More than a week had passed since that eventful
evening—how eventful I did not then realize—when
I had delivered my simple treasures into
Thorndyke’s hands. But I was not uneasy; for, within
twenty-four hours, I had found in my letter-box the
promised note, assuring me that the preliminary
operations had been safely carried through and that nothing
had been damaged. Nor was I impatient. I realized
that Polton had other work than mine on hand and
that there was a good deal to do. Moreover, a little
rush of business had kept me employed and helped
me to follow Thorndyke’s counsel and forget, as well
as I could, the shadow of mystery and peril that hung
over my friends, and, by implication, over me.
But on the evening of which I am now speaking I
was free. I had cleared off the last of the day’s work,
and, after dining reposefully at my club, found myself
with an hour or two to spare before bed-time; and it
occurred to me to look in on Thorndyke to smoke a
friendly pipe and perchance get a glimpse of the works
in progress.
I entered the Temple from the west, and, threading
my way through the familiar labyrinth, crossed
Tanfield Court, and passing down the narrow alley at its
eastern side, came out into King’s Bench Walk. I
crossed the Walk at once and was sauntering down the
pavement towards Thorndyke’s house when I noticed
a large, closed car drawn up at its entry, and, standing
on the pavement by the car, a tall man whom I
recognized by the lamp light as Mr. Superintendent Miller.
Now I did not much want to meet the superintendent,
and in any case it was pretty clear to me that my visit
to Thorndyke was not very opportune. The presence
of Miller suggested business, and the size of the car
suggested other visitors. Accordingly I slowed down
and was about to turn back when my eye caught
another phenomenon. In the entry next to Thorndyke’s
a man was standing, well back in the shadow, but not
so far that he could not get a view of the car; on
which he was quite obviously keeping a watchful eye.
Indeed, he was so pre-occupied with his observation of
it that he had not noticed my approach, his back being
turned towards me.
Naturally, the watchful attitude and the object of
his watchfulness aroused my suspicions as to his
identity. But a movement backward on his part which
brought him within range of the entry lamp, settled the
matter. He was Anthony Wallingford.
I turned and walked quietly back a few paces. What
was this idiot doing here within a few yards of
Thorndyke’s threshold? Was he merely spying fatuously and
without purpose? Or was it possible that he might be
up to some kind of mischief? As I framed the
question my steps brought me opposite another entry. The
Walk was in darkness save for the few lamps and
the place was practically deserted. After a moment’s
reflection, I stepped into the entry and decided thence
to keep a watch upon the watcher.
I had not long to wait. Hardly had I taken up my
rather undignified position when three men emerged
from the house and walked slowly to the car. By the
light of the lamp above Thorndyke’s entry, I could see
them quite plainly and I recognized them all. One
was Thorndyke, himself, another was Dr. Jervis,
Thorndyke’s colleague, now in the employ of the Home
Office, and the third was Dr. Barnwell, well-known to
me as the analyst and toxicologist to the Home Office.
All three carried substantial bags and Dr. Barnwell was
encumbered with a large case, like an out-size suit-case,
suggestive of chemical apparatus. While they were
depositing themselves and their impedimenta in the car,
Superintendent Miller gave directions to the driver.
He spoke in clear, audible tones, but though (I have to
confess) I listened intently, I caught only the question:
“Do you know the way?” The words which preceded
and followed it were just audible but not intelligible to
me. It appeared, however, that they were intelligible
to Wallingford, for, as soon as they were spoken and
while the superintendent still held the open door of the
car, he stepped forth from his lurking-place and walked
boldly and rapidly across to the narrow passage by
which I had come.
Realizing instantly what his intention was, I came
out of the entry and started in pursuit. As I reached
the entrance to the passage, my ear caught the already
faint sound of his receding footsteps; by which I
learned that he was running swiftly and as silently as
he could. Since I did not intend to lose him, I had
no choice but to follow his example, and I raced across
Tanfield Court, past the Cloisters and round by the
church as if the Devil were after me instead of before.
Half-way up Inner Temple Lane he slowed down to a
walk—very wisely, for otherwise the night porter would
certainly have stopped him—and was duly let out into
Fleet Street, whither I followed him at a short interval.
When I stepped out of the gate I saw him some little
distance away to the west, giving directions to the
driver of a taxi. I looked round desperately, and, to
my intense relief, perceived an apparently empty taxi
approaching from the east. I walked quickly towards
it, signalling as I went, and the driver at once drew
in to the kerb and stopped. I approached him, and,
leaning forward, said in a low voice—though there was
no one within earshot:
“There is a taxi just in front. It will probably follow
a big car which is coming up Middle Temple Lane. I
want you to keep that taxi in sight, wherever it may go.
Do you understand?”
The man broke into a cynical grin—the nearest
approach to geniality of which a taxi-driver is
capable—and replied that he understood; and as, at this
moment, the nose of the car appeared coming through the
arched entrance gate of Middle Temple Lane, I sprang
into the taxi and shut the door. From the off-side
window, but keeping well back out of sight, I saw the car
creep across Fleet Street, turn eastward and then sweep
round into Chancery Lane. Almost immediately,
Wallingford’s taxi moved off and followed; and then, after
a short interval, my own vehicle started, and, crossing
directly to Chancery Lane, went ahead in the wake
of the others.
It was an absurd affair. Now that the pursuit was
started and its conduct delegated for the time to the
driver, I leaned back in the shadow and was disposed
to grin a little sheepishly at my own proceedings. I had
embarked on them in obedience to a sudden impulse
without reflection—for which, indeed, there had been
no time. But was there anything to justify me in
keeping this watch on Wallingford? I debated the
question at some length and finally decided that,
although he was probably only playing the fool, still it
was proper that I should see what he was really up to.
Thorndyke was my friend and it was only right that I
should stand between him and any possible danger.
Well as he was able to take care of himself, he could
not be always on his guard. And I could not forget
the infernal machine. Some one at least had the will
to do him an injury.
But what about the brown-hatted man? Why had
he not joined in this novel sport? Or had he? I put
my head out of the window and looked along the street
in our rear, but there was no sign of any pursuing taxi.
The ridiculous procession was limited to three vehicles;
which was just as well, since we did not want a police
cyclist bringing up the rear.
From my own proceedings my thoughts turned to
those of Thorndyke and his companions, though they
were no affair of mine, or of Wallingford’s either, for
that matter. Apparently the three men were going
somewhere to make a post mortem examination. The
presence of Dr. Barnwell suggested an analysis in
addition; and the presence of Miller hinted at a criminal
case of some kind. But it was not my case or
Wallingford’s. For both of us the analyst had already
done his worst.
While I reflected, I kept an eye on the passing
landmarks, checking our route and idly trying to forecast
our destination. From Chancery Lane we crossed
Holborn and entered Gray’s Inn Road, at the bottom of
which we swept round by King’s Cross into Pancras
Road. At the end of this we turned up Great College
Street, crossed Camden Road and presently passed
along the Kentish Town Road. So far I had noted our
progress with no more than a languid interest. It did
not matter to me whither we were going. But when,
at the Bull and Gate, we swept round into Highgate
Road, my attention awoke; and when the taxi turned
sharply at the Duke of St. Albans and entered Swain’s
Lane, I sat up with a start. In a moment of sudden
enlightenment, I realized what our destination must
be; and the realization came upon me with the effect of
a palpable blow. This lane, with its precipitous ascent
at the upper end, was no ordinary thoroughfare. It was
little more than an approach to the great cemetery
whose crowded areas extended on either side of it; its
traffic was almost completely limited to the mournful
processions that crept up to the wide gates by the
mortuary chapel. Indeed, on the very last occasion
when I had ridden up this lane, my conveyance had
been the mourning carriage which followed poor little
Stella to her last home.
Before I had recovered from the shock of this
discovery sufficiently to consider what it might mean,
the taxi came to a sudden halt. I stepped out, and,
looking up the lane, made out the shadowy form of
Wallingford’s vehicle, already backing and manœuvring
to turn round.
“Bloke in front has got out,” my driver announced
in a hoarse whisper, and as he spoke, I caught sight
of Wallingford—or at least of a human figure—lurking
in the shadow of the trees by the railings on the
right-hand side of the road. I paid off my driver (who,
thereupon, backed on to the footway, turned and
retired down the hill) and having waited for the other
taxi to pass down, began slowly to ascend the lane,
keeping in the shadow of the trees. Now that the two
taxis were gone, Wallingford and I had the lane to
ourselves, excepting where, in the distance ahead, the
reflected light from the head-lamps of the car made a
dim halo and the shape of the gothic chapel loomed
indistinctly against the murky sky. I could see him
quite plainly, and no doubt he was aware of my
presence; at any rate, I did not propose to attempt any
concealment, so far as he was concerned. His
movements had ceased to be of any interest to me. My
entire concern was with the party ahead and with the
question at to what Thorndyke was doing at this time
of night in Highgate Cemetery.
The burial ground is divided, as I have said, into two
parts, which lie on either side of the lane; the old
cemetery with its great gates and the large mortuary chapel,
on the left or west side and the newer part on the right.
To which of these two parts was Thorndyke bound?
That was the question that I had to settle.
I continued to advance up the lane, keeping in the
shadow, though it was a dark night and the precaution
was hardly necessary. Presently I overtook Wallingford
and passed him without either concealment or
recognition on either side. I could now clearly make out
the gable and pinnacles of the chapel and saw the car
turn in the wide sweep and then extinguish its
headlights. Presently, from the gate-house there emerged
a party of men of whom some carried lanterns, by the
light of which I could recognize Thorndyke and his
three companions; and I noted that they appeared to
have left their cases either in the car or elsewhere for
they now carried nothing. They lingered for a minute
or two at the wicket by the great gates; then,
accompanied by a man whom I took to be the gate-keeper,
they crossed the road to the gate of the eastern
cemetery and were at once followed by another party of
men, who trundled two wheel-barrows, loaded with
some bulky objects the nature of which I could not
make out. I watched them with growing anxiety and
suspicion as they passed in at the gate; and when
they had all entered and moved away along the main
path, I came forth from the shadow and began to walk
quickly up the lane.
The eastern cemetery adjoins Waterlow Park, from
which it is separated by a low wall surmounted by tall
railings, and this was my objective. The park was
now, of course, closed for the night, locked up and
deserted. So much the better. Locks and bars were
no hindrance to me. I knew the neighbourhood of old.
Every foot of the lane was familiar to me, though the
houses that had grown up at the lower end had changed
its aspect from that which I remembered when as a
boy I had rambled through its leafy shades. On I
strode, past the great gates on the left and the waiting
car, within which I could see the driver dozing, past
the white gatehouse on the right, up the steep hill until
I came to the place where a tall oak fence encloses
the park from the lane. Here I halted and took off
my overcoat, for the six-foot fence is guarded at the
top by a row of vicious hooks. Laying the folded
overcoat across the top of the fence, I sprang up, sat for a
moment astride and then dropped down into the
enclosure.
I now stood in a sort of dry ditch between the fence
and a steep bank, covered with bushes which rose to
the level of the park. I had just taken down my
overcoat and was putting it on before climbing the bank
when its place was taken by another overcoat cast over
from without. Then a pair of hands appeared, followed
by the clatter of feet against the fence and the
next moment I saw Wallingford astride of the top and
looking down at me.
I still affected to be unaware of him, and, turning
away, began to scramble up the bank, at the summit of
which I pushed my way through the bushes, and,
stepping over a three-foot fence, came out upon a by-path
overshadowed by trees. Pausing for a moment to get
my bearings and to mark out a route by which I could
cross the park without coming into the open, where I
might be seen by some watchful keeper, I started off
towards a belt of trees just as Wallingford stepped over
the dwarf fence and came out upon the path behind me.
The position was becoming absurd, though I was
too agitated to appreciate its humour. I could not
protest against his following me seeing that I had
come in the first place to spy upon him, and was now,
like himself, engaged in spying upon Thorndyke.
However, he soon solved the difficulty by quickening
his pace and overtaking me, when he asked in a quite
matter-of-fact tone:
“What is Thorndyke up to, Mayfield?”
“That is what I want to find out,” I replied.
“He is not acting on your instructions, then?”
“No; and the probability is that what he is doing is
no concern of mine or of yours either. But I don’t
know; and I have come here to make sure. Keep in
the shadow. We don’t want the keeper to see us
prowling about here.”
He stepped back into the shade and we pursued our
way in silence; and even then, troubled and agitated
as I was, I noted that he asked me no question as to
what was in my mind. He was leaving the initiative
entirely to me.
When we had crossed the park in the shelter of the
trees and descended into the hollow by the little lake
where we were out of sight of the gate-house, I led the
way towards the boundary between the park and the
cemetery. The two enclosures were separated, as I
have said, by a low wall surmounted by a range of
high, massive railings; and the wall and the cemetery
beyond were partially concealed by an irregular hedge
of large bushes. Pushing through the bushes, I moved
along the wall until I came to the place which I
intended to watch; and here I halted in the shade of
a tall mass of bushes, and resting my arms on the
broad coping of the wall, took up my post of
observation with Wallingford, silently attentive at my side.
The great burial ground was enveloped in darkness
so profound that the crowded headstones and
monuments conveyed to the eye no more than a confused
glimmer of ghostly pallor that was barely distinguishable
from the general obscurity. One monument only
could be separately identified: a solitary stone cross
that rose above a half-seen grave some sixty yards
from the wall. But already the mysterious procession
could be seen threading its way in and out by the
intricate, winding paths, the gleam of the lanterns lighting
up now a marble figure and now a staring head-stone
or urn or broken column; and as it drew ever nearer,
the glare of the lanterns, the rumble of the barrow-wheels
on the hard paths and the spectral figures of
the men grew more and more distinct. And still
Wallingford watched and spoke never a word.
At length, a turn of the path brought the procession
into full view, and as it approached I could make out a
man,—evidently by his uniform, the cemetery keeper,—leading,
lantern in hand and showing the way. Nearer
and nearer the procession drew until at last, close by
the stone cross, the leader halted. Then, as
Thorndyke and his companions—now clearly visible—came
up, he lifted his lantern and let its light fall full on
the cross. And even at this distance I could read with
ease—though it was unnecessary—the single name
STELLA.
As that name—to me so sacred—flashed out of the
darkness, Wallingford gripped my arm. “Great God!”
he exclaimed. “It is Stella Keene’s grave! I came
here once with Barbara to plant flowers on it.” He
paused, breathing hard and still clutching my arm.
Then, in a hoarse whisper, he demanded:
“What can that devil be going to do?”
There was little need to ask. Even as he spoke, the
labourers began to unload from the first barrow its
lading of picks, shovels and coils of rope. And when these
were laid on the ground, the second barrow yielded
up its cargo; a set of rough canvas screens which the
men began to set up around the grave. And even as
the screens were being erected, another lantern slowly
approaching along the path, revealed two men carrying
a long, bedstead-like object—a bier—which they at
length set down upon its stunted legs just outside
the screens.
With set teeth I stared incredulously between the
railings at these awful preparations while Wallingford,
breathing noisily, held fast to my arm with a hand that
I could feel shaking violently. The lanterns inside the
screens threw a weird, uncertain light on the canvas,
and monstrous, distorted shadows moved to and fro.
Presently, amidst these flitting, spectral shapes,
appeared one like an enormous gnome, huge, hideous and
deformed, holding an up-raised pick. The shadowy
implement fell with an audible impact, followed by the
ring of a shovel.
At the sight and the sound—so dreadfully
conclusive—Wallingford sprang up with a stifled cry.
“God Almighty! That devil is going to dig her up!”
He stood motionless and rigid for a few moments.
Then, turning suddenly, without another word, he
burst through the bushes, and I heard him racing madly
across the park.
I had half a mind to follow him. I had seen enough.
I now knew the shocking truth. Why stay and let
my soul be harrowed by the sight of these ghouls.
Every stroke of pick or shovel seemed to knock at my
heart. Why not go and leave them to their work of
desecration? But I could not go. I could not tear
myself away. There was the empty bier. Presently
she would be lying on it. I could not go until I had
seen her borne away.
So I stayed there gazing between the railings, watching
the elfin shapes that flitted to and fro on the screen,
listening to the thud of pick and the ring and scrape of
shovel and letting my confused thoughts wander
obscurely through a maze of half-realized pain and anger.
I try in vain to recall clearly what was my state of
mind. Out of the confusion and bewilderment little
emerges but a dull indignation and especially a feeling
of surprised resentment against Thorndyke.
The horrible business went on methodically. By
degrees a shadowy mound grew up at the bottom of the
screen. And then other movements and other sounds;
a hollow, woody sound that seemed to bring my heart
into my mouth. At last, the screens were opened at
the end and then the coffin was borne out and laid
on the bier. By the light of the lanterns I could see it
distinctly. I was even able to recognize it, shabby and
earth-stained as it now was. I saw Thorndyke help the
keeper to spread over it some kind of pall, and then
two men stepped between the handles of the bier,
stooped and picked it up; and then the grim procession
re-formed and began slowly to move away.
I watched it until it had passed round a turn of the
path and was hidden from my view. Then I stood up,
pushed my way through the bushes and stole away
across the park by the way I had come. In the ditch
inside the fence I stood for a few moments listening,
but the silence was as profound as the darkness. As
quietly as I could I climbed over the fence and dropped
down into the lane. There seemed to be not a soul
moving anywhere near; nevertheless, when I had
slipped on my overcoat, instead of retracing my steps
down the lane past the entrance-gates of the
cemetery, I turned to the right and toiled up the steep hill
to its termination in South Grove, where I bore away
westward and descending the long slope of West Hill,
passed the Duke of St. Albans and re-entered the
Highgate Road.
It did not occur to me to look out for any
conveyance. My mind was in a whirl that seemed to
communicate itself to my body and I walked on and on
like one in a dream.
The dreary miles of deserted streets were consumed
unreckoned—though still, without conscious purpose,
I followed the direct road home as a well-constructed
automaton might have done. But I saw nothing. Nor,
for a time, could I be said to think coherently. My
thoughts seethed and eddied in such confusion that
no product emerged. I was conscious only of an
indignant sense of shocked decency and a loathing of
Thorndyke and all his works.
Presently, however, I grew somewhat more reasonable
and my thoughts began to take more coherent
shape. As a lawyer, I could not but perceive that
Thorndyke must have something definite in his mind.
He could not have done what I had seen him do
without a formal authority from the Home Secretary; and
before any such authority would have been given he
would have been called upon to show cause why the
exhumation should be carried out. And such licenses
are not lightly granted. Nor, I had to admit, was
Thorndyke likely to have made the application without
due consideration. He must have had reasons for this
outrageous proceeding which not only appeared
sufficient to him but which must have appeared sufficient
to the Home Secretary.
All this became by degrees clear enough to me.
But yet I had not a moment’s doubt that he had made
some monstrous mistake. Probably he had been
misled by something in my diary. That seemed to be the
only possible explanation. Presently he would
discover his error—by means which I shudderingly put
aside. But when the error was discovered, the scandal
would remain. It is impossible to maintain secrecy in
a case like this. In twenty-four hours or less, all the
world would know that the body of Mrs. Monkhouse’s
step-sister had been exhumed; and no subsequent
explanation would serve to destroy the effect of that
announcement. Wallingford’s dismal prophecy was about
to be fulfilled.
Moreover, Thorndyke’s action amounted in effect to
an open accusation—not of Madeline or Wallingford
but of Barbara, herself. And this indignity she would
suffer at my hands—at the hands of her oldest friend!
The thought was maddening. But for the outrageous
lateness of the hour, I would have gone to her at once
to put her on her guard and crave her pardon. It was
the least that I could do. But it could not be done
to-night, for she would have been in bed hours ago
and her flat locked up for the night. However, I would
go in the morning at the earliest possible hour. I knew
that Barbara was an early riser and it would not be
amiss if I arrived at the flat before the maid. She
must be warned at the earliest possible moment and
by me, who was the author of the mischief.
Thus, by the time that I reached my chambers I had
decided clearly what was to be done. At first, I was
disposed to reject altogether the idea of sleep. But
presently, more reasonable thoughts prevailing, I
decided at least to lie down and sleep a little if I could.
But first I made a few indispensable preparations for
the morning; filled the kettle and placed it on the
gas-ring, set out the materials for a hasty breakfast, and
cleaned my shoes. Then, when I had wound the alarm
clock and set it for five, I partially undressed and crept
into bed.
