particular afternoon, the train had run into the station a minute or two before time, and the stop was even longer than usual, giving a tall man in a rather tight-fitting overcoat ample time to walk leisurely the whole length of the train and select an empty first-class smoking carriage close to the engine. The train started at last, Mr. Pargent being left in undisputed possession of his compartment.
The train arrived at Paddington punctually at five minutes to five. Mr. Pargent had observed that the rain was falling more heavily than ever, but, from his long experience of Paddington station, he knew how to reach the stopping place of the No. 15 bus, keeping under cover nearly all the way. He had only to follow the subway which leads to the Underground booking-office, and then climb the stairway which leads into Praed Street. The No. 15 bus stops nearly opposite on the further side of the street.
The passenger who had got in at Reading seemed to know his way about as well as did Mr. Pargent. This man, who somehow vaguely suggested a retired ship’s officer, had an iron-grey beard and a curious patch of crimson, such as is popularly known as a port-wine mark, on his left cheek. He walked slowly down the subway, so slowly that Mr. Pargent overtook him before he reached the foot of the stairway. The two ascended it together, only a few steps separating them, Mr. Pargent leading.
The mouth of the stairway was blocked, as it so often is in wet weather, by a knot of people unfurling their umbrellas and waiting for an interval in the traffic to dash across to the refuge in the middle of the road. Mr. Pargent unfolded his umbrella like the rest, and seizing his opportunity, ran for the island. The interval was a narrow one; an almost unceasing stream of buses and taxis was pouring down Praed Street. Only two or three followed Mr. Pargent’s example, among them the Reading passenger. In the blinding rain and the flurry of the traffic nobody noticed a swift movement of the latter’s arm, nor did they watch him as he left the refuge immediately and gained the far side of the road.
The clock above the entrance of the station showed it to be exactly five o’clock. The Reading passenger glanced at it, walked swiftly a few yards westward up Praed Street, then, seizing his opportunity, crossed the road again. This brought him to the slope leading to the departure platform of Paddington station. He hurried through the booking office on to No. 1 platform, at which stood the 5.5 train for Bristol, which stops for the first time at Reading. He showed the ticket collector a third-class single ticket for Reading, and the man hastily opened a carriage door and pushed him in. “Near shave that, sir!” he remarked.
The passenger was far too short of breath to do anything but nod his head in reply. He sank down exhausted upon the seat as the guard blew his whistle and the train drew out of the station. There were only two men beside himself in the carriage, and they, with true British indifference, took no further notice of him. The train had nearly reached Reading when he walked down the corridor to the lavatory. He did not return to the carriage, but stepped Straight from the corridor to the platform as the train came to rest. He mingled unnoticed with the stream passing the barriers. He noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes to six.
Meanwhile Mr. Pargent had stood for an instant upon the refuge in the middle of Praed Street, a puzzled expression on his face. An approaching taxi-driver noticed his swaying form and swerved sharply, just in time to avoid him as he crashed forward into the road-way. The taxi-driver’s action caused a sudden check to the traffic, and for an instant there was a chaos of skidding vehicles, screeching brakes, and blasphemous language. Then the nearest drivers jumped from their seats and clustered round the prone form. A majestic policeman, setting a calm and undeviating course through the tumult, knelt down and turned the body over. Mr. Pargent was dead.
The newspaper which Mr. Ludgrove bought at Wokingham station and read carefully during his journey to Waterloo contained nothing more than a bare statement that the famous poet, Richard Pargent, had fallen dead in Praed Street, and that, upon the body being conveyed to the mortuary, a blade was found in it, with the point entering the heart. Round these facts a formidable structure of conjecture and reminiscence was built up. There was an obituary notice, in which Mr. Pargent’s Christian names and the titles of his published works were incorrectly stated. There was a résumé of the case of Mr. Tovey, and a photograph of Praed Street, with heavy black crosses marking the places where the murders had taken place. Finally there was a leading article, in which the responsibility for the murders was ingeniously fixed upon the Government, which in consequence came in for severe criticism. In fact, the murder of Mr. Pargent was evidently the topic of the day.
Mr. Ludgrove sat with his haversack beside him on the carriage seat, even his beloved plants unheeded. He read every bit of the paper over and over again, seeking for some clue which might account for the crime. The description ended with the words “the police are, however, in possession of a clue, the nature of which they are not at present prepared to divulge, but which, they are confident, will lead to startling developments in the near future.” Mr. Ludgrove smiled rather cynically as he read them. They seemed to him to have a somewhat familiar ring.
He had the paper in his hand as he walked into Mr. Copperdock’s shop to get his key, and his friend caught sight of it. “So you’ve seen the news, then?” he said excitedly.
Mr. Ludgrove nodded gravely. “I have been reading the account as I came up in the train,” he replied.
“We didn’t know a thing about it till eight o’clock on Saturday evening,” continued Mr. Copperdock eagerly. “I was just going across to the Cambridge Arms when Inspector Whyland came in and asked me casual-like what I’d been doing all the afternoon. As a matter of fact neither Ted nor I had hardly left the shop, and so I told him. It wasn’t till then that he let on that three hours before a gentleman had been murdered not a hundred yards away, exactly the same as poor Tovey. Then I remembered that a customer had told me something about an accident outside Paddington station, but, being busy, I hadn’t taken any heed of it. And, that reminds me, the Inspector left a message for you, asking if you would let him know when you got back. I’ll ring him up from here if you like, I’ve got his number.”
“I wish you would, I have no telephone, as you know,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “Has Mrs. Cooper brought my key back yet?”
Mr. Copperdock felt in his pocket and handed the herbalist a Yale key. “She brought it in ten minutes ago. She was terribly upset, and talked about our all being murdered in our beds next. It’s a terrible thing to have happened just before Christmas like this. People will be afraid to go out of doors after dark.”
Mr. Ludgrove nodded rather absently, and took the key which his friend offered him. “You’ll let Inspector Whyland know I’m back?” he said, and, without awaiting Mr. Copperdock’s reply, he left the shop, crossed the road, and entered his own premises, a thoughtful frown upon his face.
Inspector Whyland lost no time in acting upon Mr. Copperdock’s message. The murder of Mr. Richard Pargent, following so soon upon that of Mr. Tovey, and perpetrated by the same method, had made a great sensation, not only among the public, but, which was far more important to the Inspector, at Headquarters. He had been given a pretty direct hint that unless he could find some clue within the next few days, the case would be taken out of his hands and given to some more capable officer. All the machinery at the disposal of the police had been put into action, but so far without the slightest result. And in Inspector Whyland’s despair it seemed to him that the only hope left of gaining any information was through the herbalist, with his peculiar inner knowledge of the inhabitants of the district.
He arrived to find Mr. Ludgrove busily engaged in writing up descriptions of his botanical trophies in a large manuscript book. The herbalist greeted him warmly, and invited him to a seat in the best chair. The two sat for a moment in silence, until the Inspector spoke abruptly.
“Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, what do you know about this man who’s been killed?”
“Richard Pargent?” replied the herbalist quietly. “I know nothing about him personally. I have seen his name mentioned once or twice as a writer of verse, but I doubt if I should have remembered it had it not been recalled to me by what I read in the papers this morning.”
“Do you know anything about this poetry of his?” continued the Inspector.
Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I am no judge of poetry,” he replied. “But I can hardly imagine that it was bad enough to inspire anyone with a desire to murder him.”
Inspector Whyland shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “There doesn’t seem to have been anything about the man to provide a motive for his murder. Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, you’re not the sort of man to go round spinning yarns to your friends. I’ll make a bargain with you. You get to know all sorts of things that never come to our ears. Tell me your honest opinion about these murders, and I’ll tell you what we’ve found out so far.”
For a moment Mr. Ludgrove made no reply. When at length he spoke it was with a deep note of earnestness in his voice. “I am honoured by your confidence, Inspector. As you have guessed, I have been very much concerned by these murders. I have feared that they would be traced to one or other of my clients, some of whom, I regret to say, have little respect for the law. I know much of the inner history of Praed Street and its neighbourhood, and I regret to say that much of it is almost incredibly sordid. I refer of course to its underworld, and not to its respectable inhabitants, who are greatly in the majority. But of two facts I can assure you. The first is that in all my experience I have never heard of a crime committed by any of the class to which I refer except for some specific purpose, either gain or revenge, and the second is that none of them would resort to murder except perhaps in a sudden access of passion.”
The Inspector nodded. “That’s very much my own experience of regular crooks,” he replied. “But you say you’ve thought a lot about this business. Haven’t you any theory of your own?”
“The only theory I can form is that the murders are the work of some irresponsible maniac,” said Mr. Ludgrove quietly.
“Would an irresponsible maniac have put a piece of poisoned glass on the end of Colburn’s pipe?” countered the Inspector quickly. “No, I am afraid that theory won’t do, Mr. Ludgrove.”
“I think it is the only theory which fits in with the assumption that these three men were all murdered by the same hand,” replied the herbalist.
“Yet I don’t think you can get away from that assumption,” said Inspector Whyland. “I don’t mind telling you something that worries me a bit, since it’s bound to come out at the inquest. One of the first things we found when we searched Pargent’s pockets in the mortuary was this.”
He put his hand in his pocket, then held it out with extended palm toward Mr. Ludgrove.
The herbalist leant forward with an exclamation of surprise. “Ah, a white counter with the figure III drawn on it in red ink!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, Inspector, I wondered if anything of the kind had been found. That is really interesting.”
“Interesting!” grumbled the Inspector. “Aye, the reporters will find it interesting enough, you may bet. We couldn’t keep it dark, even if we wanted to. This fellow Pargent got it by post on Saturday morning. He told his sister, Miss Clara, that it must be a secret token from some admirer of his work. He was so pleased about it that he took it down to Penderworth to show his other sister. It was on his way back from there that he was killed. Oh yes, it’s interesting enough. We shall have to say that Tovey and Colburn got counters like this, and then there’ll be a fearful outcry against us for keeping it dark. ‘Had the police not displayed this criminal reticence, the victim would have understood the purport of the warning and adequate measures could have been taken to protect him.’ Oh yes, I know what’s coming all right.”
Inspector Whyland gazed savagely at the counter for a few seconds, then continued abruptly.
“Fortunately the envelope in which this one came had been kept. The counter was wrapped up in a piece of cheap writing paper, and put in a square envelope of the same quality. The address was typewritten. Our people at the Yard are trying to trace the machine it was done with. I wish them joy of the job. They can tell the make all right; but there must be thousands of them scattered through London.”
“If you don’t mind my suggesting it, it doesn’t follow that because Mr. Pargent received a counter he was murdered by the same hand that killed Mr. Tovey or Mr. Colburn,” said the herbalist quietly.
Inspector Whyland glanced at him quickly. “No, it doesn’t exactly follow,” he agreed. “But we’ll return to that later. I want to show you something else first. Look here.”
This time he produced from his pocket a paper packet, which he proceeded to unroll. From it he withdrew two sinister-looking blades, each stained a dull brown.
“These are the knives with which Tovey and Pargent were killed,” he said. “Don’t touch them, but tell me if you can tell one from the other.”
Mr. Ludgrove adjusted his spectacles, and bent over the knives. They were exactly similar, thin, with an extremely sharp point, about half an inch wide and eight inches long. Neither of them showed any sign of having ever possessed a handle.
“No, I can see no difference between them,” agreed Mr. Ludgrove. “I admit that they strengthen the supposition that Mr. Tovey and Mr. Pargent died by the same hand. But, admitting that this was the case, it only bears out my theory that the murders were the actions of a maniac. If they were not, if both men were killed with some definite motive, you have to discover some connection between them. Yet they moved in entirely distinct orbits, and, I should imagine, had nothing whatever in common.”
Inspector Whyland shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Theory’s all very well in its way, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, as he replaced the knives in his pocket. “I can’t waste my time establishing connections. There’s evidence enough here to convince a jury that the same man killed all three of them. And I don’t fancy it’ll be very long before I lay hands upon him.”
“I sincerely hope your expectations will be realized, Inspector,” replied the herbalist, in a tone of faint irony which was lost upon Whyland. “I suppose it is indiscreet to ask whether you have any suspicions? I confess that for my part I am entirely at a loss. What about young Snyder, for instance?”
“Master Wal Snyder is out of this,” returned the Inspector shortly. “He was pinched a week ago for picking pockets in a tube lift, and is safely under lock and key. But I don’t mind telling you in confidence, Mr. Ludgrove, that I know the murderer lives somewhere in this district.”
Mr. Ludgrove lifted his eyebrows in real or assumed astonishment. “Indeed?” he exclaimed. “That is indeed a great step forward. Pray, how did you come to that conclusion?”
If the Inspector perceived the irony in his tone, he paid no heed to it. “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” he replied. “All three men were murdered in Praed Street, to begin with. Then, there’s another thing. The envelope in which the counter was sent to Pargent bore the post-mark of this district, London, W.2. You can’t get away from it, everything points to the murderer living somewhere about here.”
Again Inspector Whyland paused. Then suddenly he rose and stood over the herbalist where he sat in his chair. “There’s another thing, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, almost menacingly. “You said just now that it didn’t follow that because Pargent received a counter he was killed by the same man that murdered the other two. Do you see where that leads you? If the third counter was sent by a different hand, it can only have been sent by one of the very few who knew of the receipt of the first two. And all of them live in this district, you will remember.”
Mr. Ludgrove gazed up at him in mock alarm. “They do, indeed,” he replied. “It makes my blood run cold to think that I am one of them. Really, I am quite relieved to think that I have an alibi in the case of this last murder, at least.”
Inspector Whyland laughed shortly. “Oh, for that matter, I’m as much under suspicion as you,” he said. “But, you see, there are some people we know who couldn’t produce an alibi for the time when any of the murders were committed.”
And with that he turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room.