“I have not read it myself,” said old Mr. Wright, “because I am not acquainted with the French language; but my son tells me it is a work of great learning.”
Barton could only bow, and mutter that he was glad Mr. Wright liked it. Why he should like it, or what the old gentleman wanted, he could not even imagine.
“We are at present engaged in a very curious case, Dr. Barton,” went on the lawyer, “in which we think your special studies may assist us. The position is this: Nearly eight months ago a client of ours died, a Mr. Richard Johnson, of Linkheaton, in the North. You must excuse me if I seem to be troubling you with a long story?”
Barton mentioned that he was delighted, and added, “Not at all,” in the vague modern dialect.
“This Mr. Richard Johnson, then, was a somewhat singular character. He was what is called a ‘statesman’ in the North. He had a small property of about four hundred acres, on the marches, as they say, or boarders of the Earl of Birkenhead’s lands. Here he lived almost alone, and in a very quiet way. There was not even a village near him, and there were few persons of his own position in life, because his little place was almost embedded, if I may say so, in Lord Birkenhead’s country, which is pastoral. You are with me, so far?”
“Perfectly,” said Barton.
“This Mr. Johnson, then, lived quite alone, with an old housekeeper, dead since his decease, and with one son, called Richard, like himself. The young man was of an adventurous character, a ne’er-do-weel in fact; and about twenty years ago he left Linkheaton, after a violent quarrel with his father. It was understood that he had run away to sea. Two years later he returned; there was another quarrel, and the old man turned him out, vowing that he would never forgive him. But, not long after that, a very rich deposit of coal—a very rich deposit,” said Mr. Wright, with the air of a man tasting most excellent claret—“was discovered on this very estate of Linkheaton. Old Johnson, without much exertion on his part, and simply through the payment of royalties by the company that worked the coal, became exceedingly opulent, in what you call most affluent circumstances.”
Here Mr. Wright paused, as if to see whether Barton was beginning to understand the point of the narrative, which, it is needless to remark, he was not. There is no marked connection between coal mines, however lucrative, and “Les Tatouages, Étude Médico-Légale.”
“In spite of his wealth, Mr. Johnson in no way changed his habits. He invested his money carefully, under our advice, and he became, as I said, an extremely warm man. But he continued to live in the old farmhouse, and did not, in any way, court society. To tell the truth, except Lord Birkenhead, who is our client, I never knew anyone who was at all intimate with the old man. Lord Birkenhead had a respect for him, as a neighbor and a person of the old-fashioned type. Yes,” Mr. Wright added, seeing that his son was going to speak, “and, as you were about to say, Tom, they were brought together by a common misfortune. Like old Mr. Johnson, his lordship has a son who is very, very—unsatisfactory. His lordship has not seen the Honorable Mr. Thomas Cranley for many years; and in that lonely country the two boys had been companions in wild amusements, long before. He is very unsatisfactory, the Honorable Thomas Cranley;” and Mr. Wright sighed heavily, in sympathy with a client so noble and so afflicted.
“I know the beast,” said Barton, without reflecting.