The D’Arblay Mystery by R. Austin Freeman

Author:R. Austin Freeman [Freeman, R. Austin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Detective and mystery stories, London (England) -- Fiction, Thorndyke, Doctor (Fictitious character) -- Fiction, Physicians -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2025-02-27T20:58:20+00:00

XII

A Dramatic Discovery

About eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the third day after the terrible events of that unforgettable night of the great fog, Marion and I drew up on our bicycles opposite the studio door. She was now outwardly quite recovered, excepting as to her left hand, but I noticed that, as I inserted the key into the door, she cast a quick, nervous glance up and down the road; and as we passed through the lobby, she looked down for one moment at the great bloodstain on the floor and then hastily averted her face.

“Now,” I said, assuming a brisk, cheerful tone, “we must get to work. Mr. Polton will be here in half an hour and we must be ready to put his nose on the grindstone at once.”

“Then your nose will have to go on first,” she replied with a smile, “and so will mine, with two raw apprentices to teach and an important job waiting to be done. But, dear me! what a lot of trouble I am giving!”

“Nothing of the kind, Marion,” I exclaimed; “you are a public benefactor. Polton is delighted at the chance to come here and enlarge his experience, and as for me—”

“Well? As for you?” She looked at me half-shyly, half-mischievously. “Go on. You’ve stopped at the most interesting point.”

“I think I had better not,” said I. “We don’t want the forewoman to get too uppish.”

She laughed softly, and when I had helped her out of her overcoat and rolled up the sleeve of her one serviceable arm, I went out to the lobby to stow away the bicycles and lock the outer door. When I returned, she had got out from the cupboard a large box of flaked gelatine and a massive spouted bucket which she was filling at the sink.

“Hadn’t you better explain to me what we are going to do?” I asked.

“Oh, explanations are of no use,” she replied. “You just do as I tell you and then you will know all about it. This isn’t a school; it’s a workshop. When we have got the gelatine in to soak, I will show you how to make a plaster case.”

“It seems to me,” I retorted, “that my instructress has graduated in the academy of Squeers. ‘W-i-n-d-e-r winder; now go and clean one.’ Isn’t that the method?”

“Apprentices are not allowed to waste time in wrangling,” she rejoined, severely. “Go and put on one of Daddy’s blouses and I will set you to work.”

This practical method of instruction justified itself abundantly. The reasons for each process emerged at once as soon as the process was completed. And it was withal a pleasant method, for there is no comradeship so sympathetic as the comradeship of work; nor any which begets so wholesome and friendly an intimacy. But though there were playful and frivolous interludes—as when the forewoman’s working hand became encrusted with clay and had to be cleansed with a sponge by the apprentice—we worked to such purpose that by the time Mr.

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