The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

“Are the facts of the case available?” asked Thorndyke.

“Certainly,” replied Miller, “to you—so far as they are known. If you care to walk up with me, I’ll tell you about the case as we go along.”

Thereupon Thorndyke (to whom the insoluble mystery and especially the untenanted chambers were as a hot scent to an eager fox-hound) turned and retraced his steps in company with the Superintendent.

“The history of the affair,” the latter began, “is this: At No. 92 Clifford’s Inn, a man named Bromeswell had chambers on the second floor. He had been there several years and was an excellent tenant, paying his rent and other liabilities with clockwork regularity on, or immediately after quarter day. He had never been known to be even a week in arrear with rent, gas or anything else. But at Midsummer he failed to pay up in his usual prompt manner, and after a fortnight had passed a polite reminder was dropped into his letter-box. But still he made no sign. However, as he was an old tenant and his character was so excellent, nothing was done beyond dropping in another reminder. Once or twice the porter went to the door of the chambers, but he always found the ‘oak’ shut and when he hammered on it with a stick, he got no answer.

“Well, the time ran on and the porter began to think that things looked a bit queer, but still nothing was done. Then, one day the postman brought a batch of letters—or rather circulars—to the Lodge, addressed to Bromeswell. He had tried to drop them into Bromeswell’s letter-box but couldn’t get them in as the box was choke-full. Now this made it pretty clear that Bromeswell had not been in his chambers for some considerable time, unless he was dead and his body shut up in them, so the porter acquainted the Treasurer with the state of affairs and consulted with him as to what was to be done. There were no means of getting into the chambers without breaking in, for the tenant had at some time fixed a new patent lock on the outer door and the porter had no duplicate key. But the chambers couldn’t be left indefinitely, especially as there was possibly a dead man inside, so the Treasurer decided to send a man up a ladder to break a window and let himself in. As a matter of fact, the porter went up, himself; and as soon as he got into the chambers and had a look round, he began to smell a rat.

“The appearance of the place, and especially the even coating of dust that covered everything, showed that no one had been in those rooms for two or three months at least; but what particularly attracted the attention of the porter—who is a retired police sergeant—was a rather queer-looking set of apparatus that suggested to him the outfit of a maker of flash notes. On this he began to make some inquiries; and then it transpired that nobody knew anything about Bromeswell. Mr. Duskin, the late porter, must have known him, since he must have let him the chambers; but Duskin left the Inn some years ago, and the present porter has never met this tenant. It seems an incredible thing but it appears to be a fact that no one even knows Bromeswell by sight.”

“That does really seem incredible,” said Thorndyke, “in the case of a man living in a place like Clifford’s Inn.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t living there. That was known, because no milk or bread was ever left there and no laundress ever called for washing. There are no resident chambers in Number 92. The porter had an idea that Bromeswell was a press artist or something of that kind and used the premises to work in. But of course it wasn’t any concern of his.”

“How was the rent paid?”

“By post, in treasury notes. And the gas was paid in the same way; never by cheque. But, to go on with the history: the porter’s suspicions were aroused, and he communicated them to the Treasurer, who agreed with him that the police ought to be informed. Accordingly they sent us a note and we instructed Inspector Monk, who is a first-class expert on flash notes, to go to Clifford’s Inn and investigate, but to leave things undisturbed as far as possible. So Monk went to the chambers and had a look at the apparatus; and what he saw made him pretty certain that the porter was right. The apparatus was a complete paper-maker’s plant in miniature, all except the moulds. There were no moulds to be seen, and until they were found it was impossible to say that the paper was not being made for some lawful purpose, though the size of the pressing plates—eighteen inches by seven—gave a pretty broad hint. However, there was an iron safe in the room—one of Wilkins’ make—and Monk decided that the moulds were probably locked up in it. He also guessed what the moulds were like. You may have heard of a long series of most excellent forgeries of Bank of England notes.”