‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘By the way, I had better telegraph to Macgillivray. And Warcliff too. What’s his address?’
‘You needn’t bother about Sir Arthur,’ said Mary. ‘Before you came in—when he told me the story—I said he could count on you. Oh, Dick, think if it had been Peter John!’
III.
RESEARCHES IN THE SUBCONSCIOUS
I went to bed in the perfect certainty that I wouldn’t sleep. That happened to me about once a year, when my mind was excited or angry, and I knew no way of dodging it. There was a fine moon, and the windows were sheets of opal cut by the dark jade limbs of trees; light winds were stirring the creepers; owls hooted like sentries exchanging passwords, and sometimes a rook would talk in his dreams; the little odd squeaks and rumbles of wild life came faintly from the woods; while I lay staring at the ceiling while my thoughts running round about in a futile circus. Mary’s even breathing tantalised me, for I never knew anyone with her perfect gift for slumber. I used to say that if her pedigree could be properly traced it would be found that she descended direct from one of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus who married one of the Foolish Virgins.
What kept me wakeful was principally the thought of that a poor little boy, David Warcliff. I was sorry for Miss Victor and Lord Mercot, and desperately sorry for the parents of all three, but what I could not stand was the notion of the innocent little chap, who loved birds and fishing and the open. air, hidden away in some stuffy den by the worst kind of blackguards. The thing preyed on me till I got to think it had happened to us and that Peter John was missing. I rose and prowled about the windows, looking out at the quiet night, and wondering. how the same world could contain so much trouble and so much peace…
I laved my face with cold water and lay down again. It was no good letting my thoughts race, so I tried to fix them on one point in the hope. that I would get drowsy. I endeavoured to recapitulate the evidence which Macgillivray had recited, but only made foolishness of it, for I simply could not concentrate. I saw always the face of a small boy, who bit his lips to keep himself. from tears, and another perfectly hideous face that kept turning into one of the lead figures in the rose garden. A ridiculous rhyme too ran in my head—something about the ‘midnight sun’ and the ‘fields of Eden.’ By and by I got it straightened out into the anagram business Macgillivray had mentioned. I have a fly-paper memory for verse when there is no reason why I should remember it, and I found I could repeat the six lines of the doggerel.
After that I found the lines mixing themselves up and suggesting all kinds of odd pictures to my brain. I took to paraphrasing them—‘Under the midnight sun, where harvests are poor’—that was Scandinavia anyhow, or maybe Iceland or Greenland or Labrador. Who on earth was the sower who sowed in the fields of Eden? Adam, perhaps, or Abel, who was the first farmer? Or an angel in heaven? More like an angel, I thought, for the line sounded like a hymn. Anyhow it was infernal nonsense.
The last two lines took to escaping me, and that made me force my mind out of the irritable confusion in which it was bogged. Ah! I had them again:
Where beside the sacred tree
Spins the seer who cannot see.
The sacred tree was probably Yggdrasil and the spinner one of the Norns. I had once taken an interest in Norse mythology, but I couldn’t remember whether one of the Norns was blind. A blind woman spinning. Now where had I heard something like that? Heard it quite recently, too?
The discomfort of wakefulness is that you are not fully awake. But now I was suddenly in full possession of my senses, and worrying at that balderdash like a dog at a bone. I had been quite convinced that there was a clue in it, but that it would be impossible to hit on the clue. But now I had a ray of hope, for I seemed to feel a very faint and vague flavour of reminiscence.
Scandinavian harvests, the fields of Eden, the blind spinner—oh, it was maddening, for every time I repeated them the sense of having recently met with something similar grew stronger. The North—Norway—surely I had it there! Norway—what was there about Norway?—Salmon, elk, reindeer, midnight sun, saeters—the last cried out to me. And the blind old woman that spun!
I had it. These were two of the three facts which Dr Greenslade had suggested the night before as a foundation for his imaginary ‘shocker.’ What was the third? A curiosity shop in North London kept by a Jew with a dyed beard. That had no obvious connexion with a sower in the fields of Eden. But at any rate he had got two of them identical with the doggerel… It was a clue. It must be a clue. Greenslade had somewhere and somehow heard the jingle or the substance of it, and it had sunk into the subconscious memory he had spoken of, without his being aware of it. Well, I had got to dig it out. If I could discover where and how he had heard the thing, I had struck a trail.
When I had reached this conclusion, I felt curiously easier in my mind, and almost at once fell asleep. I awoke to a gorgeous spring morning, and ran down to the lake for my bath. I felt that I wanted all the freshening and screwing up I could get, and when I dressed after an icy plunge I was ready for all comers.
Mary was down in time for breakfast, and busy with her letters. She spoke little, and seemed to be waiting for me to begin; but I didn’t want to raise the matter which was uppermost in our minds till I saw my way clearer, so I said I was going 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