The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
had come, rolled up the coat and bestowed it in the drawer, which he closed and locked. The consumption of it in the rubbish destructor could be postponed for a time; and perhaps it might not come to that at all. For the finding of the notes had, to a great extent, restored Pottermack’s confidence; and already there had appeared in his mind the germ of an idea—vague and formless at present—that the notes, and perhaps even the coat, might yet have further useful offices to perform.
As he had now completed his tasks and cleared away—as he hoped—the last traces of the previous night’s doings, he thought it time that he should show himself to Mrs. Gadby in his normal, everyday aspect. Accordingly he took the rucksack, a setting-board, and a few other necessary appliances and made his way to the house, where he established himself in the dining-room at a table by the window and occupied the time in setting the moths which he had captured on the previous night. They were but a poor collection, with an unconscionable proportion of duplicates, but Pottermack pinned them all out impartially—even the damaged ones—on the setting-board. It was their number, not their quality, that would produce the necessary moral effect on Mrs. Gadby when she came in to lay the table for his mid-day dinner. So he worked away placidly with an outward air of complete absorption in his task; but all the while there kept recurring in his mind, like some infernal refrain, the disturbing question: Was there even now something that he had forgotten: something that his eye had missed but that other eyes might detect?
In the afternoon he strolled round to Mr. Gallett’s yard to see if all was going well in regard to the preparations for setting up the sun-dial. He was anxious that there should be no delay, for though the presence of the dial would afford him no added security, he had an unreasonable feeling that the fixing of it would close the horrible incident. And he did very much want that sinister black hole hidden from sight for ever. Great therefore, was his relief when he discovered Mr. Gallett and two of his men in the very act of loading a low cart with what was obviously the material for the job.
The jovial mason greeted him with a smile and a nod. “All ready, you see, Mr. Pottermack,” said he, indicating the dial-pillar, now swathed in a canvas wrapping, and slapping one of the stone slabs that stood on edge by its side. “Could almost have done it today, but it’s getting a bit late and we’ve got one or two other jobs to finish up here. But we’ll have him round by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if that will do.”
It would do admirably, Mr. Pottermack assured him, adding: “You will have to bring it in at the side gate. Do you know whereabouts that is?”
“I can’t say as I do exactly,” replied Gallett. “But I’ll bring him to the front gate and then you can show me where he is to go.”
To this Pottermack agreed, and they then strolled together to the gate, where Mr. Gallett halted, and, having looked up and down the street with a precautionary air, said in what he meant to be a low tone:
“Rummy report going round the town. Have you heard anything of it?”
“No,” replied Pottermack, all agog in a moment.
“What is it?”
“Why, they say that the manager of Perkins’s Bank has hopped it. That’s what they say, and I fancy there must be something in it, because I went there this morning to pay in a cheque and I found the place closed. Give me a rare turn, because I’ve got an account there. So I rang the bell and the caretaker he come and tells me that Mr. Lewson wasn’t able to attend today but that there would be some one there later to carry on till he came back. And so there was, for I went round a couple of hours later and found the place open and business going on as usual. There was a youngish fellow at the counter, but there was an elderly gent—rather a foxy-looking customer—who seemed to be smelling round, taking down the books and looking into the drawers and cupboards. Looks a bit queer, don’t you think?”
“It really does,” Pottermack admitted. “The fact of the bank not being open at the usual time suggests that Mr. Lewisham—”
“Lewson is his name,” Mr. Gallett corrected.
“Mr. Lewson. It suggests that he had absented himself without giving notice, which is really rather a remarkable thing for a manager to do.”
“It is,” said Gallett; “particularly as he lived on the premises.”
“Did he, indeed?” exclaimed Pottermack. “That makes it still more remarkable. Quite mysterious, in fact.”
“Very mysterious,” said Gallett. “Looks as if he had mizzled; and if he has, why, he probably didn’t go away with his pockets empty.”
Pottermack shook his head gravely. “Still,” he urged, “it is early to raise suspicions. He may possibly have been detained somewhere. He was at the bank yesterday?”
“Oh, yes; and seen in the town yesterday evening. Old Keeling, the postman, saw him about half-past seven and wished him good-night. Says he saw him turn into the footpath that leads through Potter’s Wood.”
“Ha,” said Pottermack. “Well, he may have lost his way in the wood, or been taken ill. Who knows? It is best not to jump at conclusions too hastily.”
With this and a friendly nod he turned out of the yard and took his way homeward, cogitating profoundly. Events were moving even more quickly than he had anticipated, but they were moving in the right direction. Nevertheless, he recognized with something like a shudder how near he had been to disaster. But for the chance moonbeam that had lighted up the footprints in his garden, he would have overlooked those other tell-tale tracks outside. And again he asked himself uneasily if there could be something else that he had overlooked. He was tempted to take a walk into the country in the direction of the wood to see if there were yet any signs of a search; for, by Gallett’s report, it appeared that the direction in which Lewson had gone, and even his route, was already known. But prudence bade him keep aloof and show no more than a stranger’s interest in the affair. Accordingly he went straight home; and since in his restless state he could not settle down to read, he betook himself to his workshop and spent the rest of the day in sharpening chisels and plane-irons and doing other useful, time-consuming jobs.
True to his word, Mr. Gallett appeared on the following morning almost on the stroke of nine. Pottermack himself opened the door to him and at once conducted him through the house out into the orchard and thence to the walled garden. It was not without a certain vague apprehensiveness that he unlocked the gate and admitted his visitor, for since that fatal night no eye but his had looked on that enclosure. It is true that on this very morning he had made a careful tour of inspection and had satisfied himself that nothing was visible that all the world might not see. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a distinct sense of discomfort as he let the mason in, and still more when he led him to the well.
“So this is where you wants him planted?” said Mr. Gallett, stepping up to the brink of the well and looking down it reflectively. “It do seem a pity for to bung up a good well. And you say there’s a tidy depth of water in him.”
“Yes,” said Pottermack; “a fair depth. But it’s a long way down to it.”
“So ’tis, seemingly,” Gallett agreed. “The bucket would take a bit of histing up.” As he spoke, he felt in his pocket and drew out a folded newspaper, and from another pocket he produced a box of matches. In leisurely fashion he tore off a sheet of the paper, struck a match, and, lighting a corner of the paper, let it fall, craning over to watch its descent. Pottermack also craned over, with his heart in his mouth, staring breathlessly at the flaming mass as it sank slowly, lighting up the slimy walls of the well, growing smaller and fainter as it descended, while a smaller, fainter spark rose from the depths to meet it. At length they met and were in an instant extinguished; and Pottermack breathed again. What a mercy he had not thrown the coat down!
“We’ll have to bank up the earth a bit,” said Mr. Gallett, “for the slabs to bed on. Don’t want ’em to rest on the brickwork of the well or they may settle out of the level after a time. And if you’ve got a spade handy, we may as well do it now, ’cause we can’t get to the side gate for a few minutes. There’s a gent out there a-takin’ photographs