CHAPTER XIX.
TENEBRAE
The resigned composure with which I accepted Thorndyke’s sentence of confinement within doors was not entirely attributable to discretion or native virtue. My resolution to follow scrupulously my principal’s very pointed advice was somewhat like the ascetic resolutions formed by the gourmet as he rises replete from the banquet table; for, just as the latter is in a peculiarly favourable condition for the unmoved contemplation of a—temporary—abstinence from food, so I, having enjoyed my little dissipation, could now contemplate with fortitude a brief period of retirement. Moreover, the weather was in my favour, being—as Polton reported, when he returned, blue-nosed and powdered with snow, with a fresh supply of tobacco for me—bitterly cold, with a threatening of smoky fog from the east.
Under these circumstances it was no great hardship to sit in a roomy armchair with my slippered feet on the kerb and read and meditate as I basked in the warmth of a glowing fire; though, to be sure, my reading was perfunctory enough, for the treatise of “The Surface Markings of the Human Body,” admirable as it was, competed on very unfavourable terms with other claimants to my attention. In truth, I had plenty to think about even if I went no farther for matter than to the events of the previous day. There was my visit to Sylvia, for instance. I had not said much to her, but what I had said had pledged me to a life-long companionship; which was a solemn thing to reflect upon even though I looked forward to the fulfilment of that pledge with nothing but hopeful pleasure. The dice were thrown. Of course they would turn up sixes, every one; but still—the dice were thrown.
From my own strictly personal affairs my thoughts rambled by an easy transition to the singular episode of the buried portrait, and thence to the subject of that strange palimpsest. Viewed by the light of Mr. O’Donnell’s revelations, Mrs. Samway’s position was not all that could have been desired. She and her husband had unquestionably been closely associated with Maddock; but Maddock was, it seemed, a habitual criminal. Could this fact have been known to the Samways? Or was it that the cunning forger and swindler had sheltered himself behind their respectability. It was impossible for me to say.
Then there was the strange and perplexing case of the man Maddock, himself. I could make nothing of that, had not, indeed, been aware that there had been a “case,” until Thorndyke’s investigations had put me in possession of the fact. And even now I could see nothing on which to base any suspicion, apart from the attempts on my life, which we were assuming to be in some way connected with events that had occurred in Maddock’s house. The cause of death was apparently not “Morbus Cordis”; which might easily enough be, seeing that the diagnosis of heart disease was a mere guess on Batson’s part. But if not Morbus Cordis, what was it? Thorndyke apparently knew, and seemed to hint that it was something other than ordinary disease.
Could there have been foul play? And, if so, were the Samways involved in it in any way? It seemed incredible, for had not Maddock himself suspected that he was in a dangerous state of health. There was certainly one possibility which I considered with a good deal of distaste; namely, that Maddock had been in a hypochondriacal state and that the Samways had taken advantage of his gloomy views as to his health to administer poison. The thing was actually possible; but I did not entertain it; for, even if one assumed that poison had been administered, at any rate, the cremation of the body was not designed to hide the traces of the crime. The Samways had nothing to do with that; the cremation had been adopted in preference to burial by Maddock’s own wish.
So my thoughts flitted from topic to topic, with occasional interludes of “Surface Markings,” through the lazy forenoon until Polton came to lay my solitary luncheon. And after this little break in the comfortable monotony, another spell of meditative idleness set in. Polton was busy upstairs in the laboratory with some photographic copying operations and I was disposed to wander up and look on; but my small friend politely but very firmly vetoed any such proceeding. On some other occasion he would be delighted to show me the working of the great copying camera, but, just now, he had a big job in hand, and, as he was working against time, he would prefer to be alone. He even suggested that I might attend to any stray callers and make my own tea on the gas-ring so as to avoid interrupting his work; and when I had agreed to relieve him to this extent, he thanked me profusely and retired and I saw no more of him.
For some time after his departure, I stood at the window looking out across the wide space at Paper Buildings and the end of Crown Office Row. It was a wretched afternoon. The yellow, turbid sky brooded close upon the houseroofs and grew darker and more brown moment by moment, as if the invisible sun had given the day up in despair and gone home early. A comfortless powdering of snow filtered down at intervals and melted on the pavements, along which depressed wayfarers hurried with their coat collars turned up and their hands thrust deep into their pockets. I watched them commiseratingly, reflecting on the superior advantages of being within doors and forbidden to go out; and then, having flung another scoopful of coal on the fire, I betook myself once more to the armchair, the “Surface Markings” and idle meditation.
It was some time past four when my reflective browsings had begun to proceed in the direction of the tea-kettle, that I heard a light footstep on the landing as of someone wearing goloshes. Then a letter dropped softly into the box, and, as I instantly pushed back my chair to rise, the footsteps retreated. I crossed the room quickly and opened the door; but the messenger had already disappeared down the dark staircase, and had gone so silently on his rubber soles that, though I listened attentively, I could hear no sound from below.
Having closed the door, I extracted the letter from the box and took it over to the window to examine it, when I was not a little surprised to find that it was addressed to W.M. Howard, Esq. This was the first communication that I had received in my borrowed name, and my surprise at its arrival was not unreasonable, for, of the few persons who knew me by that name, none—with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Marchmont—was in the least likely to write to me.
But, if the address on the envelope had surprised me, the letter itself surprised me a good deal more; for though the writer was quite unknown to me, even by name, he seemed to be in possession of certain information concerning me which I had supposed to be the exclusive property of Thorndyke, Jervis, Polton and myself. It bore the address, 29, Fig-tree Court, Inner Temple, and ran thus:
“Dear Sir,
“I am taking the liberty of writing to you to ask for your assistance as I happen to know that my friends, Drs. Thorndyke and Jervis, are away at Maidstone and not available at the moment, and I understand that you have some acquaintance with medical technicalities.
“The circumstances are these. At half-past five to-day I shall be meeting a solicitor to advise as to action in respect of a case in which I am retained; and the decision as to our action will be vitally affected by a certain issue on which I am not competent to form an opinion for lack of medical knowledge. If Dr. Thorndyke had been within reach I should have taken his opinion; as he is not, it occurred to me to ask if you would fill his place on this occasion, it being, of course, understood that the usual fee of five guineas will be paid by the solicitor.
“If you should be unable to come to the consultation, do not trouble to reply, as I am now going out and shall not be returning until five-thirty, the time of the appointment. I am,
“Yours faithfully,
“Arthur Courtland.”
The contents of this letter, as I have said, surprised me more than a little. How, in the name of all that was wonderful, had this stranger, whose very name was unknown to me, come to be aware that I had any knowledge of medicine? Not from Thorndyke, I felt perfectly sure; nor from Jervis, who, notwithstanding a certain flippant facetiousness of manner, was really an extremely cautious and judicious man. Could it be that my principal was overseen in his trusted laboratory assistant? Was it conceivable that the suave and discreet Polton had moments of leakiness, when, in unofficial talk outside, he let drop the secrets of which his employer’s unbounded confidence had made him the repository? I could not believe it. Not only did Polton appear to be the very soul of discretion; there was Thorndyke himself; he was not the man to give his confidence to anyone until after the most exhaustive proof of the safety of so giving it. Nor was he a man who was likely to be deceived; for nothing escaped his observation, and nothing that he observed was passed over without careful consideration.
My lethargy having been shaken off, I addressed myself to the task of preparing tea; and, as I listened to the homely crescendo of the kettle’s song, I turned the matter over in all its bearings. By some means this Mr. Courtland had become aware that I was either a doctor or a medical student. But by what means? Was it possible that he had merely inferred from the circumstance of my being associated with Thorndyke that I was of the same profession? That was just barely conceivable; but, if he had, then, as Jervis had said of Father Humperdinck, he must be “a devil at guessing.”
As I made the tea and subsequently consumed it, I continued to ruminate on the contents of that singular letter. No answer to it was required. Then what was Mr. Courtland going to do if I did not turn up? He admitted that the issue, which seemed to be an important one, was beyond him, and yet he had to give an answer to the solicitor. And he was prepared to pay five guineas for the advice of a man of whom he—presumably—knew nothing. That was odd. In fact, the whole tone of the letter, with its inconsistent mixture of urgency and casual trusting to chance, seemed irreconcilable with the care and method that one expects from a professional man.
And there was another point. The time of the consultation was half-past five. Now within an hour of that time Thorndyke would be back—or even sooner if he came by the earlier train as he had done on the previous day—as Mr. Courtland must have known, since he knew whither my principal had gone, and he must have often attended assizes himself. Could he not have waited an hour? And again; had this business been sprung upon him so suddenly that he had had no time to get Thorndyke’s opinion? And, yet again, why had he written at all, instead of dropping in at our chambers with the solicitor, as was so commonly done by Thorndyke’s clients?
All of which were curious and puzzling questions which I put to myself, one by one, and had to dismiss unanswered. And then I came to the practical question, to which I had to find an answer, and which was: Could I, under the existing circumstances, accede to Mr. Courtland’s request? To go outside the precincts of the Inn was, I recognized, absolutely forbidden; but I had given no actual promise to remain in our chambers, nor had I been positively forbidden to leave them. Thorndyke had advised me to remain indoors, and his advice had been given so pointedly and with so evident a desire that it should be followed that I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our premises. But this was an unforeseen contingency; and the question was, did it alter my position in regard to Thorndyke’s advice?
I think I have never been so undecided in my life. On the one hand, I was strongly tempted to keep the appointment. The prospect of triumphantly handing to Thorndyke a five-guinea fee which I had earned as his deputy appealed to me with almost irresistible force. On the other hand, my knowledge of Thorndyke did not support this appeal. I knew him to be a man to whom a principle was much more important than any chance benefit gained by its abandonment, and my inner consciousness told me that he would be better pleased by a strict adherence to our understanding than by the increment of five guineas.
So my thoughts oscillated, to and fro, now impelling me to risk it and earn the fee, and now urging me to keep to the letter of my instructions; and, meanwhile, the time ran on and the hour of the consultation approached. What decision I should have reached, in the end, it is impossible to say. As matters turned out, I never reached any decision at all, for, just as the Treasury clock struck a quarter past five, I heard a light, quick step on our landing and immediately after a soft but hurried knock at the door.
I strode quickly across the room and threw the door open. And then I started back with an exclamation of astonishment. For the visitor—who stood full in the light of the landing-lamp—was a woman; and the woman was Mrs. Samway.
As I stood gazing at her in amazement, she slipped past me into the room and softly shut the door. And then I saw very plainly that there was something amiss, for she was as pale as death, and had a dreadful, frightened, hunted look which haunts me even now as I write. She was somewhat dishevelled, too, and, though it was a bitter evening, her plump, shapely hands were ungloved and cold as ice, as I noted when I took them in mine.
“Are you alone?” she asked, peering uneasily at the door of the little office.
“Yes. Quite alone,” I replied.
She gazed at me with those strange, penetrating eyes of hers and said in a half-whisper: “How strange you look with that beard. I should hardly have known you if I had not expected—”
She stopped short, and, casting a strange, scared glance over her shoulder at the dark windows, whispered:
“Can they see in? Can anyone see us from outside?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I replied; but, nevertheless, I stepped over to the windows and drew the curtains.
“That looks more comfortable, at any rate,” said I. “And now tell me how in the name of wonder you knew I was here.”
She grasped both my wrists and looked earnestly—almost fiercely—into my eyes.
“Ask me no questions!” she exclaimed. “Ask me nothing! But listen. I have come here for a purpose. Has a letter been left here for you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Asking you to go to a place in Fig-tree Court?”
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “How on earth—”
She shook my wrists impatiently in her strong grasp. “Answer me!” she exclaimed; “answer me!”
“Yes,” I replied. “I was to go there at half-past five.”
Again her strong grasp tightened on my wrists. “Humphrey,” she said, in a low, earnest voice, “you are not to go. Do you hear me? You are not to go.” And then, as I seemed to hesitate, she continued more urgently: “I ask you—I beg you to promise me that you won’t.”
I gazed at her in sheer amazement; but some instinct, some faint glimmer of understanding, restrained me from asking for any explanation.
“Very well,” I said. “I won’t go if you say I’m not to.”
“That is a promise?”
“Yes, it’s a promise. Besides, it’s nearly half-past already, so if I don’t go now, the appointment falls through.”
“And you won’t go outside these rooms to-night. Promise me that, too.”
“If I don’t go to this lawyer, I shan’t go out at all.”
“And to-morrow, too. Give me your word that you won’t let any sort of pretext draw you out of these rooms to-morrow, or the next day, or, in fact, until Dr. Thorndyke says you may.”
For a few moments I was literally struck dumb with astonishment at her last words, and could do nothing but gaze at her in astounded silence. At length, recovering myself a little, I exclaimed:
“My dear Mrs. Samway—,” but she interrupted me.
“Don’t call me by that horrible name! Give me my own name, Letitia; or,” she added, a little shyly and in a soft, coaxing tone, “call me Lettie. Won’t you, Humphrey, just for this once? You needn’t mind. You wouldn’t if you knew. I should like, when I think of my friend—the only friend that I care for—to remember that he called me by my own name when he said good-bye. You’ll think me silly and sentimental, but you needn’t mind indulging me just once. It’s the last time.”
“The last time!” I repeated. “What do you mean by that, Lettie, and by speaking of our saying good-bye? Are you going away?”
“Yes, I am going away. I don’t suppose you will ever see me again. I am going out of your life.”
“Not out of my life, Lettie. We are always friends, even if we never see one another.”
“Are we?” she said, looking up at me earnestly. “Perhaps it is so; but still, this is good-bye. I ought to say it and go; but O God!” she exclaimed with sudden passion, “I don’t want to go—away from you, Humphrey, out into the cold and the dark!”
She buried her face against my shoulder, and I could feel that she was sobbing though she uttered no sound.
It was a dreadful situation. Instinctively certain though I was that her grief had a real and tragic basis, I could offer no word of comfort. For what was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life of wretchedness without hope of any relief or change and without a single friend to cheer her loneliness. That much I could guess, vaguely and dimly. But it was enough. And it wrung my heart to witness her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more than a pressure of the hand.
After a few seconds she raised her head and looked in my face, with the tears still clinging to her lashes.
“Humphrey,” she said, laying her hands on my shoulders, “I have a few last words to say to you, and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest friend, and remember what I say. When I am gone, people will tell you things and you will come to know others. People will say that I am a wicked woman, which is true enough, God knows. But if they say that I have done or connived at wickedness against you, try to believe that it was not as it seemed, and to forgive me for what I have done amiss. And say to yourself, ‘This wicked woman would have willingly given her heart’s blood for me.’ Say that, Humphrey. It is true. I would gladly give my life to make you safe and happy. And try to think kindly of me in the evil report that will reach you sooner or later. Will you try, Humphrey?”
“My dear Lettie,” I said, “we are friends, now and always. Nothing that I hear shall alter that.”
“I believe you,” she said, “and I thank you from my heart. And now I must go—I must go; and it’s good-bye—good-bye, Humphrey, for the very last time.”
She passed her arms around my neck and pressed her wet cheek to mine; then she kissed me, and, turning away abruptly, walked across to the door and opened it. On the landing, in the light of the lamp, she turned once more; and I saw that the hot blush that had risen to her cheek as she kissed me, had faded already into a deathly pallor, and that the dreadful, frightened, hunted look had come back into her face. She stood for a moment with her finger raised warningly and whispered:
“Good-bye, dear, good-bye! Shut the door now and shut it quietly”; and then she passed into the opening of the dark staircase.
I closed the door softly and turned away towards the window; and, as I did so, I heard her stumble slightly on the stair a short way down and utter a little startled cry. I was nearly going out to her, and did, in fact, stand a moment or two listening; but, as I heard nothing more, I moved over to the window, and, drawing back the curtain, looked down on our doorstep to see her go out. My mind was in a whirl of confused emotions. Profound pity for this lonely, unhappy, warm-hearted woman contended with amazement at the revelation of her manifest connection with the mystery that surrounded me; and I stood bewildered by the tumult of incoherent thought, grasping the curtain and looking down on the great square stone that I might, at least, catch a farewell glance at this poor soul who was passing so unwillingly out of my life.
The seconds passed. A man came out of our entry, and, turning to the left, walked at a rapid pace towards the Tudor Street gate. Still she did not appear. Perhaps she had heard him on the stairs and was waiting to pass out unnoticed. But yet it was strange. Nearly a minute had elapsed since she started to descend the stairs. Could I have missed her? It seemed impossible, since I had come to the window almost immediately. A vague uneasiness began to take possession of me. I recalled her white face and frightened eyes, and as I stared down at the door-step with growing anxiety, I found myself listening—listening nervously for I knew not what.
Suddenly I caught a sound—faint and vague, but certainly a sound. And it seemed to come from the staircase. In a moment I had the door open and was stealing on tip-toe out on the landing. The house was profoundly silent. No murmur even penetrated from the distant streets. I crept across the landing, breathing softly and listening. And then, from the stillness below, but near at hand came a faint, whispering sigh or moan. Instantly I sprang forward, all of a tremble and darted down the stairs.
At the first turn I saw, projecting round the angle, a hand—a woman’s hand, plump and shapely and white as marble. With a gasp of terror I flew round the turn of the staircase and—
God in Heaven! She was there! Huddled limply in the angle, her head resting against the baluster and one hand spread out on her bosom, she lay so still that she might have been dead but for the shallow rise and fall of her breast and the wide-staring eyes that turned to me with such dreadful appeal. I stooped over her and spoke her name, and it seemed to me that a pitiful little smile trembled for a moment on the bloodless lips, but she made no answer beyond a faint, broken sigh, and it was only when she moved her hand slightly that the overwhelming horror of the reality burst upon me. Then when I saw the crimson stain upon her fingers and upon the bosom of her dress, the meaning of that horrible pallor, the sharpening features and strange, pinched expression flashed upon me with a shock that seemed to arrest the very blood at my heart. Yet, stunned as I was, I realized instantly that human skill could avail her nothing; that I could do nought for her but raise her from the sharp edge of the stair and rest her head on my arm. And so I held her, whispering endearments brokenly, and looking as well as I might through the blinding tears into those inscrutable eyes, that gazed up at me, no longer with that stare of horror but with a vague and childlike wonder. And, even as I looked, the change came in an instant. The wide eye-lids relaxed and drooped, the eyes grew filmy and sightless, the hand slipped from her breast and dropped with a thud on the stair, and the supple body in my arms shrank of a sudden with the horrible limpness of death.
Up to this point my recollection is clear, even vivid, but of what followed I have only a dim and confused impression. The awfulness—the unbelievable horror of this frightful thing that had happened left me so dazed and numb that I recall but vaguely the passage of time of what went on around me in this terrible dream from which there was to be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling by her side on the silent staircase—but how long I know not—holding her poor body in my arms and gazing incredulously at the marble-white face—now with its drowsy lids and parted lips, grown suddenly girlish and fragile—while the hot tears dropped down on her dress; choking with grief and horror and a fury of hate for the foul wretch who had done this appalling thing, and who was now far away out of reach. I see—dimly still—the livid marks of accursed fingers lingering yet on the whiteness around the mouth to tell me why no cry from her had reached me, and the dreadful, red-edged cut in the bodice, mutely demanding vengeance from God and man.
And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by rushing feet and the clamour of voices. Someone—it is Jervis—leads me forcibly away to our room and places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see her lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a marble figure on a tomb. And I see Thorndyke, with a strange, coppery flush and something grim and terrible in the set calm of his face, showing the letter, which I had left on the table, to a tall stranger, who hurries from the room. Anon come two constables with heads uncovered carrying a stretcher. I see her laid on the sordid bier and reverently covered. The dread procession moves out through the doorway, the door is shut after it, and so, in dreadful fulfilment of her words, she passed out of my life.
CHAPTER XX.
THE HUE AND CRY
The silence of the room remained unbroken for a quite considerable time after the two bearers had passed out with their dreadful burden. My two friends sat apart and, with a tact of which I was gratefully sensible, left me quietly undisturbed by banal words of consolation, to sustain the first shock of grief and horror and get my emotion under control. Still dazed and half-incredulous, I sat with my elbows on the table and my teeth clenched hard, looking dreamily across the room, half unconsciously observing my two friends as they silently examined the fatal letter. I saw Thorndyke rise softly and take a small bottle from a cabinet, and watched him incuriously as he sprinkled on the paper some of the dark-coloured powder that it contained. Then I saw him blow the powder from the surface of the paper into the fire and scan the letter closely through a lens. And still no word was spoken. Only once, when Jervis, in crossing the room, let his hand rest for a moment on my shoulder, did any communication pass between us; and that silent touch told me unobtrusively—if it were needful to tell me—how well he understood my grief for the woman who had walked open-eyed into the valley of the shadow, had offered her heart’s blood that I might pass unscathed.
In about a quarter of an hour the tall stranger returned, bringing with him an atmosphere of bustling activity that at once dispelled the gloomy silence. His busy presence and brisk, matter-of-fact speech, though distressing to me at the moment, served as a distraction and brought me out of my painful reverie to the grim realities of this appalling catastrophe.
“You were quite right, sir,” said he. “The chambers were an empty set. Mr. Courtland left them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the office. I’ve looked them over carefully, and I think it is pretty clear what this man meant to do.”
“Did you go in?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Mr. Polton went with me and picked the lock, so I was able to go right through the rooms. And it is evident that this villain was not acting on the spur of the moment. He’d made a very neat plan, and I should say that it was pretty near to coming off. He had selected his chambers with remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well suited they were to his purpose. In the first place, they were the top set—nothing above them; no chance strangers passing up or down; and they were the only set on that landing. Then some previous tenant had made a little trap or grille in the outer door, a little hole about six inches square with a sliding cover on the inside. That was the attraction, I fancy. The landing lamp was alight—he must have lighted it himself, as the landing was out of use—and I fancy he meant to watch through the grille for your friend to come and shoot him as he knocked at the door.”
“That would be taking more risk than he usually did,” said Thorndyke.
“You mean that the report of the shot would have been heard. Perhaps it might. But these modern, small-bore, repeating pistols make very little noise, though they are uncommonly deadly, especially if you open the nose of the bullets.”
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “if he had been heard, there he would have been, boxed up in the chambers with no means of escape.”
Our acquaintance shook his head. “No,” said he; “that’s just what he wouldn’t have been, and there is where he had planned the affair so neatly. These chambers are a double set. They have a second entrance that opens on the staircase of the next house. You see the idea. When he’s fired his shot and made sure that it was all right—or all wrong, if you prefer it—he would just have slipped through to the other entrance, let himself out, shut the door quietly and walked down the stairs. Then, if the shot had been heard, there was he, coming out of the next house to join the crowd and see what was the matter. It was a clever scheme, and, as I say, it might very well have come off if this poor young lady hadn’t given it away. So that’s all about the chambers; and now”—here he cast a glance in my direction—“I must ask for a few particulars.” He produced a large, black-covered notebook and, opening it on the table, looked at me inquiringly.
“This,” said Thorndyke, “is Mr. Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department. He has charge of this case, so you must tell him exactly what happened. And try, Jardine, to be as clear and circumstantial as possible.”
The Superintendent looked up sharply. “I had an impression,” said he, “that this gentleman’s name was Howard.”
“He has used the name of Howard since he has been staying here, for reasons which no longer exist but which I will explain to you later. His name is Humphrey Jardine, and he is a bachelor of medicine.”
Mr. Miller entered these particulars in his book and then said:
“I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you were actually present when this poor lady was murdered?”
“No, I was not.”
“And I presume you did not see the murderer?”
“I saw a man, whom I believe to have been the murderer, come out of our entry and walk quickly towards the Tudor Street Gate. But I can give you no description of him. I saw him from the window and by the light of the entry lamp.”
The Superintendent wrote down my answer and reflected for a few moments.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better just give us an account of what happened and we can ask you any questions afterwards. It’s very painful for you, I know, but it has to be, as you will understand.”
It was more than painful; it was harrowing to reconstitute that hideous tragedy, step by step, with the knowledge that the poor murdered corpse was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it, haltingly, indeed, and with many a pause to command my voice; but in the end, I gave the superintendent a full description of the actual occurrences, though I withheld any reference to those words that my poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone.
When I had read through and signed my statement, Mr. Miller studied his note-book with an air of dissatisfaction and then turned to Thorndyke.
“This is all quite clear, Doctor,” said he, “and just about what you inferred from that letter. But it doesn’t help us much. The question is, Who is this man? I’ve an inkling that you know, Doctor.”
“I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is,” replied Thorndyke.
“That will do for me,” said Miller. “Your strong suspicion is equal to another man’s certainty. Do you know his name, sir?”
“He has recently passed under the name of Samway,” replied Thorndyke. “What his real name is, I think I shall be able to tell you later. Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are necessary for making an arrest.”
The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke as the latter pressed the button of the electric bell.
“Apparently, Doctor,” said he, “you have been making some investigations concerning this man, and, as it was not in connection with this crime, it must have been in connection with something else.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “you are quite right, Miller, and it will be a matter of the deepest regret to me to my dying day that circumstances have hindered those investigations as they have. The delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more days and my case would almost certainly have been complete, and then this terrible disaster would have been impossible.”
As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened quietly and Polton entered with a small, neatly-made parcel in his hand.
“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “you guessed what I wanted, and guessed right, as you always do, Polton. How many are there in that parcel?”
“Three dozen, sir,” replied Polton.
“That ought to be enough for the moment. Hand them to the Superintendent, Polton. If you want any more, Miller, we can let you have a further supply, and I am having a half-tone block made which will be ready to-morrow morning.”
“Are these portraits of the man you suspect?” asked Miller.
“No, I haven’t his portrait, unfortunately, but on each card is a photograph of three of his finger-prints, which are all I have been able to collect, and on the back is a description which will enable you easily to identify him. You can post them off to the various sea-ports and telegraph the description in advance; and I would recommend you especially to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I know that he has been in the habit of using that route.”
“Speaking of finger-prints,” said Miller, “have you tried that letter for them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “I powdered it very carefully, but there is not a single trace of a fingerprint. He must have realized the risk he was taking and worn gloves when he wrote it.”
The Superintendent pocketed the parcel with a thoughtful air, and, after a few moments’ cogitation, turned once more to Thorndyke.
“You’ve supplied me with the means of arresting the man, Doctor,” said he, “but that’s all. Supposing I find him and detain him in custody? What then?
“I don’t know that he murdered this poor woman. Do you? Dr. Jardine can’t identify him, and apparently no one else saw him. I have no doubt that you have substantial grounds for suspecting him, but I should like to know what they are.”
Thorndyke reflected for a moment or two before replying.
“You are quite right, Miller,” he said, at length, “you ought to have enough information to establish a prima facie case. But I think, that on this occasion, I can say no more than that, if you produce the man, you can rely upon me to furnish enough evidence to secure a conviction. Will that do?”
“It will do from you, sir,” replied Miller, rising and buttoning his overcoat. “I will get this description circulated at once. Oh—there was one more matter: the name of the deceased lady was Samway—the same as that of the suspected murderer. What was the relationship?”
“She passed as—and presumably was—his wife.”
“Ah!” said Miller. “I see. That was how she knew. Well, well. She was a brave woman, to take the risk that she did, and she deserved something very different from what she got. But we are taught that there is a place where people who suffer injustice and misfortune in this world get it made up to them. I hope it’s true, for her sake—and for his,” he added abruptly with a sudden change of tone.
“Naturally you do,” said Thorndyke, “but, meanwhile, our business is with this world. Spread your net close and wide, Miller. I shall never forgive you if you let this villain slip. It is our sacred duty to purge the world of his presence. You do your part, Miller, and be confident that I will do mine.”
“You can depend on me to do my best, sir,” said Miller, “though I am working rather in the dark. I suppose you couldn’t give me any sort of hint as to what you’ve got up your sleeve. You’ve no doubt, for instance, that it was really the man Samway who committed this murder?”
Thorndyke, according to his usual habit, considered the Superintendent’s question for awhile before answering. At length he replied:
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t take you into my confidence to some extent, Miller, knowing you as I do. But you will remember that this is a confidence. The fact is that I am proposing to proceed against this man on an entirely different charge. But I am not quite ready to lay an information; and I want you to secure his person on the charge of murdering his wife while I complete the other case.”
“Is that another case of murder?” asked Miller.
“Yes. The facts are briefly these. A certain Septimus Maddock, who was living with the Samways, died some time ago under what seem to me very suspicious circumstances. He was nursed by Samway and his wife and by no one else. The cause of death given on the certificate was, in my opinion, not the true one, and I am proceeding to verify my theory as to what was the real cause of death.”
“I see,” said Miller. “You are applying for an exhumation of the body?”
“Well, hardly an exhumation. The man Maddock was cremated.”
“Cremated!” exclaimed Miller. “Then we’ve done. There isn’t any body to exhume.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, “there is no body, but there are the ashes.”
“But, surely,” said Miller, “you can’t get any information out of a few handfuls of bone ash?”
“That remains to be proved,” replied Thorndyke. “I have applied for an authority to make an exhaustive examination of those ashes, and, if my opinion as to the cause of death is correct, I shall be able to demonstrate its correctness; and that will involve a charge of murder against this man Samway. It will also support a charge against him of attempts to murder Dr. Jardine, and furnish strong evidence connecting him with the horrible crime that has just been committed. So you see, Miller, that the important thing is to get possession of him before he has time to escape from this country, and hold him in custody, if necessary, while the evidence against him is being examined and completed. And I must impress on you that no time ought to be lost in getting the description circulated.”
“No, that’s true,” said Miller. “I’ll go and telegraph it off at once, and I’ll send one or two of our best men to watch the likely seaports.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when we had all most fervently wished him success, he took his departure.
As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior, and, looking at him with a sort of puzzled curiosity, exclaimed:
“You are a most astounding person, Thorndyke! You really are! I thought I had begun to see daylight in that Maddock case, and now I find that I was all abroad. And I can’t, for the life of me, conceive what in the world you expect to discover by examining a few pounds of calcined phosphates. Suppose Maddock was poisoned, what evidence will be obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which could possibly have been used under the known circumstances, not one would leave a trace after cremation. But, of course, you’ve thought of all that.”
“Certainly, I have,” replied Thorndyke, “and I agree with you that the ashes of a body that has been cremated are highly unpromising material for a primary investigation. But, does it not occur to you that, in a case where certain circumstantial evidence is available, excellent corroborative data might be obtained by the examination of the ashes?”
“No,” replied Jervis, “I can’t say that it does.”
“It is not too late to consider the question,” said Thorndyke. “I shall probably not get the authority for a day or two, so you will have time to turn the problem over in the interval. It is quite worth your while, I assure you, apart from this particular case, as a mere exercise in constructive theory. You can acquire experience from imaginary cases as well as from real ones, as I have often pointed out; in fact, much of my own experience has been gained in this way. I think I have mentioned to you that, in my early days, when I had more leisure than practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary crimes of an elaborately skilful type, and then—having, of course, all the facts—to consider the appropriate procedure for their detection. It was a most valuable exercise, for I was thus able to furnish myself with an abundance of problems of a kind that, in actual practice, are met with only at long intervals of years. And since then a quite considerable number of my imaginary cases have presented themselves, in a more or less modified form, for solution in the course of practice, and have come to me with the familiarity of problems that have already been considered and solved. That is what you should do, Jervis. Try the synthetic method and then consider what analytical procedure would be appropriate to your result.”
“I have,” Jervis replied, gloomily. “I have worked at this confounded case until I feel like a rat that has been trying to gnaw through a plate-glass window. Still, I’ll have another try. By the way, where are you going to make this examination?”
“I think I shall do it here. I had thought of handing the ashes over to one of the more eminent analysts, but it will be only a small operation, well within the capacity of our own laboratory. I think of asking Professor Woodfield to come here and carry out the actual analysis. Polton will give him any help that he may want and, of course, we shall be here to give any further assistance if he should need it.”
“Why not have made the analysis yourself?” asked Jervis. “Is there anything specially difficult or intricate about it?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “But, as the case will have to go into Court on a capital charge—that is, assuming that my hypothesis turns out to be correct—I thought it best to have the analysis made by a man whose name as an authority on chemistry will carry special weight. Neither the judge nor the jury are likely to have much special knowledge of chemistry, but they will be able to appreciate the fact that Woodfield is a man with a world-wide reputation, and they will respect his opinion accordingly.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “I think you are quite right. A well-known name goes a long way with a jury. I hope your experiment will turn out as you expect, and I hope, too, that some of Miller’s men will manage to lay that murderous devil by the heels. But I’m afraid they’ll have their work cut out. He is a clever scoundrel; one must admit that. How do you suppose he contrived to track Jardine here?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that he must have seen us on one of the two occasions when we went to the mineral water works and followed us here. Then, when Jardine disappeared from his lodgings, he would naturally look for him here, this being, in fact, the only place known to him in connection with Jardine, excepting Batson’s house, on which he also probably kept a watch.”
“But how would he have discovered that Jardine actually was here?”
“There are a number of ways in which he might have ascertained the fact. A good many persons knew that we had a new resident. We could not conceal his presence here. Many of our visitors have seen him, and the porter and hangers-on of the inn will have noticed him taking his exercise in the morning. Samway, himself, even, may have seen him, and he would easily have penetrated the disguise if he saw him out of doors, for there is no disguising a man’s stature. He might have made enquiries of one of the porters or lamp-lighters, or he might have employed someone else to make enquiries. The fact that someone was staying here and that his name was Howard could not have been very difficult to discover, while, as for ourselves, we are as well known in the inn as the griffin at Temple Bar. From the circumstance that he knew of our attendance at the Maidstone Assizes, it seems likely that he had subsidized some solicitor’s clerk who would know our movements.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “as he is gone now, I may as well go back to my lodgings.”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “In the first place, we don’t know that he is gone, and we do know that he is now absolutely desperate and reckless. And you must not forget, Jardine, that whether we charge him with murder in the case of Maddock, with the murder of poor Mrs. Samway, or the attempted murder of yourself, in either case you are the chief witness for the prosecution. You are the appointed instrument of retribution in this man’s case, and you must take the utmost care of yourself until your mission is accomplished. He knows the value of your evidence better than you do, and it is still worth his while to get rid of you if he can. But you, I am sure, are at least as anxious as we are to see him hanged.”
“I’d sooner twist his neck with my own hands,” said I.
“I daresay you would,” said Thorndyke, “and it is perfectly natural that you should. But it is not desirable. This is a case for a few fathoms of good, stout, hempen rope, and the common hangman. The private vengeance of a decent man would be an undeserved honour for a wretch like this. So you must stay here quietly for a few days more and give us a little help when we need it.”
Thorndyke’s decision was not altogether unwelcome. Shaken as I was by the shock of this horrible tragedy, I was in no state to return to the solitude of my lodgings. The quiet and tactful sympathy of my two friends—or I should rather say three, for Polton was as kind and gentle as a woman—was infinitely comforting, and their sober cheerfulness and the interest of their talk prevented me from brooding morbidly over the catastrophe of which I had been the involuntary cause. And, dreadful as the associations of the place were, I could not but feel that those of my older resorts would be equally painful. For me, at present, the Heath would be haunted by the figure of poor Letitia, walking at my side, telling me her pitiful tale and so pathetically craving my sympathy and friendship. And the Highgate Road could not but wring my heart with the recollection of that evening when we had walked together up the narrow lane—all unconscious of the black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled only by that futile spy—when, as we said good-bye, I had kissed her and she had run off blushing like a girl.
Moreover, if Thorndyke’s chambers were fraught with terrible and gloomy associations, they were also pervaded by an atmosphere of resolute, relentless preparation which was itself a relief to me; for, as the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me possessed by a fury of hatred for the murderer and consumed by an inextinguishable craving for vengeance. Nor was the time of suspense so long as we had anticipated. On the very next morning a letter arrived from the Home Office containing the necessary authority to make the proposed examination and informing Thorndyke that, on the following day, the police would take possession of the ashes, which would be delivered to him by an officer who would remain to witness the examination and to resume possession of the remains when it was concluded.
I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but I gathered that he was busy making the final arrangements for the important work of the morrow and in clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself free from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis’s society, for he, too, was anxious to have the day free for the “Crucial Experiment,” which was—we hoped—to solve the mystery of Septimus Maddock’s death and explain the villain Samway’s strange vindictiveness towards me.
Left to myself, and by no means enamoured of my own society, I wandered up to the laboratory to see what Polton was doing and to distract my gloomy thoughts by a little gossip with him on the various technical processes of which he possessed so much curious information. I found him arrayed in a white apron, with his sleeves turned up, busily occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough, which he had spread on a pastry board and was levelling with a hard-wood rolling-pin. He greeted me, as I entered with his queer, crinkly smile, but made no remark; and I stood awhile in silence, watching him cut the paste in halves, sprinkle it with flour, fold it up and once more roll it out into a sheet with the wooden pin.
“Is this going to be a meat pie, Polton?” I asked, at length.
His smile broadened at my question—for which I suspect he had been waiting.
“I don’t think you’d care much for the flavour of it, if it was, sir,” he answered. “But it does look like dough, doesn’t it. It’s moulding-wax; a special formula of the Doctor’s own.”
“I thought that white powder was flour.”
“So it is, sir; the best wheaten flour. It’s lighter than a mineral powder and more tenacious. You have to use some powder to reduce the stickiness of the wax, especially in a soft paste like this, which has a lot of lard in it.”
“What are you going to use it for?” I asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Polton, pausing to give the paste a vicious whack with the rolling-pin, “there you are, sir. That’s just what I’ve been asking myself all the time I’ve been rolling it out. The Doctor, sir—God bless him—is the most exasperating gentleman in the world. He fairly drives me mad with curiosity, at times. He will give me a piece of work to do—something to make, perhaps—with full particulars—all the facts, you understand, perfectly clear and exact, with working drawings if necessary. But he never says what the thing is for. So I make a hypothesis for myself—whole bundles of hypotheses, I make. And they always turn out wrong. I assure you, sir,” he concluded with solemn emphasis, “that I spend the best part of my life asking myself conundrums and giving myself the wrong answers.”
“I should have thought,” said I, “that you would have got used to his ways by now.”
“You can’t get used to him,” rejoined Polton. “It’s impossible. He doesn’t think like any other man. Ordinary men’s brains are turned out pretty much alike from a single mould, like a batch of pottery. But the Doctor’s brain was a special order. If there was any mould at all, that mould was broken up when the job was finished.”
“What you mean is,” said I, “that he has a great deal more intelligence than is given to the rank and file of humanity.”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Polton. “It isn’t a question of quantity at all. It’s a different kind of intelligence. Ordinary men have to reason from visible facts. He doesn’t. He reasons from facts which his imagination tells him exists, but which nobody else can see. He’s like a portrait painter who can do you a likeness of your face by looking at the back of your head. I suppose it’s what he calls constructive imagination, such as Darwin and Harvey and Pasteur and other great discoverers had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts that were known to the common herd of humanity.”
I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of Polton’s views on the transcendental intellect, though respectfully admiring of the thoughtfulness of this curious little handicraftsman; accordingly I returned to the more concrete subject of wax.
“Haven’t you any idea what this stuff is going to be used for?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied. “The Doctor’s instructions were to make six pounds of it, to make it soft enough to take a squeeze of a stiff feather if warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape in a half-inch layer with a plaster backing, and to be sure to have it ready by to-morrow morning. That’s all. I know there’s an important analysis on to-morrow and I suppose this wax has got something to do with it. But, as to what moulding wax can have to do with a chemical analysis, that’s a question that I can’t make head or tail of.”
Neither could I, though I had more data than Polton appeared to possess. Nor could Jervis, to whom I propounded the riddle when he came in to tea. We went up to the laboratory together and inspected, not only the wax, but the exterior of three large parcels addressed to Professor Woodfield, care of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of a firm of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could suggest any solution of the mystery; and the only result of our visit to the laboratory was that Polton was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of his junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure by executing with the wax, a life-sized and highly grotesque portrait of Father Humperdinck.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE FINAL PROBLEM
At exactly half-past eleven in the following forenoon, Professor Woodfield arrived, bearing a massive cowhide bag which he deposited on a chair as a preliminary to taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. He was a big, burly, heavy-browed man, sparing of speech and rather gruff in manner.
“Stuff arrived yet?” he asked when he had brought his forehead to a satisfactory polish.
“I think it came yesterday morning,” replied Thorndyke.
“The deuce it did!” exclaimed Woodfield.
“Yes. Three parcels from Townley and Draper’s—”
“Oh, you’re talking of the chemicals. I meant the other stuff.”
“No; the officer hasn’t arrived yet, but I expect he will be here in a few minutes. Superintendent Miller is a scrupulously punctual man.”
The professor strode over to the window and glared out in the direction of Crown Office Row.
“That man of yours got everything ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Thorndyke; “and I have looked over the laboratory myself. Everything is ready. You can begin the instant the ashes are delivered to us.”
Woodfield expressed his satisfaction—or whatever he intended to express—by a grunt, without removing his eyes from the approach to our chambers.
“Cab coming,” he announced a few moments later. “Man inside with a parcel. That the officer?”
Jervis looked out over the professor’s shoulder.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s Miller; and, confound it! here’s Marchmont with old Humperdinck. Shall we bolt up to the laboratory and send down word that we’re all out of town?”
“I don’t see why we should,” said Thorndyke. “Woodfield won’t be inconsolable if we have to leave him to work by himself for a while.”
The professor confirmed this statement by another grunt, and, shortly afterwards, the clamour of the little brass knocker announced the arrival of the first contingent, which, when I opened the door, was seen to consist of the solicitor and his very reverend client.
“My dear Thorndyke!” exclaimed Marchmont, shaking our principal’s hand; “what a shocking affair this is—this murder, I mean. I read about it in the paper. A dreadful affair!”
“Yes, indeed,” Thorndyke assented; “a most callous and horrible crime.”
“Terrible! Terrible!” said Marchmont. “So unpleasant for you, too, and so inconvenient. Actually on your own stairs, I understand. But I hope they’ll be able to catch the villain. Have you any idea who he is?”
“I have a very strong suspicion,” Thorndyke replied.
“Ah!” exclaimed Marchmont. “I thought so. The rascal brought his pigs to the wrong market. What? Like doing a burglary at Scotland Yard. He couldn’t have known who lived here. Hallo! why, here’s Mr. Miller. Howdy-do, Superintendent?”
The officer, for whom I had left the door ajar, entered in his usual brisk fashion, and, having bestowed a comprehensive salutation on the assembled company, deposited on the table an apparently weighty parcel, securely wrapped and decorated with a label bearing the inscription “This side up.”
“There, sir,” said he, “there’s your box of mystery; and I don’t mind telling you that I’m on tenterhooks of curiosity to see what you are going to make of it.”
“Professor Woodfield is the presiding magician,” said Thorndyke, “so we will hand it over to him. I suppose the casket is sealed?”
“Yes; it was sealed in my presence, and I’ve got to be present when the seals are broken.”
“We’ll break the seals up in the laboratory,” said Woodfield, “but we may as well undo the parcel here.”
He produced a solid-looking pocket-knife, fitted with a practicable corkscrew, and, having cut the string, stripped off the wrappings of the parcel.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Marchmont, as the last wrapping was removed; “why, it’s a cremation urn! What in the name of Fortune are you going to do?”
Miller tapped the lid of the urn with a dramatic gesture.
“Dr. Thorndyke,” said he, “is going, I hope, to extract from the ashes in this casket an instrument of vengeance on the murderer of Mrs. Samway.”
“Ach!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck, “do not speak of vengeance in ze bresence of zese boor remains of a fellow greature. Chustice if you laig, but not vengeance. ‘Vengeance is mine, saiz ze Lordt!’ ”
“M’yes,” agreed Miller, “that’s perfectly true, sir, and we quite understand your point of view. Still, we’ve got our job to do, you know.”
“But,” said Marchmont, “I don’t understand. What is the connection? These appear to be the remains of Septimus Maddock, whoever he may have been, and he seems to have died last November. What has he to do with the murder of this poor woman, Samway?”
“The connection is this,” replied Thorndyke; “the man who murdered Mrs. Samway murdered the man whose ashes are in this urn. That is my proposition; and I hope, with the skilful aid of my friend Professor Woodfield, to prove it.”
“Well,” said Marchmont, “it is a remarkable proposition and the proof will be still more remarkable. I certainly thought that a body that had been cremated was beyond the reach of any possible inquiry.”
“I am afraid that is so, as a rule,” Thorndyke admitted. “But I hope to find an exception in this case. Shall we go upstairs and commence the examination?”
Woodfield having agreed with gruff emphasis, Miller picked up the casket and we all proceeded to the laboratory, where Polton, like a presiding analytical demon, was discovered amidst his beloved apparatus. The casket was placed on a table, the seals broken and the cover removed by Woodfield, whereupon we all, with one accord, craned forward to peer in at what looked like a mass of fragments of snowy madrepore coral.
“Ach!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck, “bot it is a solemn zought zat zese boor ashes vas vunce a living man chust like ourselves.”
“Yes,” said Marchmont, “it is, and I suppose we shall all be pretty much alike by the time we reach this stage. Cremation is a leveller, with a vengeance. Still, I will say this much, these remains are perfectly unobjectionable in every way, in fact they are almost agreeable in appearance; whereas, an ordinary disinterment after this lapse of time would have been a most horrid business.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Thorndyke; “I have had to make a good many examinations of exhumed bodies, and, as you say, they were very different from this. If I were not a practitioner of legal medicine—in which exhumation often furnishes crucial evidence—I should say that this cleanly and decent method of disposing of the dead was incomparably superior to any other. Unfortunately it has serious medico-legal drawbacks. I think, Woodfield, that we will turn the ashes out on that sheet of paper on the bench, and then, with your permission, I will pick out the recognizable fragments and examine them while you are working on the small, powdery portions.”
He took up the urn—which was an oblong, terracotta vessel some fourteen inches in length—and very carefully inverted it over the large sheet of clean white paper. Then, from the dazzling, snowy heap, he picked out daintily the larger fragments, handling them with the utmost tenderness—for, of course, they were excessively fragile—and finally transferring them, one by one, to another sheet of paper at the other end of the bench.
The appearance of the remains was not quite as I had expected. Among the powdery debris was a quite considerable number of larger fragments, most of which were easily recognizable by the anatomical eye, while some of the larger long bones almost gave the impression of having been broken to enable them to be placed in the urn, and suggested that a partial reconstitution, for the purpose of determining the stature or other peculiarities of the skeleton was by no means as impossible as I had supposed. But, large and small alike, the pieces were strangely light and attenuated, like the ghosts of bones or artificial counterfeits in porous, spongy coral.
When Thorndyke had picked out such of the fragments as he wished to examine, Professor Woodfield glanced casually over the collection, but suddenly he paused and, stooping over a large piece of the right innominate bone, narrowly inspected a somewhat shiny yellow stain on its inner surface.
“Looks as if you were right, Thorndyke,” he said in his laconic way, “qualitatively, at any rate. We shall see what the quantitative test says.”
I pored over that dull yellow stain—as did Jervis also—but could make no guess at its nature or conceive any explanation of its presence. What interested me more was a small depression or cavity in the bone at the centre of the stain. That it was not the result of cremation was obvious from the fact that it was surrounded by a small area of sclerosed or hardened bone, which was quite plainly distinguishable on the spongy background, and which clearly pointed to some inflammatory change that had occurred during life. But of its cause, as of that of the stain itself, I could think of no intelligible explanation.
“Have you enough of the small fragments to go on with for the present, Woodfield?” Thorndyke asked.
“Plenty,” replied Woodfield.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I will get on with my side of the inquiry. I shall want the whole-plate camera first, Polton.”
While his assistant was preparing the camera, he laid several of the fragments on a baize-covered board and secured them in position by threads attached to wooden-headed pins like diminutive brad-awls. When the fragments were fixed immovably, he placed the board in a vertical position on a stand in a good light, by which time Polton was ready to make the exposure.
Meanwhile, Professor Woodfield was proceeding—under the horrified supervision of Father Humperdinck,—with his part of the investigation. He was a matter-of-fact man, a chemist to the backbone, and to him it was evident that the late Septimus Maddock was simply many pounds of animal phosphates. Quite composedly he shovelled up a scoopful of the ashes, which he emptied into the pan of a spring-balance, and, having weighed out a pound and a quarter, shot the contents of the pan into a large mortar and forthwith began to grind the fragments to a fine powder, humming a cheerful stave to the ring of the pestle. But his next proceeding scandalized the worthy Jesuit still more deeply. Having weighed out certain quantities of charcoal, sodium carbonate and borax, he pulverized each in a second mortar, mixed the whole together and shot the mixture into the first mortar, which contained the ash, stirring the entire contents up into a repulsive-looking grey powder.
“But, my dear sir!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck. “You are destroying ze remains!”
Woodfield looked at him from under his beetling brows, but went on stirring.
“Matter is indestructible,” he replied stolidly; and with this he tipped the contents of the mortar on to a sheet of paper and transferred them to a large fireclay crucible.
“Now, Polton,” said he, “is the furnace ready?”
Polton disengaged himself for a moment from the camera, and took up a position by the side of the big fireclay drum with his hand on the gas cock. Then Woodfield, having dropped three or four large iron nails into the crucible, carried the latter over to the furnace and lowered it into the central cavity. The cock was turned on by Polton and a match applied, whereupon a great purplish flame shot up with a roar from the mouth of the furnace; and even when this had been confined by the dropping on of the massive cover, the iron-cased cylinder continued to emit a muffled, sullen growl.
While the crucible was heating, I transferred my attention to Thorndyke. The photographic operations were now concluded and the moulding wax had just been produced from a warmed incubator. Polton’s curiosity—and mine—was about to be satisfied.
Thorndyke began by laying a thick slab of the warm and pliable wax on the middle of a smooth plate of varnished plaster, at each corner of which was a small, hemispherical pit, and dusting powdered French chalk sparingly over the level surface of the wax. Then he took the large fragment of bone, which bore the mysterious yellow stain, and laid it on the wax with the stained side uppermost, pressing it very gently until it gradually sank into the soft, pasty mass. Next, he took a somewhat smaller slab of wax and, having dusted its surface with French chalk, laid it on the fragment of bone, pressing it on gently but firmly, especially in the neighbourhood of the stain. Having squeezed some irregular-shaped lumps of wax on the back of the top slab, he fastened a strip of india-rubber round the edge of the plaster plate, so that it formed an upright rim and turned to Polton.
“Now mix a bowl of plaster—and mix it extra stiff, so that it will set quickly and hard.”
With a soft brush he painted a thin coat of oil on the exposed portion of the plaster plate, up to the edges of the wax, and including the little circular hollows. By the time he had done this, Polton reappeared from the workshop with a basin of liquid plaster, which he was beating up with a spoon as if preparing a custard or batter pudding. As soon as the plaster began to thicken, he poured it on the wax and the oiled slab until it formed a level mass, nearly flush with the top of the india-rubber rim. In a surprisingly short time, the smooth, creamy liquid solidified into a substance having the appearance of icing-sugar, and when Polton had stripped away the india-rubber rim, exposing the edge of the new plaster slab, this part of the process was finished.
“We will put this mould aside for the plaster to harden while we make the other mould,” said Thorndyke.
“Aren’t you going to make moulds of all the fragments?” asked Jervis.
“No,” Thorndyke answered; “the photographs of the rest will be sufficient, and I don’t think we shall want even those; in fact, what I am doing now is merely by way of extra precaution. We are obliged to destroy the fragments in order to make the analysis, so I am just putting their appearance on record. You never know what an ingenious defending counsel may spring on you.”
As Polton produced a second plate of varnished plaster and Thorndyke began to prepare the wax for the next mould, I turned my attention once more to Professor Woodfield. He had now deserted the mortar—in which he had been preparing a further supply of “the stuff”—and taken up a position by the furnace, with a long pair of crucible tongs in his hand. On the bench, hard by, was an iron plate, and on this an oblong block of iron in which were six conical hollows.
Presently Woodfield glanced at his watch, turned off the gas-cock, removed the cover of the furnace with his tongs, and, reaching down into the glowing interior, lifted out the nearly white-hot crucible. Instantly Marchmont, Humperdinck and Jervis gathered round to watch, and even Thorndyke left his mould to come and see the result of the first trial.
Having stood the crucible on the iron plate while he picked out the large nails, one by one, Woodfield lifted it and steadily poured its molten contents into the first hollow in the iron block, which they soon filled, and overflowing ran along the iron plate in glowing streams that soon grew dull from contact with the cold surface. I noticed that, as the crucible was slowly tilted, Thorndyke kept his eyes fixed on its interior, as also did Jervis and Woodfield; and, watching closely, I saw just as the vessel was nearly empty, what looked somewhat like a red-hot oil-globule floating in the last of the glowing liquid. This passed out as the crucible was tilted further, and disappeared into the iron mould; when Woodfield, having exchanged a quick, significant glance with Thorndyke, proceeded forthwith, in his matter-of-fact way to fill up the still red-hot vessel with another pound and a quarter of the late Septimus Maddock.
“I suppose,” said Marchmont, “it is premature to ask you what is the final object of these very interesting operations?”
“It’s no use asking me,” replied Woodfield, “because I don’t know. I am searching for traces of a particular substance, but what may be the significance of its presence, I haven’t the slightest idea. You’d better ask Dr. Thorndyke—and he won’t tell you.”
“No, I know,” said Marchmont. “Thorndyke will never tell you anything until he can tell you everything. By the way, will the remains be completely destroyed or will it be possible to recover them?”
“They are not destroyed at all,” replied Woodfield. “They are all in the slag that came out of the crucible. We shall simply put the slag in the urn. There is a little charcoal, soda and borax added, but nothing is taken away.”
I could see that to the unchemical mind of Father Humperdinck, this was far from satisfactory, and I observed him poring, with obvious disapproval, over the dark-coloured, glassy masses of slag on the iron plate. “Ashes to Ashes” was an intelligible formula, but “ashes to slag” was quite another matter, for which no provision had been made in any known ritual.
After a rather hurried luncheon, the wax moulds were carefully opened and the fragments of bone picked out, when it was seen that each fragment had left a perfect impression on the wax surface into which it had been pressed. These hollow impressions were now filled with liquid plaster, and, when the latter had thickened sufficiently, the two halves of each mould were quickly fitted together and kept in close contact by a weight.