Mystery of 31 New Inn , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Austin Freeman R.

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

168 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

This classic detective tale shares a number of characteristics with the Sherlock Holmes series penned by Arthur Conan Doyle -- enough to ensure that Holmes fans will feel right at home -- but the duo of sleuth Dr. Thorndyke and his protege Christopher Jarvis are unique enough to earn readers' loyalty on their own merits.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775451716
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE MYSTERY OF 31 NEW INN
* * *
R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

*

The Mystery of 31 New Inn First published in 1912 ISBN 978-1-775451-71-6 © 2011 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Preface Chapter I - The Mysterious Patient Chapter II - Thorndyke Devises a Scheme Chapter III - "A Chiel's Amang Ye Takin' Notes" Chapter IV - The Official View Chapter V - Jeffrey Blackmore's Will Chapter VI - Jeffrey Blackmore, Deceased Chapter VII - The Cuneiform Inscription Chapter VIII - The Track Chart Chapter IX - The House of Mystery Chapter X - The Hunter Hunted Chapter XI - The Blackmore Case Reviewed Chapter XII - The Portrait Chapter XIII - The Statement of Samuel Wilkins Chapter XIV - Thorndyke Lays the Mine Chapter XV - Thorndyke Explodes the Mine Chapter XVI - An Exposition and a Tragedy
Preface
*
Commenting upon one of my earlier novels, in respect of which I hadclaimed to have been careful to adhere to common probabilities and tohave made use only of really practicable methods of investigation, acritic remarked that this was of no consequence whatever, so long as thestory was amusing.
Few people, I imagine, will agree with him. To most readers, andcertainly to the kind of reader for whom an author is willing to taketrouble, complete realism in respect of incidents and methods is anessential factor in maintaining the interest of a detective story. Henceit may be worth while to mention that Thorndyke's method of producingthe track chart, described in Chapters II and III, has been actuallyused in practice. It is a modification of one devised by me many yearsago when I was crossing Ashanti to the city of Bontuku, the whereaboutsof which in the far interior was then only vaguely known. Myinstructions were to fix the positions of all towns, villages, riversand mountains as accurately as possible; but finding ordinary methods ofsurveying impracticable in the dense forest which covers the wholeregion, I adopted this simple and apparently rude method, checking thedistances whenever possible by astronomical observation.
The resulting route-map was surprisingly accurate, as shown by theagreement of the outward and homeward tracks, It was published by theRoyal Geographical Society, and incorporated in the map of this regioncompiled by the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and it formed thebasis of the map which accompanied my volume of Travels in Ashanti andJaman . So that Thorndyke's plan must be taken as quite a practicableone.
New Inn, the background of this story, and one of the last survivinginns of Chancery, has recently passed away after upwards of fourcenturies of newness. Even now, however, a few of the old, dismantledhouses (including perhaps, the mysterious 31) may be seen from theStrand peeping over the iron roof of the skating rink which hasdisplaced the picturesque hall, the pension-room and the garden. Thepostern gate, too, in Houghton Street still remains, though the arch isbricked up inside. Passing it lately, I made the rough sketch whichappears on next page, and which shows all that is left of this pleasantold London backwater.
R. A. F.
GRAVESEND
Chapter I - The Mysterious Patient
*
As I look back through the years of my association with John Thorndyke,I am able to recall a wealth of adventures and strange experiences suchas falls to the lot of very few men who pass their lives within hearingof Big Ben. Many of these experiences I have already placed on record;but it now occurs to me that I have hitherto left unrecorded one thatis, perhaps, the most astonishing and incredible of the whole series; anadventure, too, that has for me the added interest that it inauguratedmy permanent association with my learned and talented friend, and markedthe close of a rather unhappy and unprosperous period of my life.
Memory, retracing the journey through the passing years to thestarting-point of those strange events, lands me in a shabby littleground-floor room in a house near the Walworth end of Lower KenningtonLane. A couple of framed diplomas on the wall, a card of Snellen'stest-types and a stethoscope lying on the writing-table, proclaim it adoctor's consulting-room; and my own position in the round-backed chairat the said table, proclaims me the practitioner in charge.
It was nearly nine o'clock. The noisy little clock on the mantelpieceannounced the fact, and, by its frantic ticking, seemed as anxious as Ito get the consultation hours over. I glanced wistfully at mymud-splashed boots and wondered if I might yet venture to assume theslippers that peeped coyly from under the shabby sofa. I even allowed mythoughts to wander to the pipe that reposed in my coat pocket. Anotherminute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door.The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as ifit should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." Andat that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in hishead, uttered the one word: "Gentleman."
Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity. But Iunderstood. In Kennington Lane, the race of mere men and women appearedto be extinct. They were all gentlemen—unless they were ladies orchildren—even as the Liberian army was said to consist entirely ofgenerals. Sweeps, labourers, milkmen, costermongers—all wereimpartially invested by the democratic bottle-boy with the rank andtitle of armigeri . The present nobleman appeared to favour thearistocratic recreation of driving a cab or job-master's carriage, and,as he entered the room, he touched his hat, closed the door somewhatcarefully, and then, without remark, handed me a note which bore thesuperscription "Dr. Stillbury."
"You understand," I said, as I prepared to open the envelope, "that Iam not Dr. Stillbury. He is away at present and I am looking after hispatients."
"It doesn't signify," the man replied. "You'll do as well."
On this, I opened the envelope and read the note, which was quite brief,and, at first sight, in no way remarkable.
"DEAR SIR," it ran, "Would you kindly come and see a friend of mine whois staying with me? The bearer of this will give you further particularsand convey you to the house. Yours truly, H. WEISS."
There was no address on the paper and no date, and the writer wasunknown to me.
"This note," I said, "refers to some further particulars. What arethey?"
The messenger passed his hand over his hair with a gesture ofembarrassment. "It's a ridicklus affair," he said, with a contemptuouslaugh. "If I had been Mr. Weiss, I wouldn't have had nothing to do withit. The sick gentleman, Mr. Graves, is one of them people what can'tabear doctors. He's been ailing now for a week or two, but nothing wouldinduce him to see a doctor. Mr. Weiss did everything he could topersuade him, but it was no go. He wouldn't. However, it seems Mr. Weissthreatened to send for a medical man on his own account, because, yousee, he was getting a bit nervous; and then Mr. Graves gave way. Butonly on one condition. He said the doctor was to come from a distanceand was not to be told who he was or where he lived or anything abouthim; and he made Mr. Weiss promise to keep to that condition before he'dlet him send. So Mr. Weiss promised, and, of course, he's got to keephis word."
"But," I said, with a smile, "you've just told me his name—if his namereally is Graves."
"You can form your own opinion on that," said the coachman.
"And," I added, "as to not being told where he lives, I can see that formyself. I'm not blind, you know."
"We'll take the risk of what you see," the man replied. "The questionis, will you take the job on?"
Yes; that was the question, and I considered it for some time beforereplying. We medical men are pretty familiar with the kind of person who"can't abear doctors," and we like to have as little to do with him aspossible. He is a thankless and unsatisfactory patient. Intercourse withhim is unpleasant, he gives a great deal of trouble and responds badlyto treatment. If this had been my own practice, I should have declinedthe case off-hand. But it was not my practice. I was only a deputy. Icould not lightly refuse work which would yield a profit to myprincipal, unpleasant though it might be.
As I turned the matter over in my mind, I half unconsciously scrutinizedmy visitor—somewhat to his embarrassment—and I liked his appearanceas little as I liked his mission. He kept his station near the door,where the light was dim—for the illumination was concentrated on thetable and the patient's chair—but I could see that he had a somewhatsly, unprepossessing face and a greasy, red moustache that seemed out ofcharacter with his rather perfunctory livery; though this was mereprejudice. He wore a wig, too—not that there was anything discreditablein that—and the thumb-nail of the hand that held his hat boredisfiguring traces of some injury—which, again, though unsightly, in nowise reflected on his moral character. Lastly, he watched me keenly witha mixture of anxiety and sly complacency that I found distinctlyunpleasant. In a general way, he impressed me disagreeably. I did notlike the look of him at all; but nevertheless I decided to undertake thecase.
"I suppose," I answered, at length, "it is no affair of mine who thepatient is or where he lives. But how do you propose to manage thebusiness? Am I to be led to the house blindfolded, like the visitor tothe bandit's cave?"
The man grinned slightly and looked very