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  Copyright & Information

  Mr Pottermack’s Oversight

  First published in 1930

  © W.L.Briant; House of Stratus 1930-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of R.Austin Freeman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755103688 9780755103683 Print

  0755128370 9780755128372 Kindle

  0755128710 9780755128716 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Richard Austin Freeman, the doyen of the scientific division of detective writing is best known for his character Dr John Thorndyke. A close and careful investigator and the outstanding medical authority in the field of detective fiction, R. Austin Freeman not only tested the wits of the reader, but also inspired many modern detective forensic methods. The most famous of the Edwardian detective writers, he rescued the detective story from “thrillerdom” and made it acceptable to a more discerning class of reader.

  Freeman initially trained as an apothecary and then studied medicine, before joining the Colonial Service on the Gold Coast in Africa. Suffering from blackwater fever, he returned to London, but when unable to find a permanent medical position turned to writing. His first books were co-written and published under the name of ‘Clifford Ashdown’, but by the turn of the twentieth century he settled upon his own character ‘Dr. Thorndyke’ and published his first solo effort, ‘The Red Thumb Mark’, in 1907.

  During the First World War he served as a Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps and after demob continued with his writing. Amongst this is to be found the inverted detective story, which he invented. Here, the identity of the miscreant was known to the reader from the start. It was first successfully tried in a series of short stories contained in ‘The Singing Bone’. Freeman claimed that despite the reader being in possession of all the facts concerning the crime, he or she would be ‘so occupied with the crime that he would overlook the evidence’. The second part of each of these stories details the investigation of the crime.

  Raymond Chandler once wrote:

  ‘This man Austin Freeman is a wonderful performer. He has no equal in his genre, and he is also a much better writer than you might think, if you were superficially inclined, because in spite of the immense leisure of his writing, he accomplishes an even suspense which is quite unexpected.’

  Amongs the many other tributes, The Times referred to the Dr. Thorndyke Series as ‘The Ace of Detectives’.

  The authors of today’s popular forensic detective TV series and books are in reality continuing in the ‘Freeman’ vein.

  Dedication

  To My Friend

  The Honourable Lady Lynden-Bell

  Prologue

  The afternoon of a sultry day near the end of July was beginning to merge into evening. The crimson eye of the declining sun peered out through chinks in a bank of slaty cloud as if taking a last look at the great level of land and water before retiring for the night; while already, in the soft, greenish grey of the eastern sky, the new-risen moon hung like a globe of pearl.

  It was a solitary scene; desolate, if you will, or peaceful. On the one hand the quiet waters of a broad estuary; on the other a great stretch of marshes; and between them the sea wall, following faithfully the curves and indentations of the shore and fading away at either end into invisibility.

  A great stillness brooded over the place. On the calm water, far out beyond the shallows, one or two coasting craft lay at anchor, and yet farther out a schooner and a couple of barges crept up on the flood tide. On the land side in the marshy meadows a few sheep grazed sedately, and in the ditch that bordered the sea wall the water-voles swam to and fro or sat on the banks and combed their hair. Sound there was none save the half-audible wash of the little waves upon the shore and now and again the querulous call of a sea-gull.

  In strange contrast to the peaceful stillness that prevailed around was the aspect of the one human creature that was visible. Tragedy was written in every line of his figure; tragedy and fear and breathless haste. He was running – so far as it was possible to run among the rough stones and the high grass – at the foot of the sea wall on the seaward side; stumbling onward desperately, breathing hard, and constantly brushing away with his hand the sweat that streamed down his forehead into his eyes. At intervals he paused to scramble up the slope of the wall among the thistles and ragwort, and with infinite caution, to avoid even showing his head on the skyline, peered over the top backwards and forwards, but especially backwards where, in the far distance, the grey mass of a town loomed beyond the marshes.

  There was no mystery about the man’s movements. A glance at his clothing explained everything. For he was dressed in prison grey, branded with the broad arrow and still bearing the cell number. Obviously, he was an escaped convict.

  Criminologists of certain Continental schools are able to give us with remarkable exactness the facial and other characteristics by which the criminal may be infallibly recognized. Possibly these convenient “stigmata” may actually occur in the criminals of those favoured regions. But in this backward country it is otherwise; and we have to admit the regrettable fact that the British criminal inconsiderately persists in being a good deal like other people. Not that the criminal class is, even here, distinguished by personal beauty or fine physique. The criminal is a low-grade man; but he is not markedly different from other low-grade men.

  But the fugitive whose flight in the shelter of the sea wall we are watching did not conform even to the more generalized type. On the contrary, he was a definitely good-looking young man; rather small and slight yet athletic and well-knit, with a face not only intelligent and refined but, despite the anxious and even terrified expression, suggestive of a courageous, resolute personality. Whatever had brought him to a convict prison, he was not of the rank and file of its inmates.

  Presently, as he approached a bluff which concealed a stretch of the sea wall ahead, he slowed down into a quick walk, stooping slightly and peering forward cautiously to get a view of the shore beyond the promontory, until, as he reached the most projecting point of the wall, he paused for a moment and then crept stealthily forward, alert and watchful for any unexpected thing that might be lurking round the promontory.

  Suddenly he stopped dead and then drew back a pace, craning up to peer over the high, rushy grass, and casting a glance of intense scrutiny along the stretch of shore that had come into view. After a few moments he again crept forward slowly and silently, still gazing intently along the shore and the face of the sea wall that was now visible for nearly a mile ahead. And still he could see nothing but that which had met his eyes as he crept round the bluff. He drew himself up and looked down at it with eager interest.

  A little heap of clothes; evidently the shed raiment of a ba
ther, as the completeness of the outfit testified. And in confirmation, just across the narrow strip of “saltings,” on the smooth expanse of muddy sand the prints of a pair of naked feet extended in a line towards the water. But where was the bather? There was only a single set of footprints, so that he must be still in the water or have come ashore farther down. Yet neither on the calm water nor on the open, solitary shore was any sign of him to be seen.

  It was very strange. On that smooth water a man swimming would be a conspicuous object, and a naked man on that low, open shore would be still more conspicuous. The fugitive looked around with growing agitation. From the shore and the water his glance came back to the line of footprints; and now, for the first time, he noticed something very remarkable about them. They did not extend to the water. Starting from the edge of the saltings, they took a straight line across the sand, every footprint deep and distinct, to within twenty yards of the water’s edge; and there they ended abruptly. Between the last footprint and the little waves that broke on the shore was a space of sand perfectly smooth and untouched.

  What could be the meaning of this? The fugitive gazed with knitted brows at that space of smooth sand; and even as he gazed, the explanation flashed upon him. The tide was now coming in, as he could see by the anchored vessels. But when these footprints were made, the tide was going out. The spot where the footprints ended was the spot where the bather had entered the water. Then – since the tide had gone out to the low-water mark and had risen again to nearly half-tide – some five hours must have passed since that man had walked down into the water.

  All this flashed through the fugitive’s brain in a matter of seconds. In those seconds he realized that the priceless heap of clothing was derelict. As to what had become of the owner, he gave no thought but that in some mysterious way he had apparently vanished for good. Scrambling up the slope of the sea wall, he once more scanned the path on its summit in both directions; and still there was not a living soul in sight. Then he slid down, and breathlessly and with trembling hands stripped off the hated livery of dishonour and, not without a certain incongruous distaste, struggled into the derelict garments.

  A good deal has been said – with somewhat obvious truth – about the influence of clothes upon the self-respect of the wearer. But surely there could be no more extreme instance than the present one, which, in less than one brief minute, transformed a manifest convict into a respectable artisan. The change took effect immediately. As the fugitive resumed his flight he still kept off the skyline; but he no longer hugged the base of the wall, he no longer crouched nor did he run. He walked upright out on the more or less level saltings, swinging along at a good pace but without excessive haste. And as he went he explored the pockets of the strange clothes to ascertain what bequests the late owner had made to him, and brought up at the first cast a pipe, a tobacco-pouch, and a box of matches. At the first he looked a little dubiously, but could not resist the temptation; and when he had dipped the mouthpiece in a little salt pool and scrubbed it with a handful of grass, he charged the bowl from the well-filled pouch, lighted it and smoked with an ecstasy of pleasure born of long deprivation.

  Next, his eye began to travel over the abundant jetsam that the last spring-tide had strewn upon the saltings. He found a short length of old rope, and then he picked up from time to time a scrap of driftwood. Not that he wanted the fuel, but that a bundle of driftwood seemed a convincing addition to his make-up and would explain his presence on the shore if he should be seen. When he had made up a small bundle with the aid of the rope, he swung it over his shoulder and collected no more.

  He still climbed up the wall now and again to keep a look-out for possible pursuers, and at length, in the course of one of these observations, he espied a stout plank set across the ditch and connected with a footpath that meandered away across the marshes. In an instant he decided to follow that path, whithersoever it might lead. With a last glance towards the town, he boldly stepped up to the top of the wall, crossed the path at its summit, descended the landward side, walked across the little bridge and strode away swiftly along the footpath across the marshes.

  He was none too soon. At the moment when he stepped off the bridge, three men emerged from the waterside alley that led to the sea wall and began to move rapidly along the rough path. Two of them were prison warders, and the third, who trundled a bicycle, was a police patrol.

  “Pity we didn’t get the tip a bit sooner,” grumbled one of the warders. “The daylight’s going fast, and he’s got a devil of a start.”

  “Still,” said the constable cheerfully, “it isn’t much of a place to hide in. The wall’s a regular trap; sea one side and a deep ditch the other. We shall get him all right, or else the patrol from Clifton will. I expect he has started by now.”

  “What did you tell the sergeant when you spoke to him on the ’phone?”

  “I told him there was a runaway coming along the wall. He said he would send a cyclist patrol along to meet us.”

  The warder grunted. “A cyclist might easily miss him if he was hiding in the grass or in the rushes by the ditch. But we must see that we don’t miss him. Two of us had better take the two sides of the wall so as to get a clear view.”

  His suggestion was adopted at once. One warder climbed down and marched along the saltings, the other followed a sort of sheep-track by the side of the ditch, while the constable wheeled his bicycle along the top of the wall. In this way they advanced as quickly as was possible to the two men stumbling over the rough ground at the base of the wall, searching the steep sides, with their rank vegetation, for any trace of the lost sheep, and making as little noise as they could. So for over a mile they toiled on, scanning every foot of the rough ground as they passed but uttering no word. Each of the warders could see the constable on the path above, and thus the party was enabled to keep together.

  Suddenly the warder on the saltings stopped dead and emitted a shout of triumph. Instantly the constable laid his bicycle on the path and slithered down the bank, while the other warder came scrambling over the wall, twittering with excitement. Then the three men gathered together and looked down at the little heap of clothes, from which the discoverer had already detached the jacket and was inspecting it.

  “They’re his duds all right,” said he. “Of course, they couldn’t be anybody else’s. But here’s his number. So that’s that.”

  “Yes,” agreed the other, “they’re his clothes right enough. But the question is, Where’s my nabs himself?”

  They stepped over to the edge of the saltings and gazed at the line of footprints. By this time the rising tide had covered up the strip of smooth, unmarked sand and was already eating away the footprints, which now led directly to the water’s edge.

  “Rum go,” commented the constable, looking steadily over the waste of smooth water. “He isn’t out there. If he was, you’d see him easily, even in this light. The water’s as smooth as oil.”

  “Perhaps he’s landed farther down,” suggested the younger warder.

  “What for?” demanded the constable.

  “Might mean to cross the ditch and get away over the marshes.”

  The constable laughed scornfully. “What, in his birthday suit? I don’t think. No, I reckon he had his reasons for taking to the water, and those reasons would probably be a barge sailing fairly close inshore. They’d have to take him on board, you know; and from my experience of bargees, I should say they’d probably give him a suit of togs and keep their mouths shut.”

  The elder warder looked meditatively across the water.

  “Maybe you are right,” said he, “but barges don’t usually come in here very close. The fairway is right out the other side. And, for my part, I should be mighty sorry to start on a swim out to a sailing vessel.”

  “You might think differently if you’d just hopped out of the jug,” the constable remarked as he lit a cigarette.

  “Yes, I suppose I should be ready to take a bit of a risk. Well,
” he concluded, “if that was his lay, I hope he got picked up. I shouldn’t like to think of the poor beggar drifting about the bottom of the river. He was a decent, civil little chap.”

  There was silence for a minute or two as the three men smoked reflectively. Then the constable proposed, as a matter of form, to cycle along the wall and make sure that the fugitive was not lurking farther down. But before he had time to start, a figure appeared in the distance, apparently mounted on a bicycle and advancing rapidly towards them. In a few minutes he arrived and dismounted on the path above them, glancing down curiously at the jacket which the warder still held.

  “Those his togs?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied the constable. “I suppose you haven’t seen a gent bathing anywhere along here?”

  The newcomer shook his head. “No,” said he. “I have patrolled the whole wall from Clifton to here and I haven’t seen a soul excepting old Barnett, the shepherd.”

  The elder warder gathered up the rest of the clothes and handed them to his junior. “Well,” he said, “we must take it that he’s gone to sea. All that we can do is to get the Customs people to give us a passage on their launch to make the round of all the vessels anchored about here. And if we don’t find him on any of them, we shall have to hand the case over to the police.”

  The three men climbed to the top of the wall and turned their faces towards the town; and the Clifton patrol, having turned his bicycle about, mounted expertly and pedalled away at a smart pace to get back to his station before the twilight merged into night.

  At that very moment, the fugitive was stepping over a stile that gave access from the marshes to a narrow, tree-shaded lane. Here he paused for a few moments to fling away the bundle of driftwood into the hedge and refill and light his pipe. Then, with a springy step, he strode away into the gathering moonlit dusk.