NIGHTINGALE began to sing in the limes. Mr. Fortune smiled through his cigar smoke at the moon and slid lower into his chair. In the silver light his garden was a wonderland. He could see fairies dancing on the lawn. The fine odor of the cigar was glorified by the mingled fragrance of the night, the spicy scent of the lime flowers borne on a wind which came from the river over meadowsweet and hay. The music of the nightingale was heard through the soft murmur of the weir stream.
The head of the criminal investigation department was arguing that the case of the town clerk of Barchester offered an example of the abuse of the simpler poisons in married life.
Mr. Reginald Fortune, though his chief adviser, said no word.
The head of the criminal investigation department came at last to an end. "That’s the case, then.” He stood up and knocked over his coffee cup. There was a tinkling clatter, a profound silence, and then only the murmur of the water. The nightingale was gone. "Well, Fortune?”
Mr. Fortune sighed and raised himself. “Dear me, Lomas,” he said sadly, “why don’t you find something to do?”
The Honorable Sidney Lomas suffered from a sense of wrong and said so. It was a difficult and complex case and had given him much anxiety and he wanted Fortune’s advice and
“She did for him, all right,” said Reggie Fortune succinctly, “and you’ll never find a jury to hang her. Why don’t you bring me something interesting?”
Lomas then complained of him, pointing out that a policeman’s life was not a happy one, that he did not arrange or even choose the crimes of his country. “Interesting? Good Gad, do you suppose I am interested in this female Bluebeard? I know my job’s not interesting. Work’s work.”
“And eggs is eggs. You have no soul, Lomas,” Reggie Fortune stood up. “Come and have a drink.” He led the way from the dim veranda into his study and switched on the light. “Now that,” he pointed to a pale, purple fluid, “that is a romantic liqueur: it feels just like a ghost story: I brought it back from the Pyrenees.”
“Whisky,” said Lomas morosely.
“My dear chap, are we downhearted?”
“You should go to Scotland Yard, Fortune.” Lomas clung to his grievance. “Perhaps you would find it interesting. What do you think they brought me this afternoon? Some poor devil had an epileptic fit in the British Museum.”
“Well, well,” Reggie Fortune sipped his purple liqueur, “the British Museum had made me feel queer. But not epileptic. On the contrary. Sprightly fellow. This is a nice story. Go on, Lomas.”
“That’s all,” Lomas snapped. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Then why Scotland Yard? You’re not a hospital for nervous diseases. Or are you, Lomas?”
“I wonder,” said Lomas bitterly. “Why Scotland Yard? Just so. Why? Because they’ve lost an infernal pebble in the fray. And will I find it for them please? Most interesting case.”
Reggie Fortune took another cigar and composed himself for comfort. “Begin at the beginning.” he advised, “and relate all facts without passion or recrimination.”
“There are no facts, confound you. It was in the ethnological gallery of the British Museum—where nobody ever goes. Some fellow did go and had a fit. He broke one of the glass cases in his convulsions. They picked him up and he came round. He was very apologetic, left them a fiver to pay for the glass and an address in New York. He was an American doing Europe and just off to France with his family. When they looked over the case afterward they found one of the stones it had was gone. The epileptic couldn’t have pocketed it in the confusion. Most likely a child. The thing is only a pebble with some paint on it. A pundit from the Museum came to me with his hair on end and wanted me to sift London for it. I asked him what it was worth and he couldn’t tell me. Only an anthropologist would want the thing, he said. It seems an acquired taste. I haven’t acquired it. I told him this was my busy day.”
Reggie Fortune smiled benignly. “But this is art,” he said. “This is alluring, Lomas. Have you cabled to New York?”
“Have I?” Lomas stopped his whisky on the way to his mouth. “No, Fortune, I have not cabled New York. Nor have I sent for the military. The British Museum is still without a garrison.”
“Well, you know, this gentleman with the fit may be a collector.”
“Oh, Lord, no. It was a real fit. No deception. They had a doctor to him.”
Reggie Fortune was much affected. “There speaks the great heart of the people. The doctor always knows! I love your simple faith, Lomas. It cheers me. But I’m a doctor myself. My dear chap, has no one ever murmured into the ear of Scotland Yard that a fit can be faked?”