Chapter One
The Gifted Stranger
The humblest of creatures play their useful, and sometimes indispensable, parts in the great scheme of Nature. My introduction to the strange events connected with the Gifted Stranger was effected by a mere railway guard, and a mighty unceremonious one at that. He had blown his ridiculous whistle and waved his absurd flag, the engine had uttered a warning shriek, and the train had actually begun to move, when I raced wildly up the platform at Herne Hill.
“’Ere, in you get!” shouted the guard, spitting out his whistle and wrenching open a door; and, as I scrambled on the footboard, he applied a vis a tergo that sent me staggering across the compartment and caused the only other occupant hastily to draw up his foot and rub that portion of his boot that corresponds to the corn on the little toe.
“Seem to be in a hurry,” the proprietor of the toe remarked sourly.
“I’m not really,” I replied. “It was the guard. I am sorry I trod on your foot.”
“So am I,” was the acid rejoinder. And the conversation languished.
I put my bag and stick in the rack and spread myself out. It was a first-class compartment, my ticket was a third, and the first stoppage was at Faversham. This was highly gratifying. We all like to get some of our own back from the railway companies.
My companion sat and stared out at the house roofs that floated past the window as if immersed in his own reflections. He was a massively-built man with large feet, a sandy moustache, and a peculiarly foxy type of countenance. Socially I could not place him at all. He did not look like a professional man, or a farmer, or a ship-master, or, for the matter of that, like a first-class passenger. But that was none of my business.
Presently he produced a letter from his pocket, and, holding it nearly at arm’s length, slowly read it through. Now I object strongly to people who read letters under your very nose, for, try as you will, you can’t help an occasional glance, and then you are annoyed with yourself. This was a long letter, written in a bold, legible hand on both sides of the paper and held out in the full light of the window. I tried to look away, but again and again my eyes unconsciously turned towards it and each time I found myself reading a sentence before I recollected myself. What made it worse was that the sentences were so very odd that they tempted me to steal a further glance to see what they meant, and my struggles to resist the temptation were not so successful as I should have wished.
“If it is really true, there is a fortune waiting for somebody.”
I had read this sentence before I had the presence of mind to shut my eyes. And even while I was considering the question, If what was true? behold! my eyes had automatically opened and taken in another sentence.
“Your peculiar gifts and experience ought to help you to solve it.”
I turned my eyes away guiltily, but could not help speculating. What were his peculiar gifts – besides a hypersensitive little toe? And what would they help him to solve? Before I was aware of it, my eyes were back on the paper and had lighted on this astonishing statement:
“It is in the room in which there is an iron pump and a sedan chair.”
Good Heavens! I ejaculated inwardly. What kind of room can it be that contains an iron pump and a sedan chair? And what can the rest of the furniture be like? In my amazement I stared at the letter like a fool, and at that moment I caught the eye of the owner.
It was very embarrassing. Of course I oughtn’t to have looked at the letter, but then he ought not to have held it under my nose. And, in any case, it was rude of him to stare at me as he put the letter away and then to move pointedly to the other end of the compartment. I felt it very much and for some time sat gaping out of the window in great confusion, trying to ignore my fellow passenger.
When, at length, I ventured to glance in his direction, I again caught his eye. But now there was a new expression in it; an expression of interest and lively curiosity. He held a number of official-looking blue papers in his hand, and, when he caught my glance, he hastily gathered them together – so hastily that he dropped one, and before he could snatch it up from the floor, I was able to observe that it had a photograph pasted on it. He seemed unreasonably annoyed about the accident – for it was only a man’s portrait, after all. He rammed the papers into his inside breast pocket, buttoned his coat, stuck his hands deep into his pockets and looked as if he would have liked to stick his feet in, too, and so generally put himself out of sight. For the rest of the journey he sat motionless in his corner, staring out of the window like a cataleptic waxwork, evidently determined to offer no further entertainment.
But he had given me some food for reflection to go on with. There was the room, for instance, which contained a pump, a sedan chair and “It.” What on earth could “It” be? A stuffed elephant, perhaps, or a full-size model of the Victory, or some similar portable trifle. And then my companion’s “peculiar gifts and experience”, what could that mean? Was he a clairvoyant or a crystal-gazer? He didn’t look like one. But there was that photograph, and here my thoughts wandered off into speculative channels, which led nowhere, as I had not his peculiar gifts.
From these wanderings I presently came back to my own affairs. I had been sent down to Canterbury by old Morlett, our senior partner, on business connected with a property called Elham Manor. The rather ruinous old house had been taken by an American gentleman, Mr Jezreel P Damper, for one year on trial, with the understanding that, if he liked it, he should take it on lease. He had already been given possession but had apparently not entered into residence, and my business was to inspect the premises and make local arrangements for the execution of such repairs as I thought necessary, consulting with Mr Damper if he was to be found. When I had done this I was to take a fortnight’s holiday.
At Canterbury West my gifted fellow-traveller alighted and walked slowly towards the barrier. I bustled past him, and, unostentatiously presenting my third-class ticket, hurried out of the station, down the approach into the High Street. Jubilantly I took my way along the venerable thoroughfare towards the massive towers of the West Gate, anxiously considering where I should put up for the night, until my eye lighted on the jovial sign of the Falstaff Inn. Now a real painted sign is in these days a thing to be thankful for, and such a painted sign, too, to say nothing of the fine forged ironwork. I halted to admire the portrait of jolly Sir John, then, on the front of the house, I descried the winged wheel of the CTC, whereupon I dived in through the low doorway and demanded high tea and a night’s lodging.
There is great comfort in an old-fashioned inn with a painted signboard and a landlord who knows what’s what. I sat complacently in the coffee room and watched a minor canon, disguised as a waiter, prepare the table for afternoon service and vanish silently. I sniffed a growing aroma of grilled ham, and when, anon, the canon reappeared, staggering majestically with a Falstaffian tea tray, I drew up to the table, poured myself out a bumper of tea, and decapitated a soft-boiled egg at a single stroke. And at that very moment the coffee-room door opened and in walked my peculiarly gifted fellow-traveller.
He did not appear to notice me, which was uncomfortable. I am not a conspicuous man, but I am quite visible to the naked eye at a distance of seven feet, which was the distance that separated us as he sat at the other end of the table pretending that I didn’t exist. It was not only uncomfortable, it was offensive. Perhaps his toe still rankled in his breast – if I may use the expression – or my inadvertent glance at his letter was still unforgiven. In any case his glum and silent presence at the table destroyed all pleasure in my meal. It was neither solitude nor company. Hurriedly I gobbled up eggs, ham and toast, drained the teapot to the last drop, rose from the table and stalked out of the room.
A couple of minutes later I was once more strolling up the High Street, debating whether I should begin my business at once or wait till the morrow. Entering the city by the West Gate, I paused on the bridge to look down on the quiet river, the flock of resting boats, and the picturesque houses with their thresholds awash, leaning over their unsteady reflections, when, chancing to look back, to my surprise and annoyance I observed the gifted stranger sauntering towards me.
It was very singular. I had left the inn only a few minutes and when I came away he had but just begun his meal. This indecorous haste in feeding further prejudiced me against him, which, together with a dim suspicion that he was following me, made me decide to get clear of him. Starting forward, I strode down a by-street, darted through an archway and along an alley and then traversing a narrow lane once more found myself in the High Street.
A careful look round showed me that the gifted one was not in sight. Probably he had gone down the by-street and missed the archway. I was turning to resume my walk when I perceived straight before me the entrance of the City Museum. Now museums have a fascination for me, especially provincial museums, which are apt to contain antiquities of local interest. The present one, too, offered a sanctuary from my gifted acquaintance, for if he was really following me, he would probably spend the rest of the day scouring the streets in search of me. Accordingly I entered the museum and began to browse round the galleries, of which the first two that I entered were tenanted by a dreary company of stuffed birds. From the ornithological rooms I passed to a picture gallery furnished abundantly with examples of the old masters of the “brown and shiny” school. This was not very thrilling. What was more to the point was a notice on the wall directing visitors to the Coplin Collection of local antiquities. Following the direction of the pointing hand, I started forthwith along a narrow passage that led to a distant annexe, which, to judge by its present condition, was seldom trodden by the foot of man. At the end of the passage I came to a large room, at the threshold of which I halted with a gasp of recognition. For the first thing that met my eye was a sedan chair, and the second, a curious iron pump.
This, then, was the mysterious room. The next question was What was “It”? I ran my eye over the various objects displayed confidingly on tables, unguarded by glass covers. “Leather corset, said to have been worn by Queen Elizabeth,” and extremely contracted in the region of the gizzard. That wasn’t it. “Ivory recorder with silver key.” That wasn’t it. “Wheel-lock musket,” “Child’s Shoe,” “Carved horn drinking-cup,” none of these fitted the implied description. And, at last, I came to the veritable “It”.
No doubt was possible. I identified it at the first glance. Mystery and secrecy exhaled from it like a subtle perfume. Concentrating my attention to a perfect focus, I bent over the table to examine it minutely.
It was a silver mirror, a small piece, of charming design and exquisite workmanship, wrought – mirror and frame together – from a single plate of silver. The few square inches of polished surface were surrounded by a broad, richly ornamented frame, the design of which included an encompassing ribbon which supported an oblong pendant. And here was where the mystery came in. For on ribbon and pendant was engraved, in delightfully picturesque “old face” lettering, the following strange inscription:
“A Harp and a Cross and goode redd golde,
Beneath ye Cross with ye Harp full nigh,
Ankores three atte ye foote of a tree
And a Maid from ye Sea on high.
Take itt. Tis thine. Others have stepped over.
Simon Glynn. 1683.”
I read through this poetic gem a half a dozen times and was none the wiser then. In sporting parlance, it was a “fair knockout”. I could make nothing of it. At length I turned to the descriptive label for enlightenment – and didn’t get it.
“Small silver mirror, discovered in 1734, concealed in an aumbry in Elham Manor House. This house was built by Simon Glynn, a goldsmith and an official of the mint under the Commonwealth, who lived in it for many years. The aumbry was discovered behind the panelling of the dining room during some repairs. The mirror is believed to be Glynn’s own work and the doggerel verses engraved on the frame are supposed to refer to some hidden treasure, but their exact meaning has never been ascertained. See Boteler’s ‘Manor Houses of Kent’, for an account of Simon Glynn and Elham Manor House.”
Here was news indeed! Elham Manor! I had the keys in my pocket at the very moment! And I had full authority to carry out any structural repairs that I thought necessary! And the cryptogram had never been deciphered!
Now I understood that mysterious sentence in my friend’s letter: “There is a fortune waiting for somebody.” Yes, indeed! Perhaps it was waiting for me. I seemed to understand, too, why the gifted one had dogged me in that singular manner. No doubt his letter had contained some helpful tips and he suspected that I had read them – and I wished I had, now. But he little suspected that I had the run of Elham Manor, and I mustn’t let him if I could help it.
Feverishly I copied into my notebook the inscription and the label. Then I wandered round the room, thinking hard and looking at the exhibits. Should I repair to the adjoining library and look up Boteler, or should I make a beeline for the Manor House? I turned over this question before the pump, the shoe, the pistol and the recorder, but could not make up my mind. I cogitated as I stood in front of the sedan chair, vainly seeking to peer in through the curtained windows. In sheer absence of mind, I tried the fastening, and when, to my surprise, the door came open, revealing the snugly-cushioned interior, I became suddenly possessed by an insane curiosity to feel what the inside of a sedan chair was like. Yielding to the impulse, I backed in and sat down, and then, to complete the sensation, I drew the door to, when it shut with an audible click.
I sat in the semi-darkness turning over my problem. Should I risk the publicity of the reading room or go direct to the Manor House? And what the deuce could Simon Glynn mean by that absurd doggerel? The sedan chair was extremely comfortable, and the dim light that filtered in through the worn curtains was pleasant and conducive to thought. I enjoyed myself amazingly – until my ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps and an unmistakable clerical voice. Then, thinking that it was high time to move, I gave a gentle push at the door.
But the confounded thing wouldn’t budge. I pushed a little harder, but the door only creaked protestingly. It evidently had a snap catch. In short, I was locked in. I was about to try if the front window could be let down when the footsteps entered the room and a sonorous clerical voice arose in wordy exposition. I broke out into a cold perspiration and hardly dared to breathe – especially as the dusty interior was inducing a distinct tendency to sneeze.
“Here is a sedan chair,” the voice expounded, “a vehicle which illustrates – leave that handle alone, James, you are not allowed to touch – which illustrates the primitive modes of locomotion in use among our forefathers. You will observe –”
Here I seized my nose with both hands. My eyes watered. My shoulders heaved. I tried to hold my breath, but it was no go. I felt it coming – coming – and at last it came.
“Ha chow!”
The expounding voice ceased. There was a deathly silence. And then, in stern accents:
“How many more times am I to remind you, Alfred, of the indecorousness of sneezing in public places?”
“Please, sir, it wasn’t me,” piped a small, protesting voice.
“ ‘It wasn’t me’! You mean, I presume, ‘It was not I.’ And don’t make your bad manners and bad grammar worse by prevarication. I heard you. Let us move on.”
They moved on. The solemn exposition continued. And then they moved off. As their footsteps retreated, I made a tentative attack on the front window, but hardly had I grasped the webbing strap when my ear caught a faint creak. There was someone in the room, still, a person with one slightly creaky boot. I heard the creak travel slowly round the room, halting at intervals. Then it made a prolonged halt – in the neighbourhood of the mirror, as I judged by the sound. And meanwhile I sat and perspired with anxiety.
Presently the creaking boot moved on again. It travelled more quickly now; and it began to travel in my direction. Slowly, gradually it approached, nearer and nearer it came, until, at last, it was opposite my prison. And there it paused. I held my breath until I was like to burst. How much longer was the idiot going to stand there staring like a fool at an ordinary, commonplace sedan chair?
I was on the very verge of suffocation when something touched the handle. Then it turned slowly; the door opened, and there – yes – my prophetic soul! it was – my highly gifted friend. He looked in at me with sour surprise and hastily closed his note book. But he made no remark. After a prolonged stare he made an attempt to shut the door, but I had the presence of mind to stick my foot out. Then he turned away. I listened to his footsteps retreating down the passage at a slow saunter until they were faint in the distance, when their rhythm suddenly changed to that of a quick walk. He was off somewhere in a great hurry – probably to the library to consult Boteler.
I stepped out of my prison with my mind made up. I would go and make a preliminary inspection of Elham Manor and read up Boteler when I had seen it. Striding briskly down the passage and through the galleries I came out into the street and turned towards the road to Sturry. I knew my way, for I had looked it up on the Ordnance Map. The old house stood on a side road between Sturry and the village of Bouldersby, only a mile or two out of the town.
What men?
“The men who were in the orchard, watching us over the wall.”
Burbler sprang to his feet, with one boot unlaced. For one moment the four officers and the station sergeant stared at me in silence; for another moment they stared at one another; then, with one accord, they made a rush for the door.
I followed them out. The fly was still waiting at the kerb, and the five men were endeavouring to enter it simultaneously by the same doorway. I watched their frantic struggles. I saw them finally pack themselves in; and, when the inspector had snorted out the destination, I saw the fly drive off. Then I slowly wended my way back to the Falstaff and bespoke a substantial dinner.
