I had just noted these particulars when Batson, having finished his examination, held out the stethoscope to me.
“May as well listen, as you’re here,” said he, and, turning to our hostess, he added: “Let us see those papers, Mrs. Samway.”
As he stepped over to the table, I took his place on a chair by the bedside and proceeded to make an examination. It was, of course, only a matter of form, for the man was obviously dead; but having insisted so strongly on the necessity of verifying the death I had to make a show of becoming scepticism. Accordingly I tested, both by touch and with the stethoscope, the region of the heart. Needless to say, no heart-sounds were to be distinguished, nor any signs of pulsation; indeed, the very first touch of my hand on the chilly surface of the chest was enough to banish any doubt. No living body could be so entirely destitute of animal heat.
I laid down the stethoscope and looked reflectively at the dead man, lying so still and rigid, with his bandaged jaws and blindfolded eyes, and speculated vaguely on his personality when alive and on the hidden disease that had so suddenly cut him off from the land of the living; and insensibly—by habit I suppose—my fingers strayed to his clammy, pulseless wrist. The sleeve of his night-shirt was excessively long, almost covering the fingers, and I had to turn it back to reach the spot where the pulse would normally be felt. In doing this, I moved the dead hand slightly and then became aware of a well-marked rigor mortis, or death stiffening in the arm of the corpse; a condition which I ought to have observed sooner.
At this moment, happening to look up, I caught the eye of Mrs. Samway fixed on me with a very remarkable expression. She was leaning over Batson as he filled up the voluminous certificate, but had evidently been watching me, and the expression of her pale, cat-like eyes left no doubt in my mind that she strongly resented my proceedings. In some confusion, and accusing myself of some failure in outward decorum, I hastily drew down the dead man’s sleeve and rose from the bedside.
“You noticed, I suppose,” said I, “that there is fairly well-marked rigor mortis?”
“I didn’t,” said Batson, “but if you did it’ll do as well. Better mention it to O’Connor when he comes. He ought to be here now.”
“Who is O’Connor?” asked Mrs. Samway.
“Oh, he is the doctor who is going to sign the confirmatory certificate.”
Again a gleam of unmistakable anger flashed from our hostess’ eyes as she demanded:
“Then who is this gentleman?”
“This is Dr. Humphrey Jardine,” said Batson. “ ’Pologize for not introducing him before. Dr. Jardine is taking my practice while I’m away. I’m off to-night for about a week.”
Mrs. Samway withered me with a baleful glance of her singular eyes, and remarked stiffly:
“I don’t quite see why you brought him here.”
She turned her back on me, and I decided that Mrs. Samway was somewhat of a Tartar; though, to be sure, my presence was a distinct intrusion. I was about to beat a retreat when Batson’s apologies were interrupted by a noisy rat-tat at the street door.
“Ah, here’s O’Connor,” said Batson, and, as Mrs. Samway went out to open the door, he added: “Seem to have put our foot in it, though I don’t see why she need have been so peppery about it. And O’Connor needn’t have banged at the door like that, with death in the house. He’ll get into trouble if he doesn’t look out.”
Our colleague’s manner was certainly not ingratiating. He burst into the room with his watch in his hand protesting that he was three minutes late already, “and,” he added, “if there is one thing that I detest, it’s being late at dinner. Got the forms?”
“Yes,” replied Batson, “here they are. That’s my certificate on the front page. Yours is overleaf.”
Dr. O’Connor glanced rapidly down the long table of questions, muttering discontentedly. “ ‘Made careful external examination?’ H’m. ‘Have you made a post mortem?’ No, of course, I haven’t. What an infernal rigmarole! If cremation ever becomes general there’ll be no time for anything but funerals. Who nursed the deceased?”
“I did,” said Mrs. Samway. “My husband relieved me occasionally, but nearly all the nursing was done by me. My name is Letitia Samway.”
“Was the deceased a relation of yours?”
“No; only a friend. He lived with us for a time in Paris and came to England with us.”
“What was his occupation?”
“He was nominally a dealer in works of art. Actually he was a man of independent means.”
“Have you any pecuniary interest in his death?”
“He has left us about seventy pounds. My husband is the executor of the will.”
“I see. Well, I’d better have a few words with you outside, Batson, before I make my examination. It’s all a confounded farce, but we must go through the proper forms, I suppose.”
“Yes, by all means,” said Batson. “Don’t leave any loop-hole for queries or objections.” He rose and accompanied O’Connor out into the hall, whence the sound of hurried muttering came faintly through the door.
As soon as we were alone, I endeavoured to make my peace with Mrs. Samway by offering apologies for my intrusion into the house of mourning.
“For the time being,” I concluded, “I am Dr. Batson’s assistant, and, as he seemed to wish me to come with him, I came without considering that my presence might be objected to. I hope you will forgive me.”
My humility appeared entirely to appease her; in a moment her stiff and forbidding manner melted into one that was quite gracious and she rewarded me with a smile that made her face really charming.
“Of course,” she said, “it was silly of me to be so cantankerous and so rude, too. But it did look a little callous, you know, when I saw you playing with his poor, dead hand; so you must make allowances.” She smiled again, very prettily, and at this moment my two colleagues re-entered the room.
“Now, then,” said O’Connor, “let us see the body and then we shall have finished.”
He strode over to the bed, and, turning back the sheet, made a rapid inspection of the corpse.
“Ridiculous farce,” he muttered. “Looks all right. Would, in any case though. Parcel of red tape. What’s the good of looking at the outside of a body? Post-mortem’s the only thing that’s any use. What’s this piece of tape-plaster on the back?”
“Oh,” said Batson, “that is a little cut that he made by falling on a broken bottle. I stuck the plaster on because you can’t get a bandage to hold satisfactorily on the back. Besides, he didn’t want a bandage constricting his chest.”
“No, of course not,” O’Connor agreed. “Well, it’s all regular and straightforward. Give me the form and I’ll fill it up and sign it.” He seated himself at the table, looked once more at his watch, groaned aloud and began to write furiously.
“The Egyptians weren’t such bad judges, after all,” he remarked as he laid down the pen and rose from his chair. “Embalming may have been troublesome, but when it was done it was done for good. The deceased was always accessible for reference in case of a dispute, and all this red tape was saved. Good-night, Mrs. Samway.” He buttoned up his coat and bustled off, and a minute or so later we followed.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Batson, “this business has upset my arrangements finely. I shall have to buck up if I’m going to catch my train. There’s all the medicine to be made up and sent out yet, to say nothing of dinner. But dinner will have to wait until the business is all settled up. Don’t you hurry, Jardine. I’ll just run on and get to work.” He broke into an elephantine trot and soon disappeared round a corner, and, when I arrived at the surgery, I found him posting up the day-book with the speed of a parliamentary reporter.
Batson’s dexterity with medicine-bottles and wrapping paper filled me with admiration and despair. I made a futile effort to assist, but in the end, he snatched away the crumpled paper in which I was struggling to enswathe a bottle, dropped it into the waste-paper basket, snatched up a clean sheet and—slap! bang! in the twinkling of an eye, he had transformed the bottle into a neat, little white parcel as a conjuror changes a cocked hat into a guinea-pig. It was wonderful.
My host was a cheerful soul, but restless. He got up from the table no less than six times to pack some article that he had just thought of; and after dinner, when I accompanied him to his bedroom, I saw him empty his trunk no less than three times to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He quite worried me. Your over-quick man is apt to wear out other people’s nerves more than his own. I began to look anxiously at the clock, and felt a real relief when the maid came to announce that the cab was at the door.
“Well, good-bye, Doctor!” he sang out cheerily, shaking my hand through the open window of the cab. “Don’t forget to keep the stock-bottles filled up. Saves a world of trouble. And don’t take too long on your rounds. Ta! ta!”
The cab rattled away and I went back into the house, a full-blown general practitioner.
CHAPTER V.
THE LETHAL CHAMBER
A young and newly-qualified doctor, emerging for the first time into private practice, is apt to be somewhat surprised and disconcerted by the new conditions. Accustomed to the exclusively professional and scientific atmosphere of the hospital, the sudden appearance of the personal element as the predominant factor rather takes him aback. He finds himself in a new and unexpected position. No longer a mere, impersonal official, a portion of a great machine, he is the paid servant of his patients: who are not always above letting him feel the conditions of his service. The hospital patient, drilled into a certain respectful submissiveness by the discipline of the wards, has given place to an employer, usually critical, sometimes truculent and occasionally addicted to a disagreeable frankness of speech.
The locum tenens, moreover, is peculiarly susceptible to these conditions, especially if, as in my case, his appearance is youthful. Patients resent the substitution of a stranger for the familiar medical attendant and are at no great pains to disguise the fact. The “old woman with the liver” (to adopt Batson’s pellucid phrase) hinted that I was rather young, adding encouragingly that I should get the better of that in time; while the more morose typhoid bluntly informed me that he hadn’t bargained for being attended by a medical student.
Taken as a whole, I found private practice disappointing and soon began to wish myself back in the wards and to sigh for my quiet, solitary rambles on Hampstead Heath.
Still, there were rifts in the cloud. Some of the patients appreciated the interest that I took in their cases, evidently contrasting it with the rather casual attitude of my principal, and some were positively friendly. But, in general, my reception was such as to make me slightly apprehensive whenever a new patient appeared.
On the fourth evening after Batson’s departure, Mrs. Samway was announced and I prepared myself for the customary snub. But I was mistaken. Nothing could be more gracious than her manner towards me, though the object of her visit occasioned me some embarrassment.
“I have called, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “to ask you if you could let me have the account for poor Mr. Maddock. My husband is the executor, you know, and, as we shall be going back to Paris quite shortly, he wants to get everything settled up.”
I was in rather a quandary. Of the financial side of practice I was absolutely ignorant and I thought it best to say so. “But,” I added, “Dr. Batson will be back on Friday evening, if you can wait so long.”
“Oh, that will do quite well,” she replied, “but don’t forget to tell him that we want the account at once.”
I promised not to forget, and then remarked that she would, no doubt, be glad to be back in Paris.
“No,” she answered, “I shall be rather sorry. Of course Camden Town is not a very attractive neighbourhood, but it is close to the heart of London; and then there are some delightful places near and quite accessible. There is Highgate, for instance.”
“Yes; but it is getting very much built over, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately it is; but yet there are some very pleasant places left. The old village is still charming. So quaint and old world. And then there is Hampstead. What could be more delightful than the Heath? But perhaps you don’t know Hampstead?”
“Oh, yes I do,” said I; “my rooms are at Gospel Oak, quite near the Heath, and I think I know every nook and corner of the neighbourhood. I am pining for a stroll on the Heath at this very moment.”
“I daresay you are,” she said sympathetically. “This is a depressing neighbourhood if you can’t get away from it. We found it very dismal, at first, after Paris.”
“Do you live in Paris?” I asked.
“Not permanently,” she replied. “But we spend a good deal of time there. My husband is a dealer in works of art, so he has to travel about a good deal. That is how we came to know Mr. Maddock.”
“He was a dealer too, wasn’t he?” I enquired.
“Yes, in a way. But he had means of his own and his dealing was a mere excuse for collecting things that he was not going to keep. He had a passion for buying, and then he used to sell the things in order to buy more. But I am afraid I am detaining you with my chatter?”
“No, not at all,” I said eagerly, only too glad to have an intelligent, educated person to talk to; “you are the last caller, and I hope I have finished my day’s work.”
Accordingly she stayed quite a long time, chatting on a variety of subjects and finally on that of cremation.
“I daresay,” she said, “it is more sanitary and wholesome than burial, but there is something rather dreadful about it. Perhaps it is because we are not accustomed to the idea.”
“Did you go to the funeral?” I asked.
“Yes. Mr. Maddock had no friends in England but my husband and me, so we both went. It was very solemn and awesome. The coffin was laid on the catafalque while a short service was read, and then two metal doors opened and it was passed through out of our sight. We waited some time and presently they brought us a little terra-cotta urn with just a handful or two of white ash in it. That was all that was left of our poor friend Septimus Maddock. Don’t you think it is rather dreadful?”
“Death is always rather dreadful,” I answered. “But when we look at the ashes of a dead person, we realize the total destruction of the body; whereas the grave keeps its secrets. If we could look down through the earth and see the changes that are taking place, we should probably find the slow decay more shocking than the swift consumption by fire. Fortunately we cannot. But we know that the final result is the same in both.”
Mrs. Samway shuddered slightly, and drew her wraps more closely about her.
“Yes,” she said with a faint sigh; “the same end awaits us all—but it is better not to think about it.”
We were both silent for awhile. I sat with my gaze bent rather absently on the case-book before me, turning over her last somewhat gloomy utterance, until, chancing to look up, I found her pale, penetrating eyes fixed on me with the same strange intentness that I had noticed when she had looked at me as I sat by the body of Maddock. As she met my glance, she looked down quickly but without confusion, and with a return to her habitual reposefulness.
Half-unconsciously I returned her scrutiny. She was a remarkable-looking woman. A beautiful woman, too, but of a type that is, in our time and country, rare: an ancient or barbaric type in which womanly beauty and grace are joined to manifest physical strength. I felt that some unusual racial mixture spoke in her inconsistent colouring; her clear, pink skin, her pale eyes and the jet-black hair that rippled down either side of her low forehead in little crimpy waves, as regular and formal as the “archaic curls” of early Greek sculpture.
But predominant over all other qualities was that of strength. Full and plump, soft and almost ultra-feminine, lissom and flexible in every pose and movement, yet, to me, the chief impression that her appearance suggested was strength—sheer, muscular strength; not the rigid bull-dog strength of a strong man, but the soft and supple strength of a leopard. I looked at her as she sat almost limply in her chair, with her head on one side, her hands resting in her lap and a beautiful, soft, womanly droop of the shoulders; and I felt that she could have started up in an instant, active, strong, formidable, like a roused panther.
I was going on, I think, to make comparisons between her and that other woman who was wont to trip so daintily down Millfield Lane, when she raised her eyes slowly to mine; and suddenly she blushed scarlet.
“Am I a very remarkable-looking person, Dr. Jardine?” she asked quietly, as if answering my thoughts.
The rebuke was well merited. For an instant a paltry compliment fluttered on my lips; but I swallowed it down. She wasn’t that kind of woman.
“I am afraid I have been staring you out of countenance, Mrs. Samway,” I said apologetically.
“Hardly that,” she replied with a smile; “but you certainly were looking at me very attentively.”
“Well,” I said, recovering myself, “after all, a cat may look at a king, you know.”
She laughed softly—a very pretty, musical laugh—and rose, still blushing warmly.
“And so,” she retorted, “by the same reasoning, you think a king may look at a cat. Very well, Dr. Jardine. Good-night.”
She held out her hand; a beautifully-shaped hand, though rather large—but, as I have said, she was not a small woman; and as it clasped mine, though the pressure was quite gentle, it conveyed, like her appearance, an impression of abundant physical strength.
I accompanied her to the door and watched her as she walked up the dingy street with an easy, erect, undulating gait; even as might have walked those women who are portrayed for the wonder of all time on the ivory-toned marble of the Parthenon frieze. I followed with my eyes the dignified, graceful figure until it vanished round the corner, and then went back to the consulting-room dimly wondering why a woman of such manifest beauty and charm should offer so little attraction to me.
Batson’s practice, among its other drawbacks, suffered from a deadly lack of professional interest. Whether this was its normal condition, or whether his patients had got wind of me and called in other and more experienced practitioners, I know not; but certainly, after the stirring work of the hospital, the cases that I had to deal with seemed very small beer. Hence the prospect of a genuine surgical case came as a grateful surprise and I hailed it with enthusiasm.
It was on the day before Batson’s expected return that I received the summons; which was delivered to me in a dirty envelope as I sat by the bedside of the last patient on my list.
“Is the messenger waiting?” I asked, tearing open the envelope.
“No, Doctor. He just handed in the note and went off. He seemed to be in a hurry.”
I ran my eye over the message, scrawled in a rather illiterate hand on a sheet of common notepaper, and read:
“Sir,
“Will you please come at once to the Mineral Water Works in Norton Street. One of our men has injured himself rather badly.
“Yours truly,
“J. Parker.“P.S.—He is bleeding a good deal, so please come quick.”
The postscript gave a very necessary piece of information. An injury which bled would require certain dressings and surgical appliances over and above those contained in my pocket case; and to obtain these I should have to take Batson’s house on the way. Slipping the note into my pocket, I wished my patient a hasty adieu and strode off at a swinging pace in the direction of Jacob Street.
The housemaid, Maggie, helped me to find the dressings and pack the bag—for she was a handy, intelligent girl though no beauty; and meanwhile I questioned her as to the whereabouts of Norton Street and the mineral water factory.
“Oh, I know the place well enough, sir,” said she, “though I didn’t know the works were open. Norton Street is only a few minutes’ walk from here. It’s quite close to Gayton Street, in fact these works are just at the back of the Samways’ house. You go up to the corner by the market and take the second on the right and then—”
“Look here, Maggie,” I interrupted, “you’d better come and show me the way, as you know the place. There’s no time to waste on fumbling for the right turning.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied, and the bag being now packed with all necessary instruments and dressings, we set forth together.
“Is this a large factory?” I asked, as she trotted by my side, to the astonished admiration of Jacob Street, and the neighbourhood in general.
“No, sir,” she replied. “It’s quite a small place. The last people went bankrupt and the works were empty and to let for a long time. I thought they were still to let, but I suppose somebody has taken them and started the business afresh. It’s round here.”
She piloted me round a corner into a narrow by-street, near the end of which she halted at the gate of a yard or mews. Above the entrance was a weather-beaten board bearing the inscription, “International Mineral Water Company” and a half-defaced printed bill offering the premises to let; and at the side was a large bell-pull. A vigorous tug at the latter set a bell jangling within, and, as Maggie tripped away up the street, a small wicket in the gate opened, disclosing the dimly-seen figure of a man standing in the inner darkness.
“Are you the doctor?” he inquired.
I answered “Yes,” and, being thereupon bidden to enter, stepped through the opening of the wicket, which the man immediately closed, shutting out the last gleam of light from the street lamp outside.
“It’s rather dark,” said the unseen custodian, taking me by the arm.
“It is indeed,” I replied, groping with my feet over the rough cobbles; “hadn’t you better get a light of some kind?”
“I will in a minute,” was the reply. “You see, all the other men have gone home. We close at six sharp. This is the way. I’ll strike a match. The man is down in the bottling-room.”
My conductor struck a match by the light of which he guided me through a doorway, along a passage or corridor and down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom of the steps was a flagged passage, out of which opened what looked like a range of cellars. Along the passage I walked warily, followed by the stranger and lighted, very imperfectly, by the matches that he struck; the glimmer of which threw a gigantic and ghostly shadow of myself on the stone floor, but failed utterly to pierce the darkness ahead. I was exactly opposite the yawning doorway of one of the cellars when the match went out, and the man behind me exclaimed:
“Wait a moment, Doctor! Don’t move until I strike another light.”
I halted abruptly; and the next moment I received a violent thrust that sent me staggering through the open doorway into the cellar. Instantly, the massive door slammed and a pair of heavy bolts were shot in succession on the outside.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” I roared, battering and kicking furiously at the door. Of course, there was no answer, and I quickly stopped my demonstrations, for it dawned on me in a moment that the factory was untenanted save by the ruffian who had admitted me; that I had been decoyed here of a set purpose, though what that purpose was I could not imagine.
But it was not long before I received a pretty broad hint as to the immediate intentions of my host. A gentle thumping at the door of my cellar attracted my attention and caused me to lay my ear against the wood. The sound that I heard was quite unmistakable. The crevices of the door were being filled, apparently with pieces of rag, which my friend was ramming home, presumably with a chisel. In fact the door was being “caulked” to make the joints airtight.
The object of this proceeding was clear enough. I was shut up in an air-tight cavity in which I was to be slowly suffocated. That was quite obvious. Why was I to be suffocated, I could form no sort of guess excepting that I had fallen into the hands of a homicidal lunatic. But I was not greatly alarmed. The air in a good-sized cellar will last a considerable time, and I could easily poke out anything that my friend might stuff into the keyhole. Then, when the men arrived in the morning, I could kick on the cellar door, and they would come and let me out. There was nothing to be particularly frightened about.
But stay! Were there any men? The injured man was evidently a myth. Supposing the other men were a myth too! I recalled Maggie’s remark, that she “had thought the place was to let still.” Perhaps it was. That would be rather more serious.
At this point my cogitations were broken in upon by sounds from the adjoining cellar; the sound of someone moving about and dragging some heavy body. And it struck me at once as strange that I should hear these sounds so distinctly, seeing the massive door of my own cellar was closely sealed and the walls were of solid brick, as I ascertained by rapping at them with my knuckles. But I had no time to consider this circumstance, for there suddenly arose a new sound, whereat, I must confess my heart fairly came into my mouth; a loud, penetrating hiss like the shriek of escaping steam. It seemed to come from some part of the cellar in which I was immured; from a spot nearly overhead; and it was immediately echoed by a similar sound in the adjoining cellar and then by a third. Even as the last sound broke forth, the door of the adjoining cellar slammed, the bolts were shot and then faintly mingled with the discordant hissing, I could hear the dull thumping that told me that the cracks of that door, too, were being caulked.
It was a frightful situation. The hissing sound was obviously caused by the escape of gas under high pressure, and that gas must be entering my cellar through some opening. I felt for my match-box, and, groping along the wall towards the point whence the loudest sound—and, indeed, all the sounds—proceeded, I struck a match. The glimmer of the wax vesta made everything clear. Close to the ceiling, about seven feet from the ground, was an opening in the wall about six inches square; and pouring through this in a continuous stream was a cloud of white particles that glistened like snowflakes. As I stood under the opening, some of them settled on my face; and the more than icy coldness of the contact, told the whole, horrible tale in a moment.
This white powder was snow—carbonic acid snow. The hissing sound came from three of those great iron bottles, charged under pressure with liquefied carbonic acid, which are used by mineral water manufacturers for aërating the water. The miscreant (or lunatic) who had imprisoned me had turned on the taps, and the liquid was escaping and congealing into snow with the cold produced by its own rapid evaporation and expansion. Of course the snow would quickly absorb heat, and, without again liquefying, evaporate into the gaseous form. In a very short time both cellars would be full of the poisonous gas, and I—well, in a word, I was shut up in a lethal chamber.
It has taken me some time to write this explanation, which, however, flashed through my brain in the twinkling of an eye as the light of the match fell on that sinister cloud of snowflakes. In a moment I had my coat off, and was stuffing it for dear life into the opening. It was but a poor protection against the gas, which would easily enough find its way through the interstices of the fabric; but it would stop the direct stream of snow and give me time to think.
On what incalculable chances do the great issues of our lives depend! If I had been a short man I must have been dead in half an hour; for the opening through which the cloud of snow was pouring was well over seven feet above the floor and would have been quite out of my reach. Even as it was, with my six feet of stature and corresponding length of arm, it was impossible to ram my coat into the opening with the necessary force, for I had to stand close to the wall with my arm upraised at a great mechanical disadvantage. Still, as I have said, imperfect as the obstruction was, it served to stop the inrushing cloud of snow. It would take some time for the heavy gas in the adjoining cellar to rise to the level of the opening, and, meanwhile, I could be devising other measures.
I lit another match and looked about me. The cellar was much smaller than I had thought and was absolutely empty. The floor was of concrete, the walls of rough brickwork and the ceiling of plaster, all cracked and falling in. There was plenty of ventilation there, but that was of no interest to me. Carbonic acid gas is so heavy that it behaves almost like a liquid, and it would have filled the cellar and suffocated me even if the top of my prison had been open to the sky. The adjoining cellar was already filling rapidly, and when the gas in it reached the level of the opening, it would percolate through my coat and come pouring down into my cellar. But that, as I have said, would take some time—if the dividing wall was moderately sound. This important qualification, as soon as it occurred to me, set me exploring the wall with the aid of another match; and very unsatisfactory was the result. It was a bad wall, built of inferior brick and worse mortar, and was marked by innumerable holes where wall-hooks and other fastenings had been driven in between the bricks. My brief survey convinced me that, so far from being gas-tight, the wall was as pervious as a sponge, and that whatever I meant to do to preserve my life, I must set about without delay.
But what was I to do? That was the urgent, the vital question. Escape was evidently impossible. There were no means of stopping up the numberless holes and weak places in the wall. The only vulnerable spot was the door. If I could establish some communication with the outer air, I could, for a time at least, disregard the poisonous gas with which I should presently be surrounded.
The first thing to be considered was the keyhole. That must be unstopped at once. Fumbling in my bag—for I had grown of a sudden niggardly with my matches—I found a good-sized probe, which I insinuated into the keyhole; and, in a moment, my hopes in that direction were extinguished. For the end of the probe impinged upon metal. The keyhole was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal fixed on the outside. With rapidly-growing alarm, but with a tidiness born of habit, I put the probe back in the bag and began feverishly to review the situation and consider my resources. And then I had an idea, only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an idea.
There is a certain ingenious type of pocket-knife, devised principally in the interest of the cutlery trade, that innocent persons (usually of the female persuasion) are wont to bestow as presents on their masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess. It had been given to me by an aunt, and sentimental considerations had induced me to give it an amount of room in my trousers’ pocket that I continually grudged. However, there it was at this critical moment, with its corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering array of blades, its hoof-pick, tooth-pick, tweezers, file, screw-driver and assorted unclassifiable tools; a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness—and yet, the appointed means of saving my life.
The gimlet was the first tool that I called into requisition. Very gingerly—for these tools are commonly over-tempered and brittle—I bored in the thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth; and as I worked I turned over my further plans. When the gimlet was through the door, I selected a tool on whose use I had often speculated—a sharp-edged spike, like a diminutive and very stumpy bayonet—which I proceeded to use broach-wise to enlarge the hole. When this tool worked loose, I exchanged it for the screw-driver, with which I managed to broach the hole out to about half an inch in width. And this was as large as I could make it, and it was not large enough. True, one could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-inch hole, but, with the deadly gas circulating around, a freer opening was very desirable.
Then I bethought me that the magic knife contained a saw—a wretched, thick-bladed affair, but still a saw—which would actually cut wood if you gave it time. This implement suggested a simple plan which I forthwith put into execution, working as rapidly as I could without running the risk of breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second hole some two inches diagonally below the first, and from each hole to carry two saw-cuts at right angles to one another. The two pairs of cuts would intersect and take a square piece out of the door, giving me a little window through which I could breathe in comfort.
It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable tools I had, it took a considerable time to execute; the more since the saw blade was wider than the holes, excepting at its point. However, it was accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of pushing out the little separated square of wood and feeling that I now had free access to the pure air outside my dungeon.
But it was none too soon. As I rested from my labours, it occurred to me to test the condition of the air inside. Lighting a wax match, I held the little taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then lowered it slowly. As it descended the flame changed colour somewhat, and about eighteen inches from the floor it went out quite suddenly. There was, then, a layer of the pure gas about eighteen inches deep covering the floor, and, no doubt, rising pretty rapidly.
This was rather startling, and it warned me to have recourse without delay to my breathing hole. For though carbonic acid gas behaves somewhat as a liquid, it is not a liquid: like other gases, it has the power of diffusing upwards, and the air of the cellar must be already getting unsafe. Accordingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the door with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with some distaste, to the opening and took in a deep draught of undoubtedly pure air.
The position in which I had to stand with my mouth to the hole was an irksome one, and I foresaw that it would presently become very fatiguing. Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head, it would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding its way into my mouth and nostrils; and if it did, I should most assuredly be poisoned. This consideration suggested the necessity of making another hole at a lower level to let out the gas and allow me to rest myself by a change of position. But this new task had to be carried out with my mouth glued to the breathing hole; and very awkward and tiring I found it and very slow was the progress that I made. This second hole was smaller than the first, for time was precious, and I reflected that I could easily enlarge it by fresh saw-cuts, each two of which would take out a triangular piece of wood.
But it was tedious work, and its completion left me with aching arms; indeed, I was beginning to ache all over from the constrained position. Taking a deep breath and shutting my mouth, I stood up and stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at my watch. Half-past eight. I had been over two hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the patients were waiting for me at the surgery, and, no doubt, murmuring at the delay. How soon would my absence lead to enquiries? Or were enquiries being made even now?
Looking at the match that I still held in my hand, I noticed that its flame was pallid and bluish; and as I lowered it slowly, it went out when it was a little over two feet from the floor. The gas, then, was still rising, though not so rapidly as I had feared, but from the altered colour of the flame, it was evident that the air of the cellar, generally, contained enough diffused gas to be actively poisonous.
After a time, the erect position began to grow insupportably fatiguing. I felt that I must sit down for a few minutes’ rest, even though prudence whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled for awhile, but eventually, conquered by fatigue, sat down on the floor with my mouth applied closely to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded myself that I would sit only just long enough to recover some of my strength, but minute after minute sped by and still I felt an unaccountable reluctance to rise.
Suddenly I became conscious of a vague feeling of drowsiness; of a desire to lean back against the wall and doze. It was only slight, but its significance was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a panic, and, putting my mouth to the upper breathing-hole, took several deep inspirations. But I soon realized that the upright position was impossible. The drowsy feeling continued and there was growing with it a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that threatened to leave me only the choice between sitting or falling. A wave of furious anger swept over me and roused me a little; a burst of hatred of the cowardly wretch who had decoyed me, as I now suspected, to my death. Then this feeling passed and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank down once more into a sitting position with my mouth pressed to the lower opening.
The time ran on unreckoned by me. Gradually, by imperceptible degrees, my mental state grew more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and ever-dwindling hope flitted by turns across the slowly-fading field of my consciousness. Intervals of quiet indifference—almost of placid comfort—began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and a growing desire for rest. To lie down; that was what I wanted. To lay my head upon the stony floor and sink into sweet oblivion.
At last I must have actually dozed, though, fortunately, without removing my mouth from the breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the passage of time, when I was suddenly aroused by the loud and continuous jangling of a bell.
I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping awake with a conscious effort.
The bell pealed wildly and without a pause for what seemed to me quite a long time.
Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began to grow dim. After an interval, I know not how long, there came to me dimly and only half-perceived, the closing of a door, the patter of quick footsteps, and then the voice of a man calling me by name.
I struggled to get on to my feet, but could not move. But I still held the clasp-knife and was able to rap with it feebly on the door. Again I heard the voice—it sounded nearer now, and yet infinitely far away—and again I rapped on the door and shouted through the breathing-hole; a thin, muffled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. And then the drowsiness crept over me again and I heard no more.
The next thing of which I was conscious was a sounding thwack on the cheek with something wet that felt like a dead fish. I opened my eyes and looked vaguely into two faces that were close to mine and seemed to be lighted by a lamp or candle. The faces were somehow familiar, but yet I failed clearly to recognize them, and, after staring stupidly for a few moments, I began to doze again. Then the dead fish returned to the assault and I again opened my eyes. Another vigorous flop caused me to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp.
“Ah! That’s better,” said a familiar and yet “unplaced” voice. “When a man is able to swear, he is fairly on the road to recovery.” Flop!
The renewed attentions of the dead fish (which turned out, later, to be merely a wet towel) evoked further demonstrations on my part of progressing recovery, accompanied by a nervous titter in a female voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away, and to my returning consciousness, the faces revealed themselves as those of Maggie, the housemaid, and Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits, the presence of the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and, in the intervals of anathematizing the deceased fish—which I had not yet identified—I found myself hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered teacher came to be in this place, and what place this was.
“Come, now, Jardine,” said Dr. Thorndyke, emptying a jug of water on my face, and receiving a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange, “pull yourself together. How did you get in that cellar?”
“Hang’ ’f I know,” said I, composing myself for another nap. But here the wet towel came once more into requisition, and that with such vigour that, in a fit of exasperation, I sat up and yawned.
“I think you’d better fetch a cab,” said Thorndyke, as Maggie wrung out the towel afresh; “but leave the gate open when you go out.”
“Wasser cab for?” I asked sulkily. “Can’t I walk?”
“If you can, it will be better,” said Thorndyke. “Let us see if you are able to stand.” He hoisted me on to my feet and he and Maggie, taking each an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled yard, which I now began to recognize as appertaining to the Mineral Water Works. At first I staggered very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy feeling wore off and I was able to walk with Thorndyke’s assistance only.
“I think we might venture out now,” said he, at length, piloting me towards the gate, and when I had stumbled rather awkwardly through the wicket, we set forth homeward.
On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply of strong coffee and a light meal, after which—it being obvious that I was good for nothing in a professional sense, he suggested that I should go to bed.
“Don’t worry about the practice,” said he. “I will send for my friend Jervis, and, between us, we will see that everything is looked after. If Maggie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope I will write a note to him; and then she can take a hansom to my chambers and give the note either to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton. Meanwhile, I will stay here and see that you don’t go to sleep prematurely.”
He wrote the note; and Maggie, having made such improvements in her outward garb as befitted the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge of it and departed with much satisfaction and dignity. Thorndyke made a few enquiries of me as to the circumstances that had led to my incarceration in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than Maggie—whom he had already questioned—he changed the subject; nor would he allow me again to refer to it.
“No, Jardine,” he said. “Better think no more of it for the present. Have a good night’s rest and then, if you are all right in the morning, we will go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle together.”
CHAPTER VI.
A COUNCIL OF WAR
I awoke somewhat late on the following morning; indeed, I was but half awake when there came a somewhat masterful and peremptory tap at my bedroom door, followed by the appearance in the room of a rather tall gentleman of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed, proprietary manner of entering, but he left me no time for guessing as to his identity.
“Good-morning, Jardine,” he said briskly, jingling the keys and small change in his trousers’ pockets, “my name is Jervis. Second violin in the Thorndyke orchestra. I’m in charge here pro tem. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just going to get up. You needn’t trouble about the practice. I’m quite fit.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jervis, “but you’d better keep quiet all the same. My orders are explicit, and I know my place too well to disobey. Thorndyke’s instructions were that you are not to make any visits or go abroad until after the inquest.”
“Inquest?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He’s coming here at four o’clock to hold an inquiry into the circumstances that led to your being locked up in a cellar, and until then I’m to look after the practice and keep an eye on you. What time do you expect the offspring of the flittermouse?”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Batson. He’s coming back to-day, isn’t he?”
“Yes. About six o’clock to-night.”
“Then you’ll be able to clear out. So much the better. The neighbourhood doesn’t seem very wholesome for you.”
“I suppose I can do the surgery work,” said I.
“You’d better not. Better follow Thorndyke’s instructions literally. But you can tell me about the patients and help me to dispense. And that reminds me that a person named Samway called just now, a rather fine-looking woman—reminded me of a big, sleek tabby cat. She wouldn’t say what she wanted. Do you know anything about her?”
“I expect she came about her account. But she’ll have to see Batson. I told her so, only a night or two ago.”
“Very well,” said Jervis, “then I’ll be off now, and you take things easy and just think over what happened last night, so as to be ready for Thorndyke.”
With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and breakfast at my leisure.
His advice to me to think over the events of the previous night was rather superfluous. The experience was not one that I was likely to forget. To have escaped from death by the very slenderest chance was in itself a matter to occupy one’s thoughts pretty completely, apart from the horrible circumstances, and then there was the mystery in which the whole affair was enveloped, a mystery which utterly baffled any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over as I would—and it was hardly out of my thoughts for a minute at a time all day—no glimmer of light could I perceive, no faintest clue to any explanation of that hideous and incomprehensible crime.
At four o’clock punctually to the minute, Dr. Thorndyke arrived, and, having quickly looked me over to see that I was none the worse for my adventure, proceeded to business.
“Have you finished the visits, Jervis?” he asked.
“Yes; and sent off all the medicine. There’s nothing more to do until six.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we might have a cup of tea in the consulting-room and talk this affair over. I am rather taking possession of you, Jardine,” he added, “but I think we ought to see where we are quite clearly, even if we decide finally to hand the case over to the police. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Certainly,” I agreed, highly flattered by the interest he was taking in my affairs; “naturally, I should like to get to the bottom of the mystery.”
“So should I,” said he, “and to that end, I propose that you give us a completely circumstantial account of the whole affair. I have had a talk with your very intelligent little maid, Maggie, and now I want to hear what happened after she left you.”
“I don’t think I have much to tell that you don’t know,” said I; “however, I will take up the story where Maggie left off,” and I proceeded to describe the events in detail, much as I have related them to the reader.
Thorndyke listened to my story with profound attention, making an occasional memorandum but not uttering a word until I had finished. Then, after a rapid glance through his memoranda, he said:
“You spoke of a note that was handed in to you. Have you got that note?”
“I left it on the writing-table, and it is probably there still. Yes, here it is.” I brought it over to the little table on which our tea was laid and handed it to him; and as he took it from me with the dainty carefulness of a photographer handling a wet plate, I noted mentally that the habit of delicate manipulation contracted in the laboratory makes itself evident in the most trifling of everyday actions.
“I see,” he remarked, turning the envelope over and scrutinizing it minutely, “that this is addressed to ‘Dr. H. Jardine.’ It appears, then, that he knows your Christian name. Can you account for that?”
“No, I can’t. The only letter I have had here was addressed ‘Dr. Jardine,’ and I have signed no certificates or other documents.”
He made a note of my answer, and, drawing the missive from its envelope, read it through.
“The handwriting,” he remarked, “looks disguised rather than illiterate, and the diction is inconsistent. The blatantly incorrect adverb at the end does not agree with the rest of the phraseology and the correct punctuation. As to the signature, we may neglect that, unless you are acquainted with anyone in these parts of the name of Parker.”
“I am not,” said I.
“Very well. Then if you will allow me to keep this note, I will file it for future reference. And now I will ask you a few questions about this adventure of yours, which is really a most astonishing and mysterious affair; even more mysterious, I may add, than it looks at the first glance. But we shall come to that presently. At the moment we are concerned with the crime itself—with a manifest attempt to murder you—and the circumstances that led up to it; and there are certain obvious questions that suggest themselves. The first is: Can you give any explanation of this attempt on your life?”
“No, I can’t,” I replied. “It is a complete mystery to me. I can only suppose that the fellow was a homicidal lunatic.”
“A homicidal lunatic,” said Thorndyke, “is the baffled investigator’s last resource. But we had better not begin supposing at this stage. Let us keep strictly to facts. You do not know of anything that would explain this attack on you?”
“No.”
“Then the next question is: Had you any property of value on your person?”
“No. Five pounds would cover the value of everything I had about me, including the instruments.”
“Then that seems to exclude robbery as a motive. The next question is: Does any person stand to benefit considerably by your death? Have you any considerable expectations in the way of bequests, reversions or succession to landed property or titles?”
“No,” I replied with a faint grin. “I shall come in for a thousand or two when my uncle dies, but I believe the London Hospital is the alternative legatee, and I suppose we would hardly suspect the hospital governors of this little affair. Otherwise, the only person who would benefit by my death would be the undertaker who got the contract to plant me.”
Thorndyke nodded and made a note of my answer.
“That,” said he, “disposes of the principal motives for premeditated murder. There remains the question of personal enmity—not a common motive in this country. Have you, as far as you know, an enemy or enemies who might conceivably try to kill you?”
“As far as I know, I have not an enemy in the world, or anyone, even, who would wish to do me a bad turn.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to dispose of all the ordinary motives for murder; and I may say that I have only put these questions as a matter of routine precaution—ex abundantiâ cautelae, as Jervis says, when he is in a forensic mood—because certain other facts which I have learned seem to exclude any of these motives except, perhaps, robbery from the person.”
“You haven’t been long picking up those other facts,” remarked Jervis. “Why the affair only happened last night.”
“I have only made a few simple enquiries,” replied Thorndyke. “This morning I called on Mr. Highfield, whose name, as solicitor and agent to the landlords, I copied from the notice on the gate at the works last night. He knows me slightly so I was able to get from him the information that I wanted. It amounts to this.
“About four months ago, a Mr. Gill wrote to him and offered a lump sum for the use of the mineral water works for six months. Highfield accepted the offer and drew up an agreement, as desired, granting Gill immediate possession of the premises and the small stock and plant, of which the residue was to be taken back at a valuation by the landlords at the expiration of the term.
“I noted Gill’s address, as it appeared on the agreement, and sent my man, Polton, to make enquiries. The address is that of a West Kensington lodging house at which Gill was staying when he signed the agreement. He had been there only three weeks, he left two days after the date of the agreement and the landlady does not know where he went or anything about him.”
“Sounds a bit fishy,” Jervis remarked. “Did he tell Highfield what he wanted the premises for?”
“I understand that something was said about some assay work in connection with certain—or rather uncertain—mineral concessions. But of course that was no affair of Highfield’s. His business was to get the rent, and, having got it, his interest in Mr. Gill lapsed. But you see the bearing of these facts. Gill’s connection with these works does, as Jervis says, look a little queer, especially after what has happened. But, seeing that he made his arrangements four months ago, at a time when Jardine had no thought of coming into this neighbourhood, it is clear that those arrangements could have no connection with this particular attempt. Gill obviously did not take those works with the intention of murdering Jardine. He took them for some other purpose; quite possibly the purpose that he stated. And we must not assume that Gill was the perpetrator of this outrage at all. Could you identify the man who let you in?”
“No,” I replied. “Certainly not. I hardly saw him at all. The place was pitch dark, and whenever he struck a match he was either behind me or in front with his back to me. The only thing I could make out about him was that he had some sort of coarse wash-leather gloves on.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Then we were right, Jervis.”
I looked in surprise from one to the other of my friends, and was on the point of asking Thorndyke what he meant, when he continued.
“That closes another track. If you couldn’t identify the man, a description of Gill, if we could obtain it, would not help us. We must begin at some other point.”
“It seems to me,” said Jervis, “that we haven’t much to go upon at all.”
“We haven’t much,” agreed Thorndyke, “but still we have something. We find that the motive of this attempt was apparently not robbery, nor the diversion of inheritable property, nor personal enmity. It must have been premeditated, but yet it could not have been planned more than a week in advance, for Jardine has only been in this neighbourhood for that time, and his coming was unexpected. The appearances very strongly suggest that the motive, whatever it was, has been generated recently and probably locally. So we had better make a start from that assumption.”
“Is it possible,” Jervis suggested, “that this man Gill may be some sort of anarchist crank? Or a sort of thug? It is actually conceivable that he may have taken these premises for the express purpose of having a secure place where he could perpetrate murders and conceal the bodies.”
“It is quite conceivable,” said Thorndyke, “and when we go and look over the works—which I propose we do presently—we may as well bear the possibility in mind. But it is merely a speculative suggestion. To return to your affairs, Jardine, has your stay here been quite uneventful?”
“Perfectly,” I replied.
“No unusual or obscure cases? No injuries?”
“No, nothing out of the common,” I replied.
“No deaths?”
“One. But the man died before I took over.”
“Nothing unusual about that? Everything quite regular?”
“Oh, perfectly,” I answered; and then with a sudden qualm, as I recalled Batson’s uncertainty as to the actual cause of death, I added, “At least I hope so.”
“You hope so?” queried Thorndyke.
“Yes. Because it’s too late to go into the question now. The man was cremated.”
At this a singular silence fell. Both my friends seemed to stiffen in their chairs, and both looked at me silently but very attentively. Then Thorndyke asked, “Did you have anything to do with that case?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I went with Batson to examine the body.”
“And are you perfectly satisfied that everything was as it should be?”
I was on the point of saying “yes.” And then suddenly there arose before my eyes the vision of Mrs. Samway looking at me over Batson’s shoulder with that strange, inscrutable expression. And again, I recalled her unexplained anger and then her sudden change of mood. It had impressed me uncomfortably at the time, and it impressed me uncomfortably now.
“I don’t know that I am, now that I come to think it over,” I replied.
“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well,” I said, a little hesitatingly, “to begin with, I don’t think the cause of death was quite clear. Batson couldn’t find anything definite when he attended the man, and I know that the patient’s death came as quite a surprise.”
“But surely,” exclaimed Thorndyke, “he took some measures to find out the cause of death!”
“He didn’t. He assumed that it was a case of fatty heart and certified it as ‘Morbus cordis’; and a man named O’Connor confirmed his certificate after examining the body.”
“After merely inspecting the exterior?”
“Yes.”
My two friends looked at one another significantly, and Thorndyke remarked, with a disapproving shake of the head:
“And this is what all the elaborate precautions amount to in practice. A case which might have been one of the crudest and baldest poisoning gets passed with hardly a pretence of scrutiny. And so it will always be. Routine precautions against the unsuspected are no precautions at all. That is the danger of cremation. It restores to the poisoner the security that he enjoyed in the old days when there were no such sciences as toxicology and organic chemistry, when it was impossible for him to be tripped up by an exhumation and an analysis.”
“You don’t think it likely that this was a case of poisoning, do you?” I asked.
“I know nothing about the case,” he replied, “excepting that there was gross neglect in issuing the certificates. What do you think about it yourself? Looking back at the case, is there anything besides the uncertainty that strikes you as unsatisfactory?”
I hesitated, and again the figure of Mrs. Samway rose before me with that strange, baleful look in her eyes. Finally I described the incident to my colleagues.
“Mrs. Samway!” exclaimed Jervis. “Is that the handsome Lucrezia Borgia lady with the mongoose eyes who called here this morning? By Jove! Jardine, you are giving me the creeps.”
“I understand,” said Thorndyke, “that you were making as if to feel the dead man’s pulse?”
“Yes.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose, that he really was dead?”
“None whatever. He was as cold as a fish, and, besides there was quite distinct rigor mortis.”
“That seems conclusive enough,” said Thorndyke, but he continued to gaze at his open note-book with a profoundly speculative and thoughtful expression.
“It certainly looks,” said Jervis, “as if Jardine had either seen something or had been about to see something that he was not wanted to see; and the question is what that something could have been.”
“Yes,” I agreed, gloomily; “that is what I have just been asking myself. There might have been a wound or injury of some kind, or there might have been the marks of a hypodermic needle on the wrist. I wish I knew what she meant by looking at me in that way.”
“Well,” said Jervis, “we shall never know now. The grave gives up its secrets now and again, but the crematorium furnace never. Whether he died naturally or was murdered, Mr. Maddock is now a little heap of ashes with no message for anyone this side of the Day of Judgment.”
Thorndyke looked up. “That seems to be so,” said he, “and really, we have no substantial reasons for thinking that there was anything wrong. So we come back to your own affairs, Jardine, and the question is, What would you prefer to do?”
“In what respect?” I asked.
“In regard to this attempt on your life. You have told us that you have not an enemy in the world. But it appears as if you had; and a very dangerous one, too. Now would you like to put the case into the hands of the police, or would you rather that we kept our own counsel and looked into it ourselves?”
“I should like you to decide that,” said I.
“The reason that I ask,” said Thorndyke, “is this: the machinery of the police is adjusted to professional crime—burglary, coining, forgery, and so forth—and their methods are mostly based on ‘information received.’ The professional ‘crook’ is generally well known to the police, and, when wanted for any particular ‘job,’ can be found without much difficulty and the information necessary for his conviction obtained from the usual sources. But in cases of obscure, non-professional crime the police are at a disadvantage. The criminal is unknown to them; there are no confederates from whom to get information; consequently they have no starting-point for their enquiries. They can’t create clues; and they, very naturally, will not devote time, labour and money to cases in which they have nothing to go on.
“Now this affair of yours does not look like a professional crime. No motive is evident and you can give no information that would help the police. I doubt if they would do much more than give you some rather disagreeable publicity, and they might even suspect you of some kind of imposture.”
“Gad!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what they would do. It’s what they did last time, and this affair would write me down in their eyes a confirmed mystery-monger.”
“Last time?” queried Thorndyke. “What last time is that? Have there been any other attempts?”
“Not on me,” I replied. “But I had an adventure one night about six or seven weeks ago that has made the Hampstead police look on me, I think, with some suspicion”; and here I gave my two friends a description of my encounter with the dead (or insensible) cleric in Millfield Lane, and my discoveries on the following morning.
“But my dear Jardine!” Thorndyke exclaimed when I had finished, “what an extraordinary man you are! It seems as if you could hardly show your nose out of doors without becoming involved in some dark and dreadful mystery.”
“Well,” said I, “I hope I have now exhausted my gifts in that respect. I am not thirsting for more experiences. But what do you think about that Hampstead affair? Do you think I could possibly have been mistaken? Could the man have been merely insensible, after all, as the police suggested?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “I don’t think,” he replied, “that it is possible to take that view. You see the man had disappeared. Now he could not have got away unassisted, in fact he could not have walked at all. One would have to assume that some persons appeared directly after you left and carried him away; and that they appeared and retired so quickly as not to be overtaken by you on your return a few minutes later with the police. That is assuming too much. And then there are the traces which you discovered on the following day, which seem to suggest strongly that a body had been carried away to Ken Wood. It is a thousand pities that you encountered that keeper, if you could have followed the tracks while they were fresh you might have been able to ascertain whither it had been carried. But now, to return to your latest experience, what shall we do? Shall we communicate with the police, or shall we make a few investigations on our own account?”
“As far as I am concerned,” I replied eagerly, “a private investigation would be greatly preferable. But wouldn’t it take up rather a lot of your time?”
“Now, Jardine, you needn’t apologize,” said Jervis. “Unless I am much mistaken, my respected senior has ‘struck soundings,’ as the nautical phrase has it. He has a theory of your case, and he would like to see it through. Isn’t that so, Thorndyke?”
“Well,” Thorndyke admitted, “I will confess that the case piques my curiosity somewhat. It is an unusual affair and suggests some curious hypotheses which might be worth testing. So, if you agree, Jardine, that we make at least a few preliminary investigations, I suggest that, as soon as Batson returns, we three go over to what the newspapers would call ‘the scene of the tragedy’ and reconstitute the affair on the spot.”
“And what about Batson?” I asked. “Shall we tell him anything?”
“I think we must,” said Thorndyke, “if only to put him on his guard; for your unknown enemy may be his enemy, too.”
At this moment the street door banged loudly, a quick step danced along the hall, and Batson himself burst into the room.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, halting abruptly at the door and gazing in dismay at our little council. “What’s the matter? Anything happened?”
Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his quondam pupil.
“Come, come, Batson,” said he, “don’t make me out such a bird of ill-omen.”
“I was afraid something awkward might have occurred, police job or inquest or something of that sort.”
“You weren’t so very far wrong,” said Thorndyke. “When you are at liberty I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’m at liberty now,” said Batson, dropping into a chair and glaring at Thorndyke through his spectacles. “No scandal, I hope.”
Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave him a brief account of my adventure and our proposed visit to the works; to which he listened with occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief.
“By Gum!” he exclaimed, “what a mercy you got there in time. If you hadn’t there’d have been an inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should never have heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried me into a lunatic asylum. Oh, and about those works. I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”
“Why not?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, you may have to answer some awkward questions, and we don’t want this affair to get about, you know. No use raising a dust. Rumpus of any kind plays the deuce with a medical practice.”
Thorndyke smiled at my principal’s frank egoism. “Jervis and I went over last night,” said he, “and had a hasty look round and we found the place quite deserted. Probably it is so still.”
“Then you won’t be able to get in. How jer get in last night?”
“I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my pocket,” Thorndyke replied impassively.
“Ha!” said Batson. “Wire, eh? Picklock in fact. I wouldn’t, if I were you. Devil of a bobbery if anyone sees you. Hallo! There goes the bell. Patient. Let him wait. ’Tisn’t six yet, is it?”
“Two minutes past,” replied Thorndyke, rising and looking at his watch. “Perhaps we had better be starting as it’s now dark, and the business at the works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.”
“Hang the works!” exclaimed Batson. “I wouldn’t go nosing about there. What’s the good? Jardine’s alright and the chappie isn’t likely to be on view. You’ll only raise a stink for nothing and bring in a crowd of beastly reporters humming about the place. There’s that damn bell again. Well, if you won’t stay, perhaps you’ll look me up some other time. Always d’lighted to see you. Jervis too. You’re not going, Jardine. I’ve got to settle up with you and hear your report.”
“I’ll look in later,” said I; “when you’ve finished the evening’s work.”
“Right you are,” said Batson, opening the door and adroitly edging us out. “Sorry you can’t stay. Good-night! Good-night!”
He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly down the hall, with a skill born of long practice with garrulous patients, and, having exchanged us on the doorstep for a stout woman with two children, returned into the house with his prey and was lost to sight.