11 - The Rivals. As A Thief In The Night by R. Austin Freeman.

11 - The Rivals. As A Thief In The Night by R. Austin Freeman.  
As one of the many stories written by R. Austin Freeman this book includes the most interesting character of Dr. Thorndyke. He commands the skills of a doctor, a lawyer and an investigator all rolled up into one remarkable man. In this case he must solve a murder mystery perpetrated by a most unusual criminal. There is also love and intrigue at play involving the other main characters

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eleven of As a Thief in the Night by R.
Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
The rivals. The warmth with which Barbara greeted me when
I made my first appearance at her flat struck me
as rather pathetic, and for the first time I seemed
to understand what it was that had induced her to

(00:22):
Mary Harold monkhouse. She was not a solitary woman by nature,
and she had never been used as solitary existence when
Stella's death had broken up her home and left her
with no intimate friend in the world but me. I
had been too much taken up with my own bereavement
to give much consideration to her. But now as she
stood before me in her pretty sitting room, holding both

(00:45):
my hands and smiling her welcome, he was suddenly borne
in on me that her state was rather forlorn in
spite of her really comfortable means. Indeed, my heart prompted
me to some demonstrations of affection, and I was restrained
only by the caution of a confirmed bachelor, for Barbara
was now a widow, and even while my sympathy with
my almost lifelong friend tempted me to pet her a little.

(01:09):
Some faint echoes of mister Tony Weller's counsel's bade me beware,
you are quite an anchoress here, Barbara, I said, though
you might have a mighty comfortable cell. I see you
have a new maid too. I should have thought you
would have brought Mabel with you. She wouldn't come, naturally,
she said. She preferred to go and live among strangers,

(01:29):
to forget what had happened at Hilborough Square. Poor Mabel.
She was very brave and good, but it was a
terrible experience for her. Do you know what has become
of her? No, she has disappeared completely. Of course, she
has never applied for a reference. Why, of course, my
dear Rupert, she replied a little bitterly. Do you suppose

(01:52):
that she would want to advertise her connection with missus
Harold Monkhouse. No, I suppose she would be likely to
exaggerate the publicity of the affair, as I think you do.
And how is Madeline? I rather expected that you and
she would have shared a flat. Why didn't you? Barbara
was disposed to be evasive. I don't know. She replied

(02:13):
that the plan commended itself to either of us. We
have our separate interests, you know. At any rate, she
never made any suggestion, and neither did I. Do you
ever see Wallingford now, I asked, Indeed I do, she replied.
In fact, I have had to hint to him that
he mustn't call too frequently. One must consider appearances. And

(02:33):
until I spoke, he was here nearly every day. But
I hated doing it. Still, Barbara, it was very necessary.
It would be so in the case of any young woman,
but in your case especially, so I broke off awkwardly,
not liking to say exactly what was in my mind.
For of course, in the atmosphere a suspicion which hung

(02:54):
about him, his frequent visits would be a source of
real danger. No motive for the murder had yet been suggested.
It would be a disaster if his fall they were
to create the false appearance of one. But as I
have said, I shrank from pointing this out, though I
think she understood what was in my mind, for she
discreetly ignored the abrupt finish of my sentence and continued,

(03:14):
Poor Tony, he is so very self centered, and he
seems so dependent on me, and really rupert I am
a good deal concerned about him. Why, I asked, rather unsympathetically.
He is getting so queer. He was always rather rowd
as you know, but this trouble seems to be quite
upsetting his balance. I am afraid he is getting delusions,

(03:36):
and yet in a way a hope that he is.
What do you mean, what sort of delusions? He imagines
that he is being followed and watched? It is a
perfect obsession, especially since that superintendent man called on him
and cross questioned him. But I don't think I told
you about that. No, you did not, said I quite truthfully,

(03:56):
but with an uncomfortable feeling that I was indirectly telling
a lie. Well, it seems that this man Miller called
it his rooms. So you see, he knew where Tony
was living, and, according to Tony's account, extracted by all
sorts of dreadful threats, a full confession of the means
by which he obtained that cocaine. And how did he
obtain it? Oh, he just bought it at a wholesale druggist's.

(04:20):
Rather casual of the druggists to have supplied him, I think.
But still he needn't have made such a secret of it. However,
since then he has been possessed by this obsession. He
imagines that he is constantly under observation. He thinks that
some man hangs about near his rooms and watches his
comings and goings, and follows him about whenever he goes abroad.

(04:40):
I suppose there can't be anything in it, of course not.
The police have something better to do than spend their
time shadowing harmless idiots. Why on earth should they shadow
him if they have any suspicions of him. Those suspicions
relate to the past, not to the present. But I
don't think Tony connects these watchers with the police. I

(05:00):
fancy he suspects them of being agents of doctor Thorndyke.
You remember that he was suspicious and uneasy about doctor
Thorndyke from the first and I know that he suspects
them of having set the Superintendent on him about the
cocaine the deuce he des, I exclaimed a little startled.
Have you any idea what makes him suspect Thorndyke of that?

(05:22):
He says that the Superintendent accepted his statement at the
time when the cocaine was found, or at least did
not seem disposed to press him on the question as
to where he obtained it, and that this inquisition occurred
only after you had put the case in doctor Thorndyke's hands.
I reflected on this statement with some surprise. Of course,
Wallingford was quite right, as I knew from first hand knowledge.

(05:44):
But how had he arrived at this belief? Was it
a mere guess based on his evident prejudice against Thorndyke,
or had he something to go on? And was it
possible that his other suspicions might be correct? Could it
be that Thorndyke was really keeping him under ourps I
can imagine no object for such a proceeding. But Thorndyke's

(06:05):
methods were so unlike those of the police or of
any one else, that it was idle to speculate on
what he might do. And his symphatic advice to Miller
showed that he regarded Wallingford at least with some interest. Well, Barbara,
I said, mentally, postponing the problem for future consideration, let
us forget Wallingford and everybody else. What are we going
to do this afternoon? Is there a matinee that we

(06:27):
could go to? Or shall we go and hear some music?
No rupert, she replied, I don't want any theaters or music.
I can have those when you are not here. Let
us go and walk about Kensington gardens and gossip as
we used to in the old days. But we have
a little business to discuss first. Let us get that finished,
and then we can put it away and be free.

(06:50):
You were going to advise me about the house in
Hillboro's Square. My own feeling is that I should like
to sell it and have done with it once for all.
I shouldn't do that, Barbara said. I it is a
valuable property, but just at present its value is depreciated.
It would be difficult to dispose of at anything like
a reasonable price until recent events have been forgotten. The

(07:12):
better plan would be to let it at a low
rent for a year or two. But would anybody take it?
Undoubtedly if the rent were low enough, leave it to
broad Ribb and me to manage. You needn't come into
the matter at all beyond signing the lease. Is the
house in fairly good repair, Most of it is, but
there are one or two rooms that will need redecorating,

(07:34):
particularly poor heralds that had to be left when the
other rooms were done, because he refused to be disturbed.
It is in a very dilapidated state. The paint is
dreadfully shabby, and the paper is positively dropping off the
walls and places. I dare say you remember its condition.
I do very well, seeing that I helped Madeline to

(07:54):
pay some of the loose pieces back in their places.
But we needn't go into details now. I will go
and look over the house and see what is absolutely
necessary to make the place presentable. Who has the keys?
I have the latch keys. The other keys are inside
the house. And I suppose you don't wish to inspect
the place yourself. No I do not. I wish never

(08:17):
to set eyes upon that house again. She unlocked the
little bureau, and, taking a bunch of latch keys from
one of the drawers, handed it to me. Then she
went away to put on her outdoor clothes. Left alone
in the room, I sauntered round and inspected Barber's new abode,
noting how already it seemed to reflect, in some indefinable way,

(08:38):
the personality of the tenant. It is this sympathetic quality
in human dwelling places which gives it special charm and
interest to a room in which some person of character
has lived been worked, and which conversely imparts such deadly dullness,
to the best room in which no one has suffered
to distribute the friendly, humanizing litter, and which is jealously reserved,

(09:00):
with all its lifeless ornamentation, its unenjoyed pictures, and its
unread books, intact and undefiled by any traces of human occupation.
The furniture of this room was mostly familiar to me,
for it was that of the old boudoir. There was
the little piano, the two cozy arm chairs, the open
book shelves with their array of well used books, the

(09:22):
water colors on the walls, and above the chimney piece,
the little portrait of Stella, with the thin plate of
golden hair bordering the frame. I halted beforeward, and gazed
at the beloved face which seemed to look out at
me with such friendly recognition, and let my thoughts drift
back into the pleasant old times, and stray into those
that might have been if death had mercifully passed by

(09:43):
this sweet maid and left me the one companion that
my heart yearned for. Now the time had softened my
passionate grief into a tender regret. I could think of
her with a sort of quiet attachment that was not
without its bittersweet pleasure. I could let myself speculate on
what my life might have been if she had lived,
and what part she would have played in it, questions that,

(10:05):
strangely enough, had never arisen while she was alive. I
was so immersed in my reverie that I did not
hear Barbara come into the room, And the first intimation
that I had of her presence was when I felt
her hand slipped quietly into mine. I turned to look
at her and met her eyes brimming with tears, fixed
on me with an expression of such unutterable sadness that

(10:26):
in a moment, my heart leapt out to her, borne
on a wave of sympathy and pity, which swept away
all my caution and reserve, forgetful of everything but her
loneliness and the grief which we shared. I drew her
to me and kissed her. It seemed the natural thing
to do, and I felt that she understood. Though she
flushed warmly, and the tears started from her eyes so

(10:47):
that she must needs wipe them away. Then she looked
at me with the faintest, most pathetic little smile, and
without a word, we turned together and walked out of
the room. Barbara was, as I have said, a rather inscrutable,
an extremely self contained woman, but she could be, on
occasions a very delightful companion, and so I found her
to day. At first a little pensive and silent, she

(11:10):
presently warmed up into a quite unwonted gayety, and chatted
so pleasantly, and made so evident her pleasure at having
me back, that I yearn no more for the bar mess,
but was able to forget the horrors and anxieties of
the past and give myself up to the very agreeable present.
I have seldom spent a more enjoyable afternoon late autumn

(11:31):
as it was. The day was mild and sunny, the
sky of that wonderful, tender, misty blue that is the
peculiar glory of London, and the gardens too, though they
were beginning to take on their winter guard, had not
yet quite lost their autumnal charm. Still on the noble elms. Then,
as their raiment was growing, the golden and russet foliage lingered,

(11:51):
and the leaves that they had already shed remained to
clothe the earth with a many colored carpet. We across
the gardens by some of the wider past and had
turned into one of the pleasant bypass when Barbara, spying
a seat set back between a couple of elms, suggested
that we should rest for a few minutes before recrossing
the gardens to go forth in search of tea. Accordingly,

(12:13):
we sat down, sheltered on either side by the great
bowls of the elms, and warm by the rays of
the late afternoon sun. But we had been seated hardly
a minute. On the peace and forgetfulness that had made
our ramble so delightful or dissipated in a moment by
an apparition on the wide path that we had just left.
I was the first to observe it. Glancing back through

(12:35):
the interval between the elm on my left and another
at a little distance, I noticed a man coming toward us.
My attention was first drawn to him by his rather
singular behavior. He seemed to be dividing his attention between
something that was ahead of him and something behind. But
I had taken no special note of him until I
saw him step with a rather absurd air of secrecy

(12:57):
and caution behind a tree trunk, and here rounded along
the way that he had come. After keeping a look
out in this fashion for nearly a minute, apparently without result,
he backed away from the tree and came forward at
a quick pace, peering eagerly ahead and on both sides,
and pausing now and again to cast a quick look
back over his shoulder. I drew Barbara's attention to him, remarking,

(13:21):
there is a gentleman who seems to be afflicted with
Wallingford's disease. He is trying to look all round the
compass at once. Barbara looked at the man, watching his
movements for a time with a faint smile. But suddenly
the smile faded, and she exclaimed, why, I believe it
is Tony. Yes, I am sure it is, and Tony
it was. I recognized him almost as soon as she spoke.

(13:45):
He came on now at a quick pace, and seemed
in a hurry, either to escape from what he supposed
to be behind him, or to overtake whatever was in front.
He had apparently not seen us, for though we must
have been visible to him, or we could not have
seen him, we were rendered inconspicuous by the two trees
between which we sat. Presently, he disappeared as the near

(14:06):
elm trunk hid him from our view, and I waited
with half amused annoyance for him to reappear. What a
nuisance he is, said Barbara, disturbing our peaceful tete a tete.
But he won't freeze on to us. He would rather
forego my much desired society than put up with yours.
She laughed softly, and added in a thoughtful tone. I
wonder what he is doing here. I had been wondering

(14:30):
that myself. Kensington Gardens were quite near to Barbara's flat,
but they were a long way from Chermann Street. It
was certainly odd that he should be here on this day,
of all days. But at this point my reflections were
interrupted by the appearance of their subject from behind the
big elm trunk. He came on us suddenly, and was
quite close before he saw us. When he did see us, however,

(14:52):
he stopped short within a few paces of us, regarding
us with a wild stare. It was the first time
that I had seen him since the funeral, and certainly
his appearance had not improved in the interval there was
something neglected and disheveled in his aspect that was distinctly
suggestive of drink or drugs. But what principally struck me
was the expression of furious hate with which he glared

(15:15):
at me. There was no mistaking whatever might be the cause,
there could be no doubt that he regarded me with
almost murderous animosity. He remained in this posture only for
a few seconds, then, as Barbara began to utter a
few words of greeting, he raised his hat and strode
away without a word. Barbara looked at his retreating figure

(15:36):
with a vexed smile. Silly fellow, she exclaimed, he is
angry that I have come out to spend a few
hours with my oldest friend, and shows it like a
bad mannered child. I wish he would behave more like
an ordinary person. You can hardly expect him to behave
like what he is not, I said. Besides, a very
ordinary man may feel jealous at seeing another man admitted

(15:59):
to terms of intimate see which are denied to him
with the woman to whom he is specially attached for.
I suppose, Barbara, we may take it that that is
the position I suppose so, she admitted, he is certainly
very devoted to me, and I am afraid he is
rather jealous of you. As she spoke, I looked at
her and could not but feel a faint sympathy with Wallingford.

(16:21):
She was really a very handsome woman, and to day
she was not only looking her best, she seemed, in
some mysterious way to have grown younger, more girlish. The
rather somber gravity of the last few years seemed to
be quite dissipated since we had left the flat and
much of the charm of her youth had come back
to her. He looked more than rather jealous, said I.

(16:43):
Venomous hatred was what I read in his face. Do
you think he has anything against me other than my
position as his rival in your affections? Yes? I do.
He is mortally afraid of you. He believes that you
suspect him of having at least a hand in poor
Harold's death, and that you have set doctor Thorndyke to
track him down and bring the crime home to him.

(17:05):
And his terror of doctor Thorndyke is positively an insane obsession.
I was, by no means so sure of this, but
I said nothing, and she continued, I suppose you don't
know whether doctor Thorndyke does really look on him with
any suspicion. To me, the idea is preposterous. Indeed, I
find it impossible to believe that there was any crime

(17:26):
at all. I am convinced that poor Harold was the
victim of some strange accident. I quite agree with you, Barbara,
that is exactly my own view. But I don't think
it is Thorndyke's as to whom he suspects, if he
suspects anybody. I have not the faintest idea. He is
a most extraordinarily close and secretive man. No one ever

(17:49):
knows what is in his mind until the very moment
when he strikes, and he never does strike until he
has his case so complete that he can take it
into court with the certainty of getting a conviction or
an acquittal, as the case may be. But I suppose
there are mysteries that elude even his skill. No doubt
there are, and I am not sure that our mystery

(18:10):
is not one of them. Even Thorndyke can't create evidence.
And as he pointed out to me, the evidence in
our case lies in the past that is mostly irrecoverable.
I hope it is not entirely irrecoverable, said she, For
until some reasonable solution of the mystery is reached, an
atmosphere of suspicion will continue to hang about all the

(18:30):
inmates of that house. So let us wish doctor Thorndyke's
usual success. And when he has proved that no one
was guilty, which I am convinced is the fact, perhaps
poor Tony will forgive him. With this we dismissed the
subject in getting up from the seat, made our way
out of the gardens just as the sun was setting
behind the trees, and went in search of a suitable

(18:52):
tea shop. And there we lingered gossiping until the evening
was well advanced, and it was time for me to
see Barbara home to her flat, and betake myself to
fig Tree Court and make some pretense of doing an
evening's work. End of Chapter eleven.