14 - Rupert Confides In Thorndyke. As A Thief In The Night by R. Austin Freeman.

14 - Rupert Confides In Thorndyke. 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 fourteen of As a Thief in the Night by R.
Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
Rupert confides in Thorndyke. Although few of its buildings, excepting
the halls, are of really great antiquity, the precinct of
the temples shares with the older parts of London at

(00:20):
least one medieval characteristic. It abounds in those queer little
passages and alleys, which, burrowing in all directions under the
dwelling houses, are a source of endless confusion and bewilderment
to the stranger, though to the accustomed denis and they
offer an equally great convenience, for by their use the
seas and templar makes his way from any one part

(00:41):
of the precinct to any other, if not in an
actual bee line, at least in an abbreviated zigzag that
cuts across the regular thoroughfares, as though there were mere
paths traversing an open meadow. Some of these alleys do
indeed announce themselves even to unaccustomed dies, as public passageways
byrect recognizable entrance arches, but many of them scorn even

(01:03):
this degree of publicity. Artfully concealing their existence from the
uninitiated by an ordinary doorway which they share with a
pair of houses, whereby the unsuspecting stranger, entering what in
his innocence he supposes to be the front doorway of
a house, walks along the hall, and is presently astonished
to find himself walking out of another front door into

(01:24):
another thoroughfare. The neighborhood of fig Tree Court is peculiarly
rich in these deceptive burrows. Indeed, excepting from the terrace,
it has no other avenue of approach. On the present occasion,
I had the choice of two, and was proceeding along
the narrow lane of Elmcourt to take the farther one,
which led to the entry of my chambers, when I

(01:45):
caught sight of a man approaching hurriedly from the direction
of the cloisters. At the first glance, I thought I
recognized him, though he was a mere silhouette in the
dim light, as the loiterer whom I had seen on
the night of my return. Behavior confirmed my suspicion, for
as he came in sight of me, he hesitated for
a moment, and then, quickening his pace forward, disappeared suddenly

(02:08):
through what appeared to be a hole in the wall,
but was in fact the passage for which I was making. Instantly,
I turned back and swiftly, crossing the square of Elm Court,
dived into the borough at its farther corner, and came
out into the little square of fig Tree Court at
the very moment when the mysterious stranger emerged from the
borough at the other side, so that we met face

(02:30):
to face in the full light of the central lamp. Naturally,
I was better prepared for the encounter, and I pursued
my leisurely way towards my chambers with the air of
not having observed him, while he, stopping short for a
moment with a wild stare at me, dashed across the
square and plunged into the passage from which I had
just emerged. I did not follow him. I had seen him,

(02:51):
and had thereby confirmed the suspicion that had been growing
upon me, and that was enough for I need hardly
say that the man was Anthony Wallinger. But though I
was prepared for the identification, I was none the less
puzzled and worried by it. Here was yet another perplexity,
and I was just stepping into my entry to reflect
upon it at my leisure. When I became aware of

(03:13):
hurrying footsteps in the passage through which Wallingford had come,
quickly drawing back into the deep shadow of the vestibule,
I waited to see who this newcomer might be. In
a few seconds, he rushed out of the passage and
came to a halt in the middle of the square,
nearly under the lamp, where he stood for a few moments,
looking to right and left and listening intently. And now

(03:34):
I realized the justice of what Madeline had said for commonplace.
As the man was I recognized him in an instant
brown hat, blue search suit, big sandy mustache, and concave
pointed nose. They were not sensational characteristics, but they identified
him beyond a moment's doubt. Apparently his ear must have

(03:55):
caught the echoes of Wallingford's footsteps, for after a brief pause,
he started off at something approaching a trot, and disappeared
into the passage by which I had come and Wallingford
had gone. A sudden, foolish curiosity impelled me to follow
and observe the methods of this singular and artless sleuth.
But I did not follow directly. Instead, I turned and

(04:15):
ran up the other passage, which leads into the narrow
part of Elm Court, And as I came flying out
of the further end of it, I ran full tilt
into a man who was running along the court toward
the cloisters. Of course, the man was Wallingford. Who else
would be running like a lunatic through the temple at
night unless it were his pursuer. With muttered curses but

(04:37):
no word of recognition, he disengaged himself and pursued his way,
disappearing at length round the sharp turn in the lane
which leads towards the cloisters. I did not follow him,
but drew back into the dark passage and waited. Very
soon another figure became visible, approaching rapidly along the dimly
lighted lane. I drew further back, and presently from my

(04:59):
hiding place, I saw the brown hated shadow or steel
past with a ridiculous air of secrecy and caution. And
when he had passed, I peered down and watched his
receding figure until it disappeared round the angle of the lane.
I felt half tempted to join the absurd procession, and
see what eventually became of these two idiots. But I
had really seen enough. I now knew that Wallingford's delusions

(05:22):
were no delusions at all, and that Madeline's stories set
forth nothing but the genuine, indisputable truth. And with these
new facts to add to my unwelcome store of data,
I walked slowly back to my chambers, cogitating as I went.
In truth, I had abundant material for reflection. The more
I turned over my discoveries and Madeline's flat, the more

(05:43):
did the incriminating evidence seem to pile up. I recalled
Polton's plainly expressed suspicion that the center of the infernal
machine was a woman, and I recalled Thorndyke's analysis of
the peculiarities of the thing, with the inferences which those
peculiarities suggest, and read into them a more definite meaning.

(06:04):
I now saw what the machine had conveyed to him,
and what he had been trying to make it convey
to me. The unmechanical outlook combined with evident ingenuity, the
unfamiliarity with ordinary mechanical appliances, the ignorance concerning the different
kinds of gunpowder, the lack of those common tools which
nearly every man, but hardly any woman possesses and can use.

(06:27):
All these peculiarities of the unknown person were feminine peculiarities.
And finally there had been the plug of knitting wool,
a most unlikely material for a man to use for
such a purpose, or indeed to possess at all. So
my thoughts went over and over the same ground, and
every time, finding escape from the obvious conclusion more and

(06:48):
more impossible. The evidence of Madeleine's complicity, at the very
least in the sending of the infernal machine, appeared overwhelming.
I could not reject it, nor could I deny. With
the sending of it implied, it was virtually a confession
of guilt. And yet even as I admitted this to myself,
I was strangely enough aware that my feelings towards Madeline

(07:10):
remained unaltered. The rational, legal side of me condemned her,
but somehow, in some incomprehensible way, that condemnation had a
purely technical, academic quality, had left my loyalty and affection
for her untouched. But what I Thorndyke had his reasoning
traveled along the same lines. If it had, there would

(07:31):
be nothing sentimental in his attitude. He had warned me,
and I knew well enough that whenever there should be
evidence enough to put before a court, the law would
be set in motion. What then was his present position?
And even as I asked myself the question there echoed
uncomfortably in my mind the significant suggestion that he had

(07:51):
thrown out only a few hours ago concerning the bottle
of medicine. Evidently he at least entertained the possibility that
the fowlers had been put into that bottle after Monkhouse's death,
and that for the express purpose of diverting suspicion from
the food. The manifest implication was that he entertained the
possibility that the poison had been administered in the food.

(08:14):
But to suspect this was to suspect the person who
prepared the food of being the poisoner, and the person
who prepared the food was Madeleine. The question therefore, as
to Thorndyke's state of mind was a vital one. He
had expressed no suspicion of Madeleine, but then he had
expressed no suspicion of anybody. On the other hand, he

(08:34):
had exonerated nobody. He was frankly observant of every member
of that household. Then there was the undeniable fact that
Madeleine had been watched and followed. Somebody suspected her, But
who the watcher was, certainly not a detective amateur was
writ large all over him. Then it was not the
police who suspected her. Apparently there remained only Thorndyke, though

(08:59):
one would have expected him to employ a more efficient agent.
But Wallingford was also under observation, and more persistently. Then
he too was suspected. But here there was some show
of reason for what was Wallinford doing in the temple.
Evidently he had been lurking about, apparently keeping a watch
on Thorndyke, though for what purpose I could not imagine. Still,

(09:22):
it was a suspicious proceeding, and justified some watch being
kept on him. But the shadowing of Madeline was incomprehensible.
I paced up and down my sitting room, turning these
questions over in my mind, and all the time conscious
of a curious sense of unreality in the whole affair,
and all this watching and following and dodging, which looked
so grotesque and purposeless. I felt myself utterly bewildered. But

(09:47):
I was also profoundly unhappy, and indeed overshadowed by a
terrible dread. For out of this chaos, one fact emerged clearly.
There was a formidable body of evidence implicating Madeline. If
Thorndy had known what I knew, her position would have
been one of the gravest peril. My conscience told me
that it was my duty to tell him, and I

(10:08):
knew that I had no intention of doing anything of
the kind. But still the alarming question haunted me. How
much did he really know? How much did he suspect?
In the course of my perambulations, I passed and repassed
a smallish deed box which stood on a lower bookshelf,
and which was to me what the ark of the
Covenant was to the ancient Israelites, the repository of my

(10:31):
most sacred possessions. Its lid bore the name Stella painted
on it by me, and its contents were a miscellany
of trifles, worthless intrinsically, but to me precious beyond all price,
as relics of the dear friend who had been all
in all to me during her short life, and who,
though she had been lying in her grave for four

(10:52):
long years, was all in all to me. Still often
in the long solitary evenings, had I taken the relics
that are of their abiding place and let the sight
of them carry my thoughts back to the golden days
of our happy companionship, filling in the pleasant pictures with
the aid of my diary. But that was unnecessary now,
since I knew the entries by heart, and painting other

(11:14):
more shadowy pictures of a future that might have been.
It was a melancholy pleasure, perhaps, But yet as the
years rolled on, the bitterness of those memories grew less bitter,
and still the sweet remained presently. As for the hundredth
time the beloved name met my eye, there came upon
me a yearning to creep back with her into the

(11:34):
sunny past, to forget, if only for a short hour,
the hideous anxieties of the present, and in memory, to
walk with her once more along the meads of Asphodel.
Halting before the box, I stood and lifted it tenderly
to the table, and, having unlocked it, raised the lid
and looked thoughtfully into the interior. Then one by one.

(11:55):
I lifted out my treasures, set them out in order
on the table, and sat down to look at them
and let them speak to me their message of peace
and consolation. To a stranger's eye, they were a mere
collection of odds and ends. Some would have been recognizable
as relics of the more conventional type. There were several
photographs of the dead girl, some taken by myself, and

(12:17):
a tress of red gold hair. Such hair, as I
had been told, often glorifies the victims whom Consumption had
marked for its own. It had been cut off from
me by Barbara when she took her own tress and
tied up with a blue ribbon. But it was not
these orthodox relics that spoke to me most intimately. I
had no need of their aid to call up the

(12:37):
vision of her person. The things that set my memory
working were the records of actions and experiences, the sketch books,
the loose sketches, and the little plastered plaques and medallions
that she had made with my help after she had
become bed ridden and could go no more abroad to sketch.
Every one of these had its story to tell, its

(12:58):
vision to call up. I turned over the sketches, simple
but careful pencil drawings, for the most part, for Stella,
like me, had more feeling for form than for color,
and recalled the making of them, the delightful rambles across
the sunny meadows or through the cool woodlands, the solemn
planting of sketching stools, and earnest consultation on the selection

(13:18):
and composition of the subjects. These were the happiest days
before the chilly hand of the destroyer had been laid
on its chosen victim, and there was still a long
and sunny future to be vaguely envisaged. And then I
turned to the little plaques and medallions, which he had
modeled and under my supervision, and of which I had
made the plaster molds and casts. These called up sadder memories,

(13:42):
but yet they spoke of an even closer and more
loving companionship. For each work was in a way a
joint achievement over which we had triumphed and rejoiced together.
So it happened that although the shadow of sickness and
at last of death brooded over them, it was on
these relics that I tended to linger most lovingly. Here
was the slate that I had got for her to

(14:04):
stick the clay on, and which she used to hold
propped up against her knees as she worked with never
failing enthusiasm through the long, monotonous days, and even when
she was well enough far into the night, with the
light of the shaded candle. Here were the simple modeling
tools and the little sponge and camel hair brush which
he loved to put the final finish on the damp

(14:24):
clay reliefs. Here was the Lanteri's priceless text book, over
which we used to pour together and laud that incomparable teacher.
Here were the plaques, metals and medallions that we had
prized out with bated breath from the two adherent molds.
And here the last and saddest relic was the wax mole,
from which no cast had ever been made, the final

(14:45):
crowning work of those deft sensitive fingers. For the thousandth time,
I picked it up and let the light fall obliquely
across its hollows. The work was a metal some three
inches across, a portrait of Stella herself, modeled from a
prof vile photograph that I had taken for the purpose.
It was an excellent likeness and unquestionably the best piece

(15:06):
of modeling that she had ever done. Often I had
intended to take the cast from it, but always had
been restrained by a vague reluctance to disturb the mold. Now,
as I looked at the delicate, sunken impression, I had
again the feeling that this her last work ought to
be finished. And I was still debating the matter with
the mold in my hand, when I heard a quick

(15:26):
step upon the stair, followed by a characteristic knock on
my door. My first impulse was to hustle my treasures
back into their box before answering the summons, but this
was almost instantly followed by a revulsion. I recognized the
knock of Thorndyke's, and somehow there came upon me a
desire to share my memories with him. He had shown

(15:48):
a strangely sympathetic insight into my feelings towards Stella. He
had read my diary, He now knew the whole story,
and he was the kindest, the most loyal, and most
discreet of friends. Gently laying down the bold, I went
to the door and threw it open. I saw your
light burning as I passed just now, said Thorndyke, as
he entered and shook my hand warmly. So I thought

(16:10):
I would take the opportunity to drop in and return
your diary. I hope I am not disturbing you. If
I am, you must treat me as a friend and
eject me, not at all. Thorndyke, I replied, on the contrary,
you would be doing me a charity if you would
stay and smoke a companionable pipe. Good, said he. Then
I will give myself the pleasure of a quiet gossip.

(16:33):
But what is a miss Mayfield, he continued, laying a
friendly hand on my shoulder and looking me over critically.
You look worn and worried and depressed. You are not
letting your mind dwell too much, I hope on the
tragedy that has come unbidden into your life. I am
afraid I am, I replied. The horrible affair haunts me.
Suspicion of mystery are in the very air I breathe.

(16:54):
A constant menace seems to hang over all my friends,
so that I am in continual dread of sum new catastrophe.
I have just ascertained that Wallingford is really being watched
and shadowed, and not only Wallingford, but even Miss Norris.
He did not appear surprised or seek for further information.
He merely nodded and looked into my face with grave sympathy.

(17:17):
Put it away, Mayfield said he, this is my counsel
to you. Try to forget it. You have put the
investigation into my hands. Leave it there and wash your
own of it. You did not kill Harold Monkhouse. Whoever did,
must pay the penalty. If ever the crime should be
brought home to the perpetrator, And if it never can be,
it were better that you and all of us should

(17:39):
let it sink into oblivion rather than allow it to
remain to poison the lives of innocent persons. Let us
forget it now, I see you were trying to. I
had noticed that when he first entered the room he
cast a single swift glance at the table, which I
was sure had comprehended every object on it. Then he

(17:59):
had looked way and never again let his eyes stray
in that direction. But now, as he finished speaking, he
glanced once more at the table, and this time with
undisguised interest. Yes, I admitted I was trying to find
in the memories of the past an antidote for the present.
These are the relics of that past. I dare say
you have read of them in the diary, and probably

(18:21):
have written me down a mawkish sentimentalist. I pray you,
my friend, not to do me that injustice, he exclaimed.
Faithful friendship that even survives the grave is not a
thing that any man can afford to despise. But for
the disaster of untimely death, your faithfulness and hers would
have created for two persons the perfect life. I assure you, Mayfield,

(18:43):
that I have been deeply moved by the story of
your delightful friendship and your irreparable loss. But don't let
us dwell too much on the sad aspects of the story.
Show me your relics. I see some very charming little
plaques among them. He picked up one with reassuring daintiness
of touch and exacts it through a reading glass that
I had handed to him. It is really a most

(19:04):
remarkable little work, said he. Not in the least amateurish.
She had the makings of a first class medallist. The
appreciation of the essential qualities of miniature relief and she
had a fine feeling for composition and spacing. Deeply gratified
by his appreciation and a little surprised by his evident
knowledge of the medalist's start, I presented the little works

(19:25):
one after another, and we discussed their merits with the
keenest interest. Presently, he asked, has it ever occurred to you, Mayfield,
that these charming little works ought to be finished? Finished?
I repeated, But aren't they finished? Certainly not. They are
only in plaster. But a plaster cast is an intermediate form,

(19:46):
just a mere working model. It is due to the
merits of these plaques and metals that they should be
put into permanent material, silver or copper or bronze. I'll
tell you what, Mayfield, he continued enthusiastically, You shall let
and make replicas of some of them. He could do
it with perfect safety to the originals. Then we could
hand the casts to an electrotyper or a founder. I

(20:09):
should favor the electrotype process for such small works, and
have them executed in whichever medal you preferred. Then you
would be able to see for the first time the
real quality of the modeling. I caught eagerly at the
idea but yet I was a little nervous. You think
it would be perfectly safe, I asked, Absolutely safe? Polton

(20:31):
would make gelatine molds, which couldn't possibly injure the originals.
That decided me. I fell in with the suggestion enthusiastically,
and forthwith we began an anxious consultation as to the
most suitable pieces with which to make a beginning. We
had selected half a dozen casts when my glance fell
on the wax mold. That was Stella's masterpiece, and it

(20:53):
certainly ought to be finished. But I was loath to
part with the mold for fear of an accident. Very dubious,
I handed it to Thorndyke and asked, what do you
think of this? Could it be cast without any risk
of breaking it? He laid the mold on the table
before him, so that the light fell obliquely across it,
and looked down on it reflectively. So said he, this

(21:16):
is the wax mold. I was reading about it only
yesterday in admiring your resourcefulness and ingenuity. I must read
the entry again with the actual object before me. He
opened the diary which he had laid on the table,
and when he had found the entry read it to
himself in an undertone. Dropped in to have tea with
Stella and found her bubbling with excitement and triumph. She

(21:38):
had just finished the portrait metal, and though her eyes
were red and painful from the strain of the close work,
in spite of her new spectacles, she was quite happy
and as proud as a little peacock. And well she
might be. I should like lan Terry to see his
unknown pupils work. We decided to make the mold of
it at once, but when I got out the plaster tin,

(21:59):
I found it antie most unfortunate, for the clay was
beginning to dry, and I didn't dare to damp it,
but something had to be done to protect it. Suddenly
I had a brilliant idea. There was nearly a whole
candle in Stella's candlestick, quite enough for a mold, and
good hard wax that wouldn't warp. I took off the
reflector and lighted the candle, which I took out of

(22:21):
the candlestick and held almost upside down over the clay metal,
and let the wax drip onto it. Soon the metal
was covered by a film of wax which grew thicker
and thicker, until by the time I had used up
practically the whole of the candle, there was a good
solid crust of wax, quite strong enough to cast from.
When I went home, I took the slate with me,

(22:42):
with the wax mold sticking to it, intending to cover
it with a plaster shell for extra safety. But my
plaster tin was empty too, so I put the slate
away in a safe place until I should get some
fresh plaster to make the cast, which will not happen
until I get back from Chelmsford. Busy evening getting ready
for tomorrow. Hope I shall feel less cheap then than

(23:03):
I do now. As Thorndyke finished reading, he looked up
and remarked, that was an excellent plan of yours. I
have seen Polton use the same method. But how was
it that you never made the cast? I was afraid
of damaging the mold, as you know. When I came
back from Ipswich, Stella was dead, and as the metal

(23:23):
was her last work and her best, I hardly dared
to risk the chance of destroying it. Still, Thorndyke urged
it was the metal that was her work, the mold
was your own, and the metal exists only potentially in
the mold. It will come into actual existence only when
the cast is made. I saw the force of this,

(23:44):
but I was still a little uneasy, and said, so
there is no occasion, said he. The mold is aptly
strong enough to cast from. It might possibly break in
separating the cast, but that would be of no consequence,
as you would then have the cast, which would be
the metal itself, and it could then be put into
bronze or silver. Very well, I said, if you guarantee

(24:07):
the safety of the operation, I am satisfied. I should
love to see it in silver, or perhaps it might
look even better in gold. Having disposed of the works themselves,
we felt to discussing the question of suitable settings or frames,
and this led us to the subject of the portraits.
Thorndyke glanced over the collection, and, picking up one which

(24:27):
happened to be my own favorite, looked at it thoughtfully.
It is a beautiful face, said he, And this seems
to have been a singularly happy portrait in red chalk autotype.
It would make a charming little picture. Did you take it? Yes?
And as I have the negative, I am inclined to
adopt your suggestion. I am surprised that I never thought

(24:48):
of it myself, for red chalk is exactly the right medium.
Then let Poulton have the negative. He is quite an
expert in autotype work. I accepted the offer gladly, and
we then came back to the question of framing. Thorndyke's
suggestion was that the portrait should be treated as a
medallion and enclosed in a frame to match that of
the metal. The idea appealed to me rather strongly, and

(25:11):
presently a further one occurred to me, though It was
suggested indirectly by Thorndike, who had taken up the tress
of Stella's hair and was looking at it admiringly as
he drew it softly between his fingers. Human hair, he remarked,
and particularly a woman's hair is always a beautiful material,
no matter what color it may be. But this red
gold variety is one of the most gorgeous of nature's productions. Yes,

(25:35):
I agreed, it is extremely decorative. Barbara had her tress
made up into a thin plate and worked into the
frame of a miniature of Stella. I like the idea,
but somehow the effect is not so very pleasing, but
it is an oblong frame. I don't think, said Thorndyke,
that a plate was quite the best form. A little
cable would look better, especially for a medallion portrait. Indeed,

(25:59):
I think that if if you had a plain, square
black frame with a circular opening, a little golden cable
carried round concentrically with the opening would have a rather
fine effect. So it would, I exclaimed, I think it
would look charming. I had no idea Thorndyke, that you
were a designer. Do you think Poulton could make the cable? Poulton,

(26:19):
he replied, impressively, can do anything that can be done
with a single pair of human hands. Let him have
the hair, and he will make the cable and the
frame too, and he will see that the glass cover
is an air tight fit, for of course the cable
would have to be under the glass to this also,
I agreed with a readiness that surprised myself. And yet

(26:40):
it was not surprising. Hitherto I had been accustomed, secretly
and in solitude, to pour over these pathetic little relics
of happier days, and lock up my sorrows on my
sense of bereavement in my own breast. Now, for the
first time I had a confidant who shared the knowledge
of my shattered hopes and vanished happiness, and so wholeheartedly

(27:01):
with such delicate sympathy and perfect understanding that Thorndyke entered
into the story of my troubled life. That I found
in his companionship not only a relief from my old
self repression, but a sort of subdued happiness. Almost cheerfully,
I fetched an empty cigar box and a supply of
cotton wool and tissue paper, and helped him tenderly and

(27:22):
delicately to pack my treasures for their first exodus from
under my roof. And it was with only a faint
twinge of regret that I saw him at length depart
with the box under his arm. He needn't be an
easy mayfield, he said, pausing on the stairs to look back.
Nothing will be injured, and as soon as the casting
is successfully carried through, I shall drop a note in

(27:44):
your letter box to set your mind at rest. Good night.
I watched him as he descended the stairs, and listened
to his quick footfalls fading away up the court. Then
I went back to my room with a faint sense
of desolation, to repack the depleted deed box, and thereafter
to betake myself to bed. End of chapter fourteen.