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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Jacob Street Mystery," R. Austin Freeman intricately weaves a compelling narrative that combines the elements of detective fiction with a rich exploration of psychological depth. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century London, this novel features the shrewd and methodical detective Dr. John Thorndyke, who employs forensic science and astute observation to unravel a perplexing murder case. Freeman's writing style is characterized by meticulous detail and a keen understanding of the scientific methods that underscore his plots, making the novel an exemplar of the genre during the period known as the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. R. Austin Freeman, a pioneer in the realm of detective literature, was highly influenced by his training in medicine and law, which lent authenticity to the forensic techniques his characters employ. His unique background as a surgeon provided him with a deep appreciation for empirical evidence and rational thought, which reflect profoundly in his narrative style. Freeman's experiences and professional insights navigate readers through the thrilling intricacies of mystery-solving, providing a narrative that is both intellectual and engaging. Readers seeking a masterclass in early detective fiction will find "The Jacob Street Mystery" a rich and rewarding experience. Freeman's artful fusion of engaging storytelling with scientific inquiry invites readers to partake in the intellectual challenge of the mystery, ensuring that those who delve into its pages will be captivated by Thorndyke's keen intellect and the atmospheric charm of Victorian London. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Jacob Street Mystery
Table of Contents
Introduction
When an unremarkable street becomes the stage for a crime so carefully veiled that only the faintest traces remain, The Jacob Street Mystery distills R. Austin Freeman's abiding question: can disciplined observation and the sober logic of forensic science cut through accident, coincidence, and deceit to restore an intelligible pattern of cause and effect, and with it a just account of human conduct, or will the comforts of plausibility and the fog of urban anonymity defeat the patient craftsman who insists that every material fragment, however trivial, is a witness waiting to be examined, understood, and weighed as evidence rather than rumor.
A late-career entry in R. Austin Freeman's long-running Dr. John Thorndyke series, The Jacob Street Mystery is a work of classic detective fiction first published in the early 1940s. It belongs to the tradition sometimes called Golden Age crime, yet it favors method over melodrama, placing a scientifically minded sleuth at the center of a carefully assembled inquiry. The action unfolds in English urban spaces where routine respectability and obscure byways coexist, and where a modest address can shelter significant danger. Within this milieu, Freeman frames a case that tests the limits of inference, patience, and the practical uses of specialized knowledge.
Without disclosing its turns, the premise gathers around a cluster of small peculiarities linked to an inconspicuous street, from which a larger pattern slowly emerges. Thorndyke proceeds as a medico-legal investigator, attending to objects, times, and textures rather than rumor or intuition, and the narrative invites readers to follow each step of the reasoning. The voice is lucid and restrained, the style exact without fuss, and the mood one of accumulating pressure rather than shock. Laboratory demonstrations, quiet interviews, and careful reconstructions create a procedural cadence, offering the satisfactions of seeing cause traced to effect through tangible, comprehensible means.
Freeman's story turns on themes that remain resonant: the primacy of evidence over speculation; the ethics of proof and professional responsibility; the distance between appearance and actuality; and the ways modern urban life enables concealment while also leaving material traces. The street itself becomes an emblem of ordinary life's hidden junctions, where private choices meet public consequences. The narrative considers how chance, habit, and design interlock, and how disciplined attention can sift them apart. In doing so, it raises questions about what we can justifiably claim to know, and how much weight our judgments should place on things seen and measured.
As one of the key builders of the scientific-detection tradition, Freeman emphasizes process. Thorndyke's fusion of law and medicine shapes the inquiry: specimens are collected with care, tests are chosen for their probative value, and each result is fitted into a chain of reasoning that must stand scrutiny. The pleasure here is not pyrotechnic surprise but the clear exposition of how a puzzle yields to careful method. Readers encounter practical forensics explained in plain language and deployed with restraint, creating the impression that nothing essential has been concealed from them, and that understanding is an attainable, earned destination.
Situated late in its author's career, the novel offers a distilled version of Freeman's approach: exact, unhurried, and confident that order can be made from confusion. It is also a welcoming entry point for newcomers, since the series cases are self-contained and the recurring figures are introduced through their functions rather than backstory. For contemporary readers, its appeal lies in the credibility of its procedures and the civility of its tone. In a landscape of escalating spectacle, The Jacob Street Mystery offers the steadier excitement of inference, inviting patience, attentiveness, and the quiet satisfaction of following a sound argument.
Readers drawn to classic puzzles, procedural clarity, and the interplay between law and science will find this novel rewarding. It promises not sensational revelations but a carefully earned resolution, grounded in facts that have been made legible through honest work. Without venturing beyond its spoiler-safe setup, one may say that the path from a modest street to a just conclusion proceeds by way of small, telling details. The result is an experience both calming and bracing: a reminder that attentive minds, working carefully with what the world actually yields, can still dispel confusion and make sense of difficult events.
Synopsis
The Jacob Street Mystery opens in a shabby corner of London, where an unassuming narrator takes lodgings in a dilapidated house on Jacob Street. The neighborhood’s faded respectability, its narrow courts and shuttered shops, sets a subdued tone of secrecy. Routine observations of comings and goings, especially nocturnal activity at an adjoining property, hint at an undercurrent of hidden business. A few casual acquaintances among tenants and tradesmen supply sketchy information about the house’s history and a prior occupant who left abruptly. Nothing appears overtly criminal at first, yet several small irregularities accumulate, prompting a cautious note of curiosity rather than alarm.
A troubling incident disrupts the tentative calm: a disappearance that leaves behind ambiguous signs and conflicting accounts. Police inquiries begin, and the narrator’s partial knowledge draws him reluctantly into the matter. Seeking clarity, he consults Dr. John Thorndyke, a barrister and medical jurist known for exacting methods. Thorndyke visits Jacob Street, studies the scene without comment, and quietly collects physical traces that others overlook. His focus on minute details impresses but reveals little at once. The police prefer a straightforward theory. Thorndyke, reserving judgment, advises patience and discretion, insisting that sound conclusions must arise from proven facts rather than conjecture.
The investigation unfolds in measured stages. Thorndyke maps movements, interviews residents, and tests the plausibility of reported timelines. He examines dust patterns, footprints, tool marks, and peculiar residues that imply recent disturbance where there should have been none. Conversations with local tradesmen expose inconsistencies in deliveries and departures. The texture of the case changes from a simple absence to a possibility of concealment and substitution. In his chambers, Thorndyke and his assistant conduct controlled experiments to verify how an object might be moved or disguised. Each verified point narrows alternatives, while the broader outline of events remains deliberately withheld.
Attention then turns to motive. A web of financial pressures surfaces, including debt, unsettled property interests, and documents whose wording may carry unintended legal consequences. Minor relationships within the house and the street offer a range of plausible incentives for silence or collusion. A cautious picture emerges in which advantage might be gained by delaying discovery, misdirecting attention, or staging innocent appearances. Intermittent encounters with a reticent neighbor and a nervous employee add to the impression of divided loyalties. Thorndyke collates these human elements with the physical evidence, treating testimony as a specimen to be examined rather than a truth to be accepted.
A midcourse discovery brings fresh light. An overlooked structural feature and a small, unremarkable object take on significance once laboratory tests confirm how they could have been used. Measurements, chemical traces, and wear patterns suggest a method for transferring weight and concealing marks in confined spaces. The geography of Jacob Street, with its side alleys and limited sightlines, proves central to reconstructing movement. Thorndyke tentatively rearranges the sequence of events, substituting a practical mechanism for an improbable guess. Yet he withholds his conclusions until experiment and observation coincide, ensuring that the explanation will withstand scrutiny in court as well as satisfy scientific standards.
As the inquiry presses forward, tension rises. The narrator experiences watchful attention and narrowly avoids a compromising encounter. Thorndyke adjusts tactics, introducing discreet surveillance and timing tests that exploit the street’s habitual rhythms. He reassesses alibis by taking measurements of distance, light, and sound, accounting for the masking effects of fog and traffic. Items once deemed trivial reenter the analysis, particularly a fabric fragment and a smear whose composition links two locations. Throughout, Thorndyke discourages speculation, insisting on the difference between true absence of evidence and evidence of absence. The net tightens, not through confrontation but by closing logical gaps.
With the principal uncertainties resolved, Thorndyke prepares a demonstration. He assembles models and replicas to show how a heavy object could be removed inconspicuously and how the apparent signs of occupation might be simulated. In consultation with the authorities, he arranges a controlled test on Jacob Street to reproduce key conditions. The demonstration aligns with witness timings and the pattern of minor traces already documented. Although the underlying motive has been sketched, Thorndyke keeps the narrative focused on mechanism and proof. The stage is set for a decisive step, but the explanation remains sealed until verification is complete and opportunity for denial is minimized.
The case concludes through formal channels rather than melodrama. Statements are taken, the tested sequence is laid out, and the relevant documents are placed in legal context. Innocent parties are shielded by the clarity of the reconstruction, which distinguishes negligence from intent and suspicion from evidence. The house on Jacob Street returns to its ordinary quiet, stripped of rumor by an orderly account of facts. Personal matters, including a tentative friendship formed during the inquiry, find a modest resolution. The narrator departs with a renewed respect for the slow discipline of proof, having witnessed how careful method replaces uncertainty with durable explanation.
Overall, The Jacob Street Mystery presents a measured study of urban concealment and scientific detection. Its central message is that small, verifiable facts, patiently assembled, can illuminate actions hidden by routine and chance. The narrative moves from curiosity to inquiry to demonstration, mirroring the path from observation to tested inference. Without sensational revelations, it emphasizes lawful procedure, practical experiment, and precise language. The street itself becomes a laboratory in which time, space, and habit are the variables. Freeman’s method foregrounds evidence over opinion, showing how reasoned analysis can resolve a perplexing absence without recourse to guesswork or theatrical surprise.
Historical Context
Published in 1942, The Jacob Street Mystery is set in London at a moment when the capital’s topography and rhythms were profoundly altered by war. The titular street evokes the older riverside districts—Southwark, Bermondsey, and Rotherhithe—of narrow courts, warehouses, and small workshops bordering the Thames. These neighborhoods, dense with pre‑Victorian housing and dockside trades, stood in sharp contrast to the Inns of Court and medical chambers central to Freeman’s medico‑legal world. Wartime blackouts, sirens, and the presence of civil‑defense personnel formed a continuous backdrop. The city’s bomb‑damaged fabric, disrupted transport, and strained services created both opportunities for crime and new constraints on investigation that the narrative quietly exploits.
The Blitz (7 September 1940 to May 1941) reshaped London socially and physically. German raids killed over 20,000 Londoners, with intense devastation in the East End and along the docks at Bermondsey, Rotherhithe, Wapping, and Stepney. Nightly blackouts, incendiary fires, ruined terraces, and cratered streets produced a landscape of rubble and concealment. Authorities prosecuted looting and theft from bombed premises, yet such offenses proliferated amid chaos. These conditions are mirrored in the novel’s atmosphere: bomb‑scarred lanes, damaged warehouses, and disrupted routines facilitate clandestine movement, frustrate eyewitness testimony, and furnish plot devices—from hidden caches in ruins to the ambiguity of times and routes under blackout.
The Emergency Powers (Defence) Act 1939 and Defence Regulations transformed daily life: identity cards (National Registration Act 1939) were compulsory; blackout orders began in September 1939; rationing spread from petrol (1939) to food staples (1940) and clothing (1941). Air Raid Precautions (ARP) wardens, the Auxiliary Fire Service, and later the Home Guard organized civilian protection, while shelters (Anderson from 1939, Morrison from 1941) structured nocturnal life. These controls complicate and enable detection alike: identity cards and ration books become traceable artifacts, curfews constrain alibis, and civil‑defense rosters timestamp movement. The novel draws on this regulatory environment, using wartime documentation and restricted mobility as credible constraints and evidentiary threads within its investigation.
The story reflects Britain’s interwar and wartime modernization of forensic practice. Scotland Yard’s Fingerprint Bureau, established in 1901 under Sir Edward Henry’s system, normalized individual identification. In the 1930s the Home Office supported regional forensic laboratories, and the Metropolitan Police developed scientific facilities at Hendon, integrating microscopy, trace analysis, and ballistics. Celebrity pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury (active 1910s–1930s) popularized courtroom science and rigorous chain‑of‑custody methods. Freeman, a trained physician, had long embedded such techniques in Dr. Thorndyke’s work. In the Jacob Street case, the reliance on physical minutiae, laboratory logic, and expert testimony echoes this institutional turn toward scientific policing and the Central Criminal Court’s evidentiary standards.
Late‑Victorian and interwar housing reform powerfully shaped the Jacob Street milieu. Charles Booth’s poverty maps (1889–1903) charted deep deprivation in riverside parishes, prompting London County Council interventions. The Housing of the Working Classes Act 1890 and the Housing Act 1930 (the Greenwood Act) authorized slum clearance, and estates such as Tabard Gardens (Southwark, built 1928–1930) began replacing insanitary courts. Yet many tenements persisted into the 1940s, especially around the docks. Overcrowding, lodging‑house anonymity, and labyrinthine courts left room for illicit economies and obscure identities. The novel’s setting, in a partially reformed but still precarious district, leverages these transitional geographies where old courts abut new estates and where local memory and official records diverge.
The river economy and docklands culture underpin the social texture of Jacob Street. The Port of London Authority (founded 1909) attempted to rationalize wharves and customs, yet casual labor, irregular shifts, and seasonal trade endured into the 1930s. Interwar downturns intensified underemployment; by 1932 national unemployment exceeded 3 million, with dock work remaining insecure. Petty pilferage, fencing of stolen goods, and smuggling along the Thames coexisted with legitimate small crafts. Wartime strain compounded these patterns: disrupted manifests, emergency storage, and convoy schedules created gaps for theft and concealment. The novel’s themes of provenance, movement, and substitution resonate with this riverine economy, where goods—and identities—circulate through semi‑regulated channels.
Edwardian and interwar debates on heredity, public health, and crime informed Freeman’s outlook. The Eugenics Education Society (founded 1907; renamed the Eugenics Society in 1926) mainstreamed discussions of degeneration and social hygiene; the Mental Deficiency Act 1913 created the Board of Control to supervise institutions and certification. Freeman’s non‑fiction Social Decay and Regeneration (1921) articulated conservative, eugenicist views on social order. Although the novel remains a puzzle narrative, its medico‑legal framing assumes that physical traces and bodily signs reliably index identity and conduct. This confidence in biological and material evidence, characteristic of early twentieth‑century medical jurisprudence, undergirds the book’s representation of suspects, witnesses, and the interpretive authority of expert analysis.
As social critique, the book exposes the vulnerability of working‑class districts where old housing, wartime damage, and economic precarity converge. It depicts how blackout regulations, rationing, and emergency bureaucracy generate both protection and opportunism, empowering profiteers and obscuring accountability. By counterposing riverside courts and professional chambers, it highlights class stratification—the proximity yet separation of those who endure dispossession and those who interpret the law. The insistence on material proof challenges rumor and prejudice prevalent in crisis, but it also raises questions about surveillance and state power in extraordinary times. The narrative thereby critiques neglect, profiteering, and uneven justice while affirming the need for accountable, evidence‑based policing.
The Jacob Street Mystery
PART I. — A PLOT IN THE MAKING
I. — THE EAVESDROPPER
ON a pleasant, sunny afternoon near the end of May, when the late spring was just merging into early summer, Mr. Thomas Pedley (Tom Pedley to his friends, or more usually plain Tom) was seated on a substantial sketching stool before a light bamboo easel on which was fixed an upright canvas measuring eighteen inches by twelve. To an expert eye, his appearance, his simple, workmanlike outfit, the leisurely ease with which he handled his brush, and the picture which was growing into shape on the canvas, would all have suggested a competent and experienced landscape painter.
And such, in fact, was Tom Pedley. From his early boyhood, some forty-odd years ago, drawing and painting had been his one absorbing passion, coupled with that love of the countryside that marks the born landscape artist. To him that countryside, largely unspoiled in his early days, was an inexhaustible source of delight and a subject of endless study and meditation. In his daily rambles through meadow or woodland, by farmyards or quiet hamlets, every journey was a voyage of exploration yielding fresh discoveries; new truths of characteristic form and subtle, unexpected colour to be added to his growing store of knowledge of those less obvious aspects of nature which it is the landscape painter's mission to reveal. And as the years passed and the countryside faded away under the withering touch of mechanical transport, that knowledge grew more and more precious. Now, the dwindling remnants had to be sought and found with considered judgment and their scanty material eked out with detail brought forth from the stores of the remembered past.
The picture which was shaping itself on the canvas was an example of this application of knowledge gained by experience. On the wall of a gallery it would have suggested to the spectator an open glade in some vast woodland. In fact, the place was no more than a scrubby little copse, the last surviving oasis in the squalid desert of a "developing" neighbourhood. From his "pitch," ensconced in a clump of bushes, Tom could hear, faint and far away, the strident hoots of motor cars, the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of lorries; and but a hundred yards distant was the path by which he had come, a rutted track that led from a half-built street at one end to a dismantled farmyard at the other.
Nevertheless, apart from the traffic noises, the place was strangely peaceful and quiet, its silence accentuated by the natural sounds that pervaded it. Somewhere in the foliage hard by, a thrush sang joyously, and on a branch just overhead a chaffinch repeated again and again his pleasant little monotonous song. And the solitude was as perfect as the quiet. The rough path seemed to be untrodden by the foot of man, for, during the two hours that Tom had been at work, not a soul had passed along it.
At length, as he paused to fill his pipe and take a thoughtful survey of his picture, the sound of voices was followed by the appearance of two men walking slowly along the path, conversing earnestly though in low tones. Tom could not hear what they were saying, though the impression conveyed to him was that their manner was rather the reverse of amicable. But in fact he gave them little attention beyond noting the effect of the dark, sharply defined shapes against the in definite background; and even this interested him but little as his subject required no figures, and certainly not one in a bowler hat. So he continued filling his pipe and appraising his afternoon's work as they walked by without noticing him—actually, he was almost invisible from the path—and as they passed out of sight he produced his matchbox and was about to strike a light when a third figure, that of a woman, made its appearance, moving in the same direction as the others.
This time Tom's attention was definitely aroused, and he sat motionless with the unlighted match in his hand, peering out through the chinks in the bushes which concealed him. The woman's behaviour was very peculiar. She was advancing rather more quickly than the two men, but with a silent, stealthy tread; and from her movements she seemed to be listening and trying to keep the men in sight while keeping out of sight, herself.
Tom watched her disapprovingly. He disliked "snoopers" of all sorts, but especially those who were eavesdroppers as well. However, this was none of his business, and, when she had passed out of his field of vision, he lit his pipe, took up his brush, and straightway forgot all about her.
But he had not finished with her after all. He had been painting but a few minutes when she reappeared; and now her behaviour was still more odd. She was returning at a quicker pace but with the same stealthy movements, listening and looking back over her shoulder with something like an air of alarm. Suddenly, when she was nearly opposite Tom's pitch, she slipped into an opening in the bushes and disappeared from his sight.
This was really rather queer. Once more he transferred his brush to the palette hand, and, as he listened intently, felt in his pocket for the matchbox; for, of course, his pipe had gone out, as a painter's pipe continually does. Very soon his ear caught the sound of footsteps; light, quick footsteps approaching from the direction of the farmyard. Then a man came into view, walking quickly but with a soft and almost stealthy tread and looking about him watchfully as he went.
Tom, sitting stock-still in his leafy ambush, followed the retreating figure with an inquisitive eye, recognizing him as the shorter of the two men who had passed down the path and wondering what had become of the other. Then the man disappeared in the direction of the street; and still Tom sat like a graven image, waiting to see if there were any further developments.
He had not long to wait. Hardly had the sound of the man's footsteps died away when the woman stole forth from her hiding-place and stood for a few seconds listening intently and peering up the path in the direction in which the man had gone. Then she began slowly and warily to follow; and presently she, too, passed out of sight among the trees.
Tom thoughtfully lit his pipe and reflected. It was a queer affair. What was it all about? The woman was obviously spying on the men; apparently listening to their talk, and mighty anxious to keep out of sight. That was all there was to it so far as he was concerned; and as he was not really concerned in it at all, he decided that it was a "dam' rum go[1]" and dismissed it from his mind.
But the dismissal was not quite effective. The incident had broken the continuity of his ideas and he found it difficult to start afresh. For a few minutes he struggled to pick up the threads, adding a touch here and there; then, once more, he leaned back and surveyed his work, finally getting up from his stool and stepping back a pace or two to see it better as a whole. Now, one of the most important things that experience teaches a painter is when to leave off; and Tom, having considered his picture critically, decided that the time had come. He had painted steadily for a full two hours, and he was a rapid worker in spite of his leisurely manner; rapid because he knew what he wanted to do, made few mistakes, and painted very directly with a rigid economy of work.
Having decided that his picture was finished, excepting perhaps for a little work in the studio to "pull it together," he proceeded forthwith to pack up, closing the folding palette and stowing it in the light wooden colour box, strapping the painting in the canvas carrier, and rolling the used brushes in the painting rag. When he had put these things tidily in his satchel, he folded up the easel and stool, fixed them in the carrying-strap, slung the satchel on his shoulder, and, having taken a last look at his subject, pushed his way through the undergrowth towards the path.
Arriving at the rutted track, he stood for a few seconds looking up and down it as he refilled his pipe. He was not an inquisitive man, but he felt a mild curiosity as to what had become of the man who had passed and had not returned. His previous explorations had given him the impression that the path, or cart track, came to a dead end where the wood petered out and the new devastations began. Apparently, he had been wrong; there must be some continuation of the track, perhaps holding out possibilities for the landscape painter.
Having lit his pipe, he strolled along the path for some three hundred yards until he emerged from the shade of the wood into open daylight. And then both his questions were disposed of. The track, or at least the cart-ruts, was visible, passing through the remains of a gateway and meandering through the devastated farmyard towards an area in which stacks of bricks and dumps of various building material foreshadowed a new eruption of houses similar to those that were to be seen beyond. Hard by, on his right hand, was an old, rat-eaten hayrick, and, a few yards farther away, a ruinous cart-shed of which the thatched roof had rotted away, exposing the decayed rafters. At these melancholy relics of the vanished farm Tom glanced regretfully; then he turned back and retraced his steps along the path.
He had trudged some two hundred yards when there was borne to his ear the sound of horse's hoofs and the rumble of wheels, evidently approaching from the direction of the Street; and as he came nearly opposite his "pitch," a two-wheeled cart appeared round a curve. He stopped to watch it and to note the interesting effect of the rustic-looking vehicle on the winding track, standing out sharply in dark silhouette against its background of sun-lighted foliage. As it drew near, he backed into the wood to make way for it and exchanged greetings with the man who was leading the horse; and when it had passed, he turned to look at it and make a mental note of its changed appearance in the altered conditions of light, until it disappeared round a bend of the track; whereupon he resumed his advance to wards the town, stepping out briskly and becoming aware of an increasing interest in the meal which was awaiting him at the end of his journey. At the top of the path where it opened on the half-built street, he paused for a few moments to look disparagingly on the unlovely scene, which but a year ago had still been country; then, having exchanged a few words with an elderly bricklayer who appeared to be standing guard over a stack of bricks, he strode away towards the main road to take up his position at the bus stop.
Here he had a considerable time to wait, and he spent it pacing up and down, looking expectantly at each turn in the direction whence the omnibus would come. From a young policeman who presently strolled past, he obtained a rather vague statement as to the time when it was due, with the discouraging addition that the last one had passed about five minutes ago. So Thomas resumed his sentry-go and meanwhile turned over in his mind once again that very queer episode in the wood; and he was still cogitating on it when the omnibus appeared and put a welcome end to his vigil.
It was not a long journey, in terms of modern transport, and the rather squalid domain of the speculative builder soon gave place to the established town. Tom's natural stopping-place would have been the Hampstead Road, but he elected to alight at Marylebone Church and approach his destination by way of Osnaburgh Street and Cumberland Market; whereby he presently emerged into a quiet, shabby street of tall, shabby, but commodious old houses, and so to a green-painted wooden gate bearing the number 38A and flanked by a small brass plate on the jamb inscribed "T. Pedley" and surmounted by a big brass bell-pull.
As Thomas inserted his latch-key and opened the gate, he disclosed a feature common to many of the adjacent houses; a narrow passage opening into a paved yard. For Jacob Street was largely a street of studios. Once it had been a fashionable street, the abode of famous painters and sculptors. Now, the famous artists had gone, but the studios remained; some tenanted by artists of humbler status, but most of them converted into workshops. In either case, Jacob Street was a highly eligible place for persons of small means who wanted roomy premises; for, as studios are in little demand nowadays and are useless for residential purposes, the rents were surprisingly low, though the accommodation was, of its special kind, admirable.
The studio into which Tom admitted himself after crossing the yard was better adapted for residence than some of the others, being more moderate in height, and he had further adapted it by erecting a light wooden partition in one corner, enclosing a large cubicle which served him as a bedroom. With this and a tall folding screen to enclose the fireplace in winter, or to conceal the sink and the gas cooking-stove when he had visitors, Tom had converted the great bare studio into a convenient and fairly comfortable flat.
Having cleaned his palette, washed his brushes, and washed himself in a big bowl in the sink, he opened a hay-box (disguised by an upholstered top to look like, and serve as, an ottoman) and took out a couple of casseroles which he set on the neatly laid dinner table, opened a bottle of beer and decanted the contents into a fine white stoneware jug, drew up a chair, sat down with a sigh of contentment, and lifted off the lids of the casseroles; one of which proved to contain potatoes (cooked in their jackets) and the other a nondescript kind of stew based on a dismembered fowl.
The table and its appointments offered a summary of Tom Pedley's character and personality. His simple philosophy of life was fairly expressed in his own statement that "a man's wealth can be estimated in terms of what he can do without." Now, the things that Tom could do without were the luxuries and extras that consume money. For entertainments other than museums and public galleries he had no use. He had hardly ever ridden in a taxi, he never smoked cigars, and his single bottle of whisky had lain unopened for a couple of years. He lived plainly, spent little, wasted nothing, and took care of what he had.
By thus thriftily ordering his life, he was able to indulge himself in the things that mattered to him. The beer-jug was a museum piece, as was also the fine ale-glass with its charming engraved design of hops and barley. The little French cheese reposed in a covered dish of Moorcroft ware, the pile of apples in a handsome bowl of beaten bronze, and a finely carved wooden trencher supported the brown loaf. Every object on the table, even including the casseroles, was pleasant and comely to look at, though not necessarily costly, and had been the subject of carefully considered choice. For Tom was an artist to his finger-tips. To him art was no Sunday religion[1q]. He loved to have beautiful things around him, not merely to look at but to live with; and he could afford to indulge his fancy, since he did his own domestic work and knew that his treasures were safe from the devastating duster of servant maid or charwoman.
So Tom sat in the fine "Chippendale Windsor" chai[2]r at the picturesque gate-leg table and consumed his dinner with placid enjoyment, keeping himself entertained, as is the way of solitary men, with a train of reflections. Principally, his thoughts tended to concern themselves with the curious episode in the wood, which seemed to haunt him to a quite unreasonable extent. For it had been but a trivial affair, and he was not deeply interested in it. Nevertheless, his memory persisted in recalling the incident and filling in details of which he had been unaware at the time, until he was able to visualize a curiously complete picture of the scene and the action. Then his lively imagination took charge and wove a little story around those three figures; and this interested him so much that it presently occurred to him that here was the making of quite a good subject picture of a simple kind, and he decided to try an experimental sketch and see what he could make of it.
When he had finished his dinner, he proceeded to wash up, still turning the project over in his mind. The washing up was not a protracted business, for he had learned to economize in the use of plates and dishes. There was, in fact, only one plate and a knife and fork, and, when these had been dealt with and tidily stowed away, together with the casseroles, in a great French armoire, he was ready to begin. Taking his fresh painting from the canvas-carrier, he set it on an easel, and, selecting a smaller spare canvas, put that on another easel alongside, set his palette and fell to work, first roughing in some of the background from his painting and then proceeding to the disposition of the figures.
The subject of the projected picture was to be "The Eavesdropper," and this seemed to require that the woman should be the principal figure, placed as near as possible in the foreground and painted in some detail on a sufficient scale. Accordingly, he began with her, first blocking in a flat grey silhouette to get the form and the pose and then proceeding to colour and detail. And as he worked he was surprised to find how much he remembered and how little he had to invent. The gleam of sunlight which had fallen on the woman as she retired, lighting up her hair like burnished gold and picking out bright spots on her clothing, came back to him vividly, and when he had put in a few lively touches of positive colour to render the effect, there seemed little more to do. Roughly as the figure was indicated, it recalled the appearance of the woman exactly as he had seen her.
The same was true of the male figures, though as they were more distant they could be painted more simply. In their definitely urban dress they were not very pictorial, but, as this was only a preliminary sketch, Tom decided to keep to the actual facts. And here again he was surprised to note how much he had seen in those casual glances without conscious observation. In fact, when he had put in the two figures from memory not only had he rendered admirably the argumentative pose and action but he had put in more distinctive detail than the distance of the figures required.
For over an hour he worked away with great enjoyment until the little sketch was completed so far as it need be. Then he "knocked off," cleaned his palette, washed his brushes, and, after a glance at the old "hood" clock on the wall, proceeded to smarten himself up with a view to an informal call on his bachelor friend, Dr. Oldfield, who lived hard by in Osnaburgh Street; with whom it was his custom to spend an occasional evening in pleasant, companionable gossip and perhaps a game of chess. But they were not often reduced to that resource, for the doctor was something of an artist, and they had plenty of material for interesting and sympathetic conversation.
When he had refilled his tobacco pouch from a tin and brushed his hat, Tom stood awhile before the easel considering critically the newly finished sketch. It had been interesting enough in the doing but, now that it was done, he found it a little disappointing. As a subject picture, it was somewhat indefinite and lacking in matter; in short, it was hardly a subject picture at all, but rather a landscape with figures. However, it could be reconsidered and perhaps elaborated if that should seem worth while; and, having reached this conclusion, Tom took his gloves and stick and set forth en route for Osnaburgh Street.
II. — MR. BLANDY
ONE afternoon about a week after his expedition to the wood, Tom Pedley was engaged in his studio in tidying up the painting that he had done on that occasion. At the moment he was working with a sharp scraper, cutting off objectionable lumps of paint and generally levelling down the surface preparatory to some further touches to "pull the painting together." He had just stepped back to take a look at the picture as a whole when the jangling of the studio bell in the yard outside announced a visitor; whereupon he went out, and, traversing the yard and the passage, threw open the large outer gate, disclosing a small person carrying a leather bag.
"Why, it's Mr. Polton," he exclaimed in a tone of relief.
"Yes, sir," said the small gentleman, greeting him with a pleasant and curiously crinkly smile. "I thought I might take the liberty of calling—"
"Now, don't talk nonsense," Tom interrupted. "You know quite well that I am always delighted to see you. Come along in."
"It is very good of you, sir, to say that," said Polton, as Tom shut the gate and led the way down the passage, "but I hope I am not disturbing you. I see," he added with a glance at the scraper, "that you are at work."
"Only doing a scrape down," said Tom, "and you wouldn't disturb me if I wanted to go on. But it's close on tea-time. I should have been knocking off in any case."
As he spoke, he glanced up at the old clock, and Polton, following his glance, drew out a large watch and remarked that the clock was about ten seconds fast; "Which," he added, "is not bad going for a timepiece that is nearly three hundred years old."
As Tom proceeded to fill the kettle and put a match to the gas-ring, Polton placed his bag on the table, and, opening it, brought forth a green baize bundle tied up with tape. Unfastening this, he produced a brilliantly burnished tankard which, after a gentle rub with his handkerchief, he held out for Tom's inspection.
"This, sir," said he, "is what brought me here. You said some time ago that you were on the look-out for a pewter tankard, and you made a drawing, if you remember, sir, to show me the shape that you wanted. Now I happened to see this one on a junk-stall[3] in Shoreditch, so I ventured to get it for you."
"But how good of you to think of me!" exclaimed Tom. "And what a perfectly magnificent specimen! And a junk-stall, too, of all unlikely places. By the way, what am I in your debt for it?"
"I got it for a shilling," Polton replied.
Tom looked at him in amazement. "A shilling!" he repeated incredulously. "You don't really mean a shilling. Why, it's quite a valuable piece."
"Well, you see, sir," Polton explained in an apologetic tone, "it had had some bad usage. It was very dirty and it had been all battered out of shape, so it really was not worth more than a shilling. I didn't take advantage of the man. But pewter is a kindly material if you know how to deal with it. I just took out the bruises, put it back into shape, and cleaned up the surface. That was all. I am glad you like it, sir."
"I am perfectly delighted with it," said Tom. He paused, and for one instant—but only one—he thought of offering a consideration for the time and labour that had wrought the transformation. Then he continued, "Here is the shilling, Polton. But it isn't payment. I take the tankard as a gift. You have turned a bit of worthless junk into a museum piece which will be an abiding joy to me, and I am more grateful than I can tell you."
Polton crinkled shyly, and, by way of closing the subject, wandered round to the easel to inspect the painting. For some seconds he stood, regarding the picture with a sort of pleased surprise. At length he remarked:
"A wonderful art, sir, is that of the painter.[2q] To me it looks almost like a kind of magic. Here is a beautiful woodland glade that you have made to appear so real that I seem to feel as if I could walk into it. You must have gone a long way from the bricks and mortar to find a scene like that."
Tom laughed. "A very natural delusion, Polton, but, as a matter of fact, I was almost in sight of the bricks and mortar when I was painting. That bit of woodland is just the last remnant of the country in the midst of a new housing estate. It is within a bus ride of this place, and not a long ride at that."
"Indeed, sir," exclaimed Polton. "Now whereabouts would that be?"
"It is out Hendon way. A place called Linton Green; and the wood is still known by its old name, Gravel-pit Wood."
As Tom spoke the name, Polton started and gazed at the picture with a most singular expression.
"Gravel-pit Wood, Linton Green," he repeated in a strange hushed voice; "the very wood in which that poor gentleman was murdered!"
"Oh!" said Tom in a tone of mild interest. "I never heard of that. How long ago was it?"
"The murder was committed last Tuesday."
"Last Tuesday!" Tom repeated incredulously. "Why, that is the day on which I painted the picture. Do you know what time it happened?"
"It would have been somewhere about four o'clock in the afternoon."
"Then," Tom exclaimed, "I must have actually been in the wood at the very time when the murder was being committed!"
"Yes, sir," Polton agreed. "I rather thought you must when you mentioned the wood, because the police have issued a description of a man who was seen there about that time; and it seems to be a description of you."
The two men looked at each other in silence for some moments; then Tom commented with a grim smile:
"Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish. Do you happen to remember any of the details? I hardly ever see a newspaper, so this is the first that I have heard of the affair."
"I remember all about it," replied Polton, "but I needn't trust to my memory, as I have cut out all the reports of the case and I have got the cuttings in my pocket. You see, sir," he added deprecatingly, "I am rather interested in murders. Perhaps it is because I have the honour of serving a very eminent criminal lawyer. At any rate, I always cut out the reports and paste them into a book for reference."
With this explanation, he produced from his pocket a large wallet from which he extracted a sheaf of newspaper cuttings. Sorting them out rapidly, he selected one, which he handed to Tom.
"That, sir," said he, "is one the which will serve your purpose best. It is from a weekly paper and it gives a summary of the case with all that is known at present. Perhaps you would like to glance through it while I get the tea ready. I know where you keep all the things."
Tom thanked him and sat down to study the cutting while Polton, having examined the kettle, opened the big armoire and began noiselessly to set out the tea-things on the table. The report was headed "Mysterious Crime in a Wood," and ran as follows:
