to take two days to think things over. It was Wednesday, so I wired to Macgillivray to expect me in London on Friday morning, and I scribbled a line to Mr Julius Victor. By half-past nine I was on the road making for Greenslade’s lodgings.
I caught him in the act of starting on his rounds, and made him sit down and listen to me. I had to give him the gist of Macgillivray’s story, with extracts from those of Victor and Sir Arthur. Before I was half-way through he had flung off his overcoat, and before I had finished he had lit a pipe, which was a breach of his ritual not to smoke before the evening. When I stopped he had that wildish look in his light eyes which you see in a cairn terrier’s when he is digging out a badger.
‘You’ve taken on this job?’ he asked brusquely.
I nodded.
‘Well, I shouldn’t have had much respect for you if you had refused. How can I help? Count on me, if I’m any use. Good God! I never heard a more damnable story.’
‘Have you got hold of the rhyme?’ I repeated it, and he said it after me.
‘Now, you remember the talk we had after dinner the night before last. You showed me how a “shocker” was written, and you took at random three facts as the foundation. They were, you remember, a blind old woman spinning in the Western Highlands, a saeter in Norway, and a curiosity shop in North London, kept by a Jew with a dyed beard. Well, two of your facts are in that six-line jingle I have quoted to you.’
‘That is an odd coincidence. But is it anything more?’
‘I believe that it is. I don’t hold with coincidences. There’s generally some explanation which we’re not clever enough to get at. Your inventions were so odd that I can’t think they were mere inventions. You must have heard them somehow and somewhere. You know what you said about your subconscious memory. They’re somewhere in it, and, if you can remember just how they got there, you’ll give me the clue I want. That six-line rhyme was sent in by people who were so confident that they didn’t mind giving their enemies a clue—only it was a clue which they knew could never be discovered. Macgillivray and his fellows can make nothing of it—never will. But if I can start from the are other end I’ll get in on their rear. Do you see what I mean? I’m going to make you somehow or other dig it out.’
He shook his head. ‘It can’t be done, Dick. Admitting your premise—that I heard the nonsense and didn’t invent it—the subconscious can’t be handled like a business proposition. I remember unconsciously and I can’t recall consciously.’ But I don’t admit your premise. I think the whole thing is common coincidence.’
‘I don’t,’ I said stubbornly, ‘and even if I did I’m bound to assume the contrary, for it’s the only card I possess. You’ve got to sit down, old chap, and do your damnedest to remember. You’ve been in every kind of odd show, and my belief is that you heard that nonsense. Dig it out of your memory and we’ve a chance to win. Otherwise, I see nothing but tragedy.’
He got up and put on his overcoat. ‘I’ve got a long round of visits which will take me all day. Of course I’ll try, but I warn you that I haven’t the ghost of a hope. These things don’t come by care and searching. I’d better sleep at the Manor tonight. How long can you give me?’
‘Two days—I go up to town on Friday morning. Yes, you must take up your quarters with us. Mary insists on it.’
There was a crying of young lambs from the meadow, and through the open window came the sound of the farm-carts jolting from the stackyard into the lane. Greenslade screwed up his face and laughed.
‘A nasty breach in your country peace, Dick. You know I’m with you if there’s any trouble going. Let’s get the thing clear, for there’s a lot of researching ahead of me. My three were an old blind woman spinning in the Western Highlands—Western Highlands, was it?—a saeter barn, and a Jew curiosity shop. The other three were a blind spinner under a sacred tree, a saeter of sorts, and a sower in the fields of Eden—Lord, such rot! Two pairs seem to Coincide, the other pair looks hopeless. Well, here goes for fortune! I’m going to break my rule and take my pipe with me, for this business demands tobacco.’
I spent a busy day writing letters and making arrangements about the Manor, for it looked as if I might be little at home for the next month. Oddly enough, I felt no restlessness or any particular anxiety. That would come later; for the moment I seemed to be waiting on Providence in the person of Tom Greenslade. I was trusting my instinct which told me that in those random words of his there was more than coincidence, and that with luck I might get from them a line on our problem.
Greenslade turned up about seven in the evening, rather glum and preoccupied. At dinner he ate nothing, and when we sat afterwards in the library he seemed to be chiefly interested in reading the advertisements in The Times. When I asked ‘What luck?’ he turned on me a disconsolate face.
‘It is the most futile job I ever took on,’ he groaned. ‘So far it’s an absolute blank, and anyhow I’ve been taking the wrong line. I’ve been trying to think myself into recollection, and, as I said, this thing comes not by searching, nor yet by prayer and fasting. It occurred to me that I might get at something by following up the differences between the three pairs. It’s a familiar method in inductive logic, for differences are often more suggestive than resemblances. So I worried away at the “sacred tree” as contrasted with the “Western Highlands” and the “fields of Eden” as set against the curiosity shop. No earthly good. I gave myself a headache and I dare say I’ve poisoned half my patients. It’s no use, Dick, but I’ll peg away for the rest of the prescribed two days. I’m letting my mind lie fallow now and trusting to inspiration. I’ve got two faint glimmerings of notions. First, I don’t believe I said “Western Highlands.”’
‘I’m positive those were your words. What did you say then?’
‘Hanged if I know, but I’m pretty certain it wasn’t that. I can’t explain properly, but you get an atmosphere about certain things in your mind and that phrase somehow jars with the atmosphere. Different key. Wrong tone. Second, I’ve got a hazy intuition that the thing, if it is really in my memory, is somehow mixed up with a hymn tune. I don’t know what tune, and the whole impression is as vague as smoke, but I tell it you for what it is worth. If I could get the right tune, I might remember something.’
‘You’ve stopped thinking?’
‘Utterly. I’m an Aeolian harp to be played on by any wandering wind. You see if I did hear these three things there is no conscious rational clue to it. They were never part of my workaday mind. The only chance is that some material phenomenon may come along and link itself with them and so rebuild the scene where I heard them. A scent would be best, but a tune might do. Our one hope—and it’s about as strong as a single thread of gossamer on the grass—is that that tune may drift into my head. You see the point, Dick? Thought won’t do, for the problem doesn’t concern the mind, but some tiny physical sensation of nose, ear, or eye might press the button. Now, it may be hallucination, but I’ve a feeling that the three facts I thought I invented were in some infinitely recondite way connected with a hymn tune.
He went to bed early, while I sat up till nearly midnight writing letters. As I went upstairs, I had a strong sense of futility and discouragement. It seemed the merest trifling to be groping among these spectral unrealities, while tragedy, as big and indisputable as a mountain, was overhanging us. I had to remind myself how often the trivial was the vital before I got rid of the prick in my conscience. I was tired and sleepy, and as I forced myself to think of the immediate problem, the six lines of the jingle were all blurred. While I undressed I tried to repeat them, but could not get the fourth to scan. It came out as ‘fields of
