Grey Timothy/Chapter 18

The house was an old one. It stood back from the road, screened from the observations of the curious and the profane by a high untidy hedge that overtopped a wooden paling, a little the worse for wear. The house had been built for comfort rather than beauty, and had reached a stage in its existence when it possessed neither attributes. It had the appearance of being empty, so Dr Ernest Crane and Brian thought, as they pushed open the gate with some labour and negotiated the weed-grown paths; the upper windows stared blankly, innocent of curtain; the windows of the ‘best’ floor were shuttered, as also were the lower windows.

Brian picked a way to the front door—there had been a shower of rain, and the water lay in puddles. He was mounting the steps when he checked himself.

“Somebody has been here who smokes Turkish cigarettes,” he said, pointing with his stick to the rain-trodden remnant of such a one.

“True, O Sherlock,” said the doctor flippantly, “but apparently all sorts of medical birds come here for the by-products of Nature.”

Brian knocked at the door, a smart rat-tat, and the hollow echo of it rang through the house. They waited for some little time, then Brian knocked again.

“I’m afraid there’s nobody in,” he said. He had hardly spoken before there came a shuffling of feet in the uncarpeted hall, and with a great rattling of chains and shooting of bolts the door was opened cautiously by a very dirty-looking old man. He held a milk-jug in his hand and seemed disappointed to discover who his visitors were.

“Thought you wor the milkman,” he said, with a burr which Brian failed to locate. “Coom in, lad, doan’t stand theer.”

He closed the door behind them, putting the milk-jug on the ground as he adjusted the chains—there were two—and pushed home the bolts.

“Who might thee be wanting to see, sitha?” he asked querulously.

“We wish to see the doctor,” said Brian, wondering what sort of man the doctor could be to employ such a scarecrow. For the man was disreputable. From his tousled grey head to his soiled slippers he was a model of slovenliness. An old plaid scarf was tied under his chin, he wore a big drooping knitted waistcoat, though the day was warm, and his trousers and coat had been intended for wearers of more ample size.

“Coom in,” he snorted.

He opened the door of a room and ushered them in. The furniture was dingy, the wall-papers were peeling off in various odd corners. In the centre of the room was a big table piled up with an indescribable mass of papers, books, balls of string, odd sheets of manuscript, and dirty test-tubes. One corner of the desk had been cleared to allow of the use of a microscope. This alone seemed adequately protected from dust, for a glass cup cover was over it.

“Sit you down,” commanded the old man. “Ah’m doctor.” He seated himself opposite the centre of the table on a swing chair and grinned at their discomfiture. “Ay,” he went on. “Ah’m doctor all reet, sitha, though nowt like doctor thee expected to see—ah? Get on, lad; just tell me what tickles tha.”

There was a good-humoured glint in his deepset eyes, and for all Brian’s aversion to his uncleanly host, he felt the man was straight.

“I’ve come to see you about a peculiar business,” he said. “My name is Pallard, and I own race-horses.”

“Ah!” said the old man with another grin. “Ah know tha! Gotten a horse called Grey Timothy, hasn’t tha? Ah backed him oop an’ down, in an’ out wi’ the horse that won Goodwood Coop. Ah took tens, an’ eats, an’ sixes, an’ fower, your horse, lad, an’ he got hoom a short head.”

It was Brian’s turn to smile.

“I’m glad you’re a sportsman, doctor,” he said, “because it makes what I’ve got to say much easier. You will have read in the papers that Greenpol, another horse of mine, dropped dead on the course.”

The doctor nodded.

“Well,” Brian went on, “my horse died because he had been bitten by tsetse flies.”

The old man’s eyes suddenly lighted.

“Tsetse?” he repeated, “art sure?”

“My friend here, Dr Ernest Crane”—the old man favoured the other with a courtly nod—“has the beasts with him.”

Ernest produced his box and handed it over to the old man, who opened it. He poked the contents with a knitting needle which lay amongst the miscellaneous rubbish on the table.

“No doot,” he said, “yons glossina morsitans,” he turned the fly over again. “Wheer did ye get him?”

“I found him in my stable, after the horse had died mysteriously.”

“He would die mysteriously,” said the old man, and chuckled. And he began to tell them of the fatal effect of the fly’s bite. As he warmed to his subject his queer dialect dropped away from him—only now and again did he relapse.

“You came to me to verify the identity of yon?” he asked. “Well, theer’s no doubt about it—come with me.”

He led the way to another room. When he opened the door the heat of the room smote the two men in the face. It was almost bare, save for a double line of shelves round the room, and a plain table in the centre. On the shelves were a number of glass cases.

“In these,” said the old doctor, indicating the cases with a wave of his grimy hand, “I keep my flies. Every death-dealing tropical fly in the world is here. Look at those elephant flies.”

Brian looked at the fat insects with their big comical eyes, that floundered about the bottom of one of the cages. They were as big as a very small bird.

“They’re harmless,” said the doctor. “They’ll give you a nip, but they leave no ill effects.”

He bred flies for the schools and dealt in animal poisons largely.

Brian politely declined an invitation to visit the reptile house in the basement, though the old man promised him something very rare in the shape of a new variety of wire snake from Borneo. They returned to his study, and Brian produced a soiled and crumpled little box.

“Have you ever seen a box of this description?” he asked. The old man looked at it.

“Yes, it is a fairly common type of powderbox—in fact, I have a score of them.”

He looked up inquiringly.

“Have you disposed of any tsetse flies recently,” asked Brian, “and had them placed in such a box?”

The doctor searched amongst the debris on his table and found a book. He opened it, and ran his forefinger down a list.

“I have sent to the Pasteur Institute, to the London School, to the Medical Mission of the Congo, and to a private scientist.”

He closed the book.

“Might I ask the name of the private client?” asked Ernest.

The old man looked at him from under bent brows.

“Ordinarily I would not tell ye,” he said, “but since the fellow”—he pronounced it ‘felly’—“is beyond suspicion, ’twas a member of the aristocracy.”

“Lord Pinlow?” asked Brian quietly.

“Lord Pinlow,” said the other, nodding, “introduced by that well-known financier, Mr Augustus Fanks.”

“Did they give you any reason—if you will pardon my pressing you?”

“Lord Pinlow, as I understand, is an enthusiastic amateur scientist,” said the other.

“Thank you,” said Brian, and held out his hand. “I am sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all,” said the other. He was frankly anxious to see the last of the people who had broken in upon his studies and shuffled in advance to open the street door for them.

Brian was glad to be out in the fresh air again; as he was descending the broken steps the old man called him back.

“You’ll let me know when owd Grye Tims runnan agen, sitha,” he whispered. “Ah can get fi’ poons on up to set time o’ race.”

“I most certainly will,” smiled Brian.

“Rum old bird,” was his comment as they turned into the road, “but perfectly straight. Ever met him before?”

“I’ve heard about him,” replied Ernest. “He’s rather a well-known man in his own line of business.” They had left their car at the end of the little thoroughfare in which the house of the old doctor was situated.

“What is the next move?” asked Ernest, as they boarded the car.

“The innocent Horace,” said Brian. “I am going to have this beggar laid by the heels, and I am going to collect evidence. I have asked him to be at Knightsbridge at five.”

It was a few minutes after that hour when the car pulled up before the door of Brian’s house.

“Has anybody come?” he asked the servant.

“Mr Callander, sir,” said the man.

“Good!”

Brian hung up his hat and went to the study. Horace Callander was standing by the window overlooking the park. His attitude was that of a man in a state of mind bordering upon funk. He turned round sharply as the door clicked, and faced Brian in silence.

That of itself was a confession of guilt, and the young owner took advantage of the situation.

“Mr Callander,” he said quietly. “You know Lord Pinlow, I think?”

Horace cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Did he give you an errand to perform when you visited Mr Colter’s stables?”

Horace hesitated.

“Yes,” he said.

“Will you tell me the nature of that errand?”

Again the hesitation.

“I do not know that you have the right to ask me,” said Horace.

“I have no right by convention,” said Brian, “but I have a moral right because, as a result of your visit, I believe one of my horses was killed.”

“I know nothing about—I did not—I was innocent,” stammered the other. “Pinlow asked me to do him a turn—he was superstitious and told me to empty the box to bring him luck. I’ll swear I knew nothing about flies!”

“That I believe,” said Brian gently. He spoke to the other as though he were a child. “I am willing and happy to believe that.”

“I was in a hole,” Horace went on. “I’m absolutely ruined, Pallard. I’ve been speculating—quite a business speculation, don’t you know, nothing of a gambling character—and Pinlow said he’d lend me the money. And he hasn’t, Pallard!” A sob of self-pity came from the deluded youth. “He’s played me a dirtier trick than I played on you, though I swear I knew nothing about it.”

Incoherently he told the story of Pinlow’s superstition, and Brian listened with a sense of relief. After all, this was the brother of Gladys, and if he had been guilty, and wittingly so, it would have been awkward. When the panic-stricken Horace had finished his confession Brian patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“You seem to have been a mug—a victim,” he said; “obviously you are not to blame. How much money did you want from Pinlow?”

“Two thousand,” said Horace wistfully.

“You must let me fix that up for you,” said Brian, and silenced the wild thanks of the other by ringing the bell.

“Tea,” he ordered; “and now, Ernest, we’ve got to fix brother Pinlow for good.”

“He’ll want a lot of fixing,” said Ernest. “Have you got a plan?”

“A very simple one,” said Brian dryly. “I shall go to the police.”

“I say,” said Horace in alarm, “that will bring me into the business, won’t it?”

This was an unexpected objection. Brian did not worry overmuch about bringing Horace ‘into the business’—he had very special reason for keeping Gladys out of it. And this he would not be able to do; for she had been present when the flies had been released.

The police, then, were out of the question. It was equally out of the question to allow Pinlow to go free.

Brian considered the proposition for some time, and then decided.

“There’s another man in this,” he said; “that man is Fanks; but he is too slippery an eel to attempt to corner. It is Pinlow or nothing.”

He got rid of Horace as soon as possible, and the doctor and he drove direct to Pinlow’s chambers.

Lord Pinlow was not at home, the servant said. He had left for the Continent on the previous night. From the smooth way the servant delivered his message, Brian gathered that this was not the first time that day he had had to recite the formulæ.

“Do you know where I can find his lordship?” persisted Brian.

“No, sir,” said the man promptly; “his lordship never leaves his address when he goes away for a long stay.”

“I see,” said Brian. They were standing in the hall of the Pall Mall flat. “Would you be surprised to learn that Lord Pinlow has not left London?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

In the hall a hat was hanging. Without ceremony Brian stepped forward and lifted it from the hat-peg.

“That is one of his lordship’s old hats,” said the man hastily.

“I suppose so,” said Brian. He ran his fingers round the inside band. It was warm and a little damp. “Lord Pinlow is in this house, and I am going to see him,” he said.

The man stood before him, but Brian pushed him gently aside. He noted that the man looked apprehensively at one of the two doors which opened from the hall. Brian tried the door; it was locked.

He stooped and took a swift survey. It was locked from the inside.

He put his shoulder to the door and gave it a sharp thrust.

It resisted his effort, and he wisely made no further attempt. Instead he knocked at the door.

“I assure you, sir,” began the agitated manservant.

“Pinlow,” said Brian loudly, “open the door, you skulking hound!”

There was no answer.

“Open it,” said Brian between his teeth, “or I’ll blow the lock out!” He had his hand at his hip pocket when there was a step heard inside the room, a key clicked, and the door was flung open.

Pinlow, defiant, his hands on his hips, stood in the centre of the room waiting.

“Well?” he asked harshly.

Brian looked at him, breathing quickly.

“I’ve got an account to settle with you,” he said.

“Settle it,” said the other.

Brian observed the position of his hands and knew that one held a revolver, though he could not see it.

“You can put your gun down,” he said contemptuously. “I shan’t hurt you.”

“I’ll take jolly good care you don’t,” said Pinlow, with a short laugh. “What is the game?”

Brian closed the door behind him.

“Pinlow,” he said, “I’ve got a case against you that would lead to your conviction in any court. For reasons which I do not care to explain, I prefer to bring your crime before the jockey Club.”

“I don’t think you will,” said the other coolly.

Brian’s eyes narrowed.

“Then you are going through life harbouring a delusion,” he replied quietly.

“Look here.” Pinlow laid the revolver down on the table that separated him from his enemy. “You know me well enough to believe that if I got in a corner, I’d fight.”

“There are few rats that wouldn’t,” said the punter.

“I don’t care a curse what you call me,” said Pinlow; “you’ve threatened me with a warning-off notice—and that will finish me, as you know. And I tell you”—he shook his forefinger at the other—“that so sure as you push this matter to a fight, so sure will I come out on top.”

“That we shall see,” said Brian. “I’ve come to make you an offer. You can sign a full confession and agree to clear out of the country, and I will undertake not to let the matter go any further.”

“I’ll see you”

Pinlow expressed himself without reserve. Then he checked himself.

“I’ll make you an offer,” he said. “Lend me ten thousand pounds, and I’ll agree to anything you like; if not” “If not?” repeated Brian.

“You’ll be sorry for yourself, that’s all,” said his lordship.

“I dare say,” said Brian, and left the room without another word.

Pinlow stood listening until he heard the door of the flat close, then he smiled crookedly, and there was murder in that smile.