Title: As a thief in the night
Author: Freeman, R. Austin (Richard Austin)
Language: English
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As a Thief in the Night

by R. Austin Freeman



Contents

     I. The Invalid
    II. Barbara Monkhouse Comes Home
   III. A Shock for the Mourners
    IV. “How, When and Where—”
     V. Madeline’s Ordeal
    VI. The Verdict
   VII. The Search Warrant
  VIII. Thorndyke Speaks Bluntly
    IX. Superintendent Miller is Puzzled
     X. A Greek Gift
    XI. The Rivals
   XII. Thorndyke Challenges the Evidence
  XIII. Rupert Makes Some Discoveries
   XIV. Rupert Confides in Thorndyke
    XV. A Pursuit and a Discovery
   XVI. Barbara’s Message
  XVII. Thorndyke Retraces the Trail
 XVIII. The Final Proof



Chapter I

The Invalid

Looking back on events by the light of experience I perceive clearly
that the thunder-cloud which burst on me and on those who were dear to
me had not gathered unseen. It is true that it had rolled up swiftly;
that the premonitory mutterings, now so distinct but then so faint and
insignificant, gave but a brief warning. But that was of little
consequence, since whatever warnings there were passed unheeded, as
warnings commonly do, being susceptible of interpretation only by
means of the subsequent events which they foreshadowed.

The opening scene of the tragedy—if I had but realized it—was the
arrival of the Reverend Amos Monkhouse from his far-away Yorkshire
parish at the house of his brother Harold. I happened to be there at
the time; and though it was not my concern, since Harold had a
secretary, I received the clergyman when he was announced. We knew one
another well enough by name though we had never met, and it was with
some interest and curiosity that I looked at the keen-faced, sturdy,
energetic-looking parson and contrasted him with his physically frail
and rather characterless brother. He looked at me, too, curiously and
with a certain appearance of surprise, which did not diminish when I
told him who I was.

“Ha!” said he, “yes. Mr. Mayfield. I am glad to have the opportunity
of making your acquaintance. I have heard a good deal about you from
Harold and Barbara. Now I can fit you with a visible personality. By
the way, the maid tells me that Barbara is not at home.”

“No, she is away on her travels in Kent.”

“In Kent!” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, on one of her political expeditions; organizing some sort of
women’s emancipation movement. I daresay you have heard about it.”

He nodded a little impatiently. “Yes. Then I assume that Harold is not
so ill as I had supposed?”

I was inclined to be evasive; for, to be quite candid, I had thought
more than once that Barbara might properly have given a little less
attention to her political hobbies and a little more to her sick
husband. So I replied cautiously:

“I really don’t quite know what his condition is. You see, when a man
has chronically bad health, one rather loses count. Harold has his ups
and downs, but he always looks pretty poorly. Just now, I should say
he is rather below his average.”

“Ha! Well, perhaps I had better go up and have a look at him. The maid
has told him that I am here. I wonder if you would be so kind as to
show me the way to his room. I have not been in this house before.”

I conducted him up to the door of the bedroom and then returned to the
library to wait for him and hear what he thought of the invalid. And
now that the question had been raised, I was not without a certain
uneasiness. What I had said was true enough. When a man is always
ailing one gets to take his ill-health for granted and to assume that
it will go on without any significant change. One repeats the old
saying of “the creaking gate” and perhaps makes unduly light of
habitual illness. Might it be that Harold was being a little
neglected? He had certainly looked bad enough when I had called on him
that morning. Was it possible that he was really seriously ill?
Perhaps in actual danger?

I had just asked myself this question when the door was opened
abruptly and the clergyman strode into the room. Something in his
expression—a mingling, as it seemed, of anger and alarm—rather
startled me; nevertheless I asked him calmly enough how he found his
brother. He stared at me, almost menacingly, for a second or two; then
slowly and with harsh emphasis he replied: “I am shocked at the change
in him. I am horrified. Why, good God, Sir! the man is dying!”

“I think that can hardly be,” I objected. “The doctor saw him this
morning and did not hint at anything of the sort. He thought he was
not very well but he made no suggestion as to there being any danger.”

“How long has the doctor been attending him?”

“For something like twenty years, I believe; so by this time he ought
to understand the patient’s—”

“Tut-tut,” the parson interrupted, impatiently, “what did you say
yourself but a few minutes ago? One loses count of the chronic
invalid. He exhausts our attention until, at last, we fail to observe
the obvious. What is wanted is a fresh eye. Can you give me the
doctor’s address? Because, if you can, I will call on him and arrange
a consultation. I told Harold that I wanted a second opinion and he
made no objection; in fact he seemed rather relieved. If we get a
really first-class physician, we may save him yet.”

“I think you are taking an unduly gloomy view of Harold’s condition,”
said I. “At any rate, I hope so. But I entirely agree with you as to
the advisability of having further advice. I know where Dr. Dimsdale
lives so if you like I will walk round with you.”

He accepted my offer gladly and we set forth at once, walking briskly
along the streets, each of us wrapped in thought and neither speaking
for some time. Presently I ventured to remark:

“Strictly, I suppose, we ought to have consulted Barbara before
seeking another opinion.”

“I don’t see why,” he replied. “Harold is a responsible person and has
given his free consent. If Barbara is so little concerned about him as
to go away from home—and for such a trumpery reason, too—I don’t see
that we need consider her. Still, as a matter of common civility, I
might as well send her a line. What is her present address?”

“Do you know,” I said, shamefacedly, “I am afraid I can’t tell you
exactly where she is at the moment. Her permanent address, when she is
away on these expeditions, is the head-quarters of the Women’s
Friendship League at Maidstone.”

He stopped for a moment and glowered at me with an expression of sheer
amazement. “Do you mean to tell me,” he exclaimed, “that she has gone
away, leaving her husband in this condition, and that she is not even
within reach of a telegram?”

“I have no doubt that a telegram or letter would be forwarded to her.”

He emitted an angry snort and then demanded:

“How long has she been away?”

“About a fortnight,” I admitted, reluctantly.

“A fortnight!” he repeated in angry astonishment. “And all that time
beyond reach of communication! Why the man might have been dead and
buried and she none the wiser!”

“He was much better when she went away,” I said, anxious to make the
best of what I felt to be a rather bad case. “In fact, he seemed to be
getting on quite nicely. It is only during the last few days that he
has got this set-back. Of course, Barbara is kept informed as to his
condition. Madeline sends her a letter every few days.”

“But, my dear Mr. Mayfield,” he expostulated, “just consider the state
of affairs in this amazing household. I came to see my brother,
expecting—from the brief letter that I had from him—to find him
seriously ill. And I do find him seriously ill; dangerously ill, I
should say. And what sort of care is being taken of him? His wife is
away from home, amusing herself with her platform fooleries, and has
left no practicable address. His secretary, or whatever you call him,
Wallingford, is not at home. Madeline is, of course, occupied in her
work at the school. Actually, the only person in the house besides the
servants is yourself—a friend of the family but not a member of the
household at all. You must admit that it is a most astonishing and
scandalous state of affairs.”

I was saved from the necessity of answering this rather awkward
question by our arrival at Dr. Dimsdale’s house; and, as it
fortunately happened that the doctor was at home and disengaged, we
were shown almost at once into his consulting room.

I knew Dr. Dimsdale quite well and rather liked him though I was not
deeply impressed by his abilities. However, his professional skill was
really no concern of mine, and his social qualities were
unexceptionable. In appearance and manner he had always seemed to me
the very type of a high-class general practitioner, and so he
impressed me once more as we were ushered into his sanctum. He shook
hands with me genially, and as I introduced the Reverend Amos looked
at him with a politely questioning expression. But the clergyman lost
no time in making clear the purpose of his visit; in fact he came to
the point with almost brutal abruptness.

“I have just seen my brother for the first time for several months and
I am profoundly shocked at his appearance. I expected to find him ill,
but I did not understand that he was so ill as I find him.”

“No,” Dr. Dimsdale agreed, gravely, “I suppose not. You have caught
him at a rather unfortunate time. He is certainly not so well to-day.”

“Well!” exclaimed Amos. “To me he has the look of a dying man. May I
ask what, exactly, is the matter with him?”

The doctor heaved a patient sigh and put his fingertips together.

“The word ‘exactly,’” he replied, with a faint smile, “makes your
question a little difficult to answer. There are so many things the
matter with him. For the last twenty years, on and off, I have
attended him, and during the whole of that time his health has been
unsatisfactory—most unsatisfactory. His digestion has always been
defective, his circulation feeble, he has had functional trouble with
his heart, and throughout the winter months, more or less continuous
respiratory troubles—nasal and pulmonary catarrh and sometimes rather
severe bronchitis.”

The Reverend Amos nodded impatiently. “Quite so, quite so. But, to
come from the past to the present, what is the matter with him now?”

“That,” the doctor replied suavely, “is what I was coming to. I
mentioned the antecedents to account for the consequents. The
complaints from which your brother has suffered in the past have been
what are called functional complaints. But functional disease—if there
really is such a thing—must, in the end, if it goes on long enough,
develop into organic disease. Its effects are cumulative. Each slight
illness leaves the bodily organs a little less fit.”

“Yes?”

“Well, that is, I fear, what is happening in your brother’s case. The
functional illnesses of the past are tending to take on an organic
character.”

“Ha!” snorted the Reverend Amos. “But what is his actual condition
now? To put it bluntly, supposing he were to die to-night, what would
you write on the death certificate?”

“Dear me!” said the doctor. “That is putting it very bluntly. I hope
the occasion will not arise.”

“Still, I suppose you don’t regard his death as an impossible
contingency?”

“Oh, by no means. Chronic illness confers no immortality, as I have
just been pointing out.”

“Then, supposing his death to occur, what would you state to be the
cause?”

Dr. Dimsdale’s habitual suavity showed a trace of diminution as he
replied: “You are asking a very unusual and hardly admissible
question, Mr. Monkhouse. However, I may say that if your brother were
to die to-night he would die from some definite cause, which would be
duly set forth in the certificate. As he is suffering from chronic
gastritis, chronic bronchial catarrh, functional disorder of the heart
and several other morbid conditions, these would be added as
contributory causes. But may I ask what is the object of these very
pointed questions?”

“My object,” replied Amos, “was to ascertain whether the circumstances
justified a consultation. It seems to me that they do. I am extremely
disturbed about my brother. Would you have any objection to meeting a
consultant?”

“But not in the least. On the contrary, I should be very glad to talk
over this rather indefinite case with an experienced physician who
would come to it with a fresh eye. Of course, the patient’s consent
would be necessary.”

“He has consented, and he agreed to the consultant whom I proposed—Sir
Robert Detling—if you concurred.”

“I do certainly. I could suggest no better man. Shall I arrange with
him or will you?”

“Perhaps I had better,” the parson replied, “as I know him fairly
well. We were of the same year at Cambridge. I shall go straight on to
him now and will let you know at once what arrangement he proposes.”

“Excellent,” said the doctor, rising with all his suavity restored. “I
shall keep to-morrow as free as I can until I hear from you, and I
hope he will be able to manage it so soon. I shall be glad to hear
what he thinks of our patient, and I trust that the consultation may
be helpful in the way of treatment.”

He shook our hands heartily and conducted us to the street door,
whence he launched us safely into the street.

“That is a very suave gentleman,” Amos remarked as we turned away.
“Quite reasonable, too; but you see for yourself that he has no real
knowledge of the case. He couldn’t give the illness an intelligible
name.”

“It seemed to me that he gave it a good many names, and it may well be
that it is no more than he seems to think; a sort of collective
illness, the resultant of the various complaints that he mentioned.
However, we shall know more when Sir Robert has seen him; and
meanwhile, I wouldn’t worry too much about the apparent neglect. Your
brother, unlike most chronic invalids, doesn’t hanker for attention.
He has all he wants and he likes to be left alone with his books.
Shall you see him again to-day?”

“Assuredly. As soon as I have arranged matters with Detling I shall
let Dr. Dimsdale know what we have settled and I shall then go back
and spend the evening with my brother. Perhaps I shall see you
to-morrow?”

“No. I have to run down to Bury St. Edmunds to-morrow morning and I
shall probably be there three or four days. But I should very much
like to hear what happens at the consultation. Could you send me a few
lines? I shall be staying at the Angel.”

“I will certainly,” he replied, halting and raising his umbrella to
signal an approaching omnibus. “Just a short note to let you know what
Sir Robert has to tell us of poor Harold’s condition.”

He waved his hand, and stepping off the kerb, hopped on to the
foot-board of the omnibus as it slowed down, and vanished into the
interior. I stood for a few moments watching the receding vehicle,
half inclined to go back and take another look at the sick man; but
reflecting that his brother would be presently returning, I abandoned
the idea and made my way instead to the Underground Railway station
and there took a ticket for the Temple.

There is something markedly infectious in states of mind. Hitherto I
had given comparatively little attention to Harold Monkhouse. He was a
more or less chronic invalid, suffering now from one complaint and now
from another, and evidently a source of no particular anxiety either
to his friends or to his doctor. He was always pallid and
sickly-looking, and if, on this particular morning, he had seemed to
look more haggard and ghastly than usual, I had merely noted that he
was “not so well to-day.”

But the appearance on the scene of the Reverend Amos had put a rather
different complexion on the affair. His visit to his brother had
resulted in a severe shock, which he had passed on to me; and I had to
admit that our interview with Dr. Dimsdale had not been reassuring.
For the fact which had emerged from it was that the doctor could not
give the disease a name.

It was very disquieting. Supposing it should turn out that Harold was
suffering from some grave, even some mortal disease, which ought to
have been detected and dealt with months ago. How should we all feel?
How, in particular, would Barbara feel about the easygoing way in
which the illness had been allowed to drift on? It was an
uncomfortable thought; and though Harold Monkhouse was really no
concern of mine, excepting that he was Barbara’s husband, it continued
to haunt me as I sat in the rumbling train and as I walked up from the
Temple station to my chambers in Fig Tree Court.



Chapter II

Barbara Monkhouse Comes Home

In the intervals of my business at Bury St. Edmunds I gave more than a
passing thought to the man who was lying sick in the house in the
quiet square at Kensington. It was not that I had any very deep
feeling for him as a friend, though I liked him well enough. But the
idea had got into my mind that he had perhaps been treated with
something less than ordinary solicitude; that his illness had been
allowed to drift on when possibly some effective measures might have
been taken for his relief. And as it had never occurred to me to make
any suggestions on the matter or to interest myself particularly in
his condition, I was now inclined to regard myself as a party to the
neglect, if there had really been any culpable failure of attention. I
therefore awaited with some anxiety the letter which Amos had promised
to send.

It was not until the morning of my third day at Bury that it arrived;
and when I had opened and read it I found myself even less reassured
than I had expected.

  “Dear Mayfield,” it ran. “The consultation took place this afternoon
  and the result is, in my opinion, highly unsatisfactory. Sir Robert
  is, at present, unable to say definitely what is the matter with
  Harold. He states that he finds the case extremely obscure and
  reserves his opinion until the blood-films and other specimens which
  he took, have been examined and reported on by an expert
  pathologist. But on one point he is perfectly clear. He regards
  Harold’s condition as extremely grave—even critical—and he advised
  me to send a telegram to Barbara insisting on her immediate return
  home. Which I have done; and only hope it may reach her in the
  course of the day.

  That is all I have to tell you and I think you will agree that it is
  not an encouraging report. Medical science must be in a very
  backward state if two qualified practitioners—one of them an eminent
  physician—cannot between them muster enough professional knowledge
  to say what is the matter with a desperately sick man. However, I
  hope that we shall have a diagnosis by the time you come back.

                                             Yours sincerely,
                                                  Amos Monkhouse.”

I could not but agree, in the main, that my clerical friend’s rather
gloomy view was justified, though I thought that he was a trifle
unfair to the doctors, especially to Sir Robert. Probably a less
scientific practitioner, who would have given the condition some sort
of name, would have been more satisfying to the parson. Meanwhile, I
allowed myself to build on “the blood-films and other specimens” hopes
of a definite discovery which might point the way to some effective
treatment.

I despatched my business by the following evening and returned to
London by the night train, arriving at my chambers shortly before
midnight. With some eagerness I emptied the letter-cage in the hope of
finding a note from Amos or Barbara; but there was none, although
there were one or two letters from solicitors which required to be
dealt with at once. I read these through and considered their contents
while I was undressing, deciding to get up early and reply to them so
that I might have the forenoon free; and this resolution I carried out
so effectively that by ten o’clock in the morning I had breakfasted,
answered and posted the letters, and was on my way westward in an
Inner Circle train.

It was but a few minutes’ walk from South Kensington Station to
Hilborough Square and I covered the short distance more quickly than
usual. Turning into the square, I walked along the pavement on the
garden side, according to my habit, until I was nearly opposite the
house. Then I turned to cross the road and as I did so, looked up at
the house. And at the first glance I stopped short and stared in
dismay: for the blinds were lowered in all the windows. For a couple
of seconds I stood and gazed at this ominous spectacle; then I hurried
across the road and, instinctively avoiding the knocker, gave a gentle
pull at the bell.

The door was opened by the housemaid, who looked at me somewhat
strangely but admitted me without a word and shut the door softly
behind me. I glanced at her set face and asked in a low voice:

“Why are all the blinds down, Mabel?”

“Didn’t you know, Sir?” she replied, almost in a whisper. “It’s the
master—Mr. Monkhouse. He passed away in the night. I found him dead
when I went in this morning to draw up the blinds and give him his
early tea.”

I gazed at the girl in consternation, and after a pause she continued:

“It gave me an awful turn, Sir, for I didn’t see, at first, what had
happened. He was lying just as he usually did, and looked as if he had
gone to sleep, reading. He had a book in his hand, resting on the
counterpane, and I could see that his candle-lamp had burned itself
right out. I put his tea on the bedside table and spoke to him, and
when he didn’t answer I spoke again a little louder. And then I
noticed that he was perfectly still and looked even paler and more
yellow than usual and I began to feel nervous about him. So I touched
his hand; and it was as cold as stone and as stiff as a wooden hand.
Then I felt sure he must be dead and I ran away and told Miss Norris.”

“Miss Norris!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Sir. Mrs. Monkhouse only got home about an hour ago. She was
fearfully upset when she found she was too late. Miss Norris is with
her now, but I expect she’ll be awfully glad you’ve come. She was
asking where you were. Shall I tell her you are here?”

“If you please, Mabel,” I replied; and as the girl retired up the
stairs with a stealthy, funereal tread, I backed into the open doorway
of the dining room (avoiding the library, in case Wallingford should
be there) where I remained until Mabel returned with a message asking
me to go up.

I think I have seldom felt more uncomfortable than I did as I walked
slowly and softly up the stairs. The worst had happened—at least, so I
thought—and we all stood condemned; but Barbara most of all. I tried
to prepare some comforting, condolent phrases, but could think of
nothing but the unexplainable, inexcusable fact that Barbara had of
her own choice and for her own purposes, gone away leaving a sick
husband and had come back to find him dead.

As I entered the pleasant little boudoir—now gloomy enough, with its
lowered blinds—the two women rose from the settee on which they had
been sitting together, and Barbara came forward to meet me, holding
out both her hands.

“Rupert!” she exclaimed, “how good of you! But it is like you to be
here just when we have need of you.” She took both my hands and
continued, looking rather wildly into my face: “Isn’t it an awful
thing? Poor, poor Harold! So patient and uncomplaining! And I so
neglectful, so callous! I shall never, never forgive myself. I have
been a selfish, egotistical brute.”

“We are all to blame,” I said, since I could not honestly dispute her
self-accusations; “and Dr. Dimsdale not the least. Harold has been the
victim of his own patience. Does Amos know?”

“Yes,” answered Madeline, “I sent him a telegram at half-past eight. I
should have sent you one, too, but I didn’t know that you had come
back.”

There followed a slightly awkward silence during which I reflected
with some discomfort on the impending arrival of the dead man’s
brother, which might occur at any moment. It promised to be a somewhat
unpleasant incident, for Amos alone had gauged the gravity of his
brother’s condition, and he was an outspoken man. I only hoped that he
would not be too outspoken.

The almost embarrassing silence was broken by Barbara, who asked in a
low voice: “Will you go and see him, Rupert?” and added: “You know the
way and I expect you would rather go alone.”

I said “yes” as I judged that she did not wish to come with me, and,
walking out of the room, took my way along the corridor to the
well-remembered door, at which I halted for a moment, with an
unreasonable impulse to knock, and then entered. A solemn dimness
pervaded the room, with its lowered blinds, and an unusual silence
seemed to brood over it. But everything was clearly visible in the
faint, diffused light—the furniture, the pictures on the walls, the
bookshelves and the ghostly shape upon the bed, half-revealed through
the sheet which had been laid over it.

Softly, I drew back the sheet, and the vague shape became a man; or
rather, as it seemed, a waxen effigy, with something in its aspect at
once strange and familiar. The features were those of Harold
Monkhouse, but yet the face was not quite the face that I had known.
So it has always seemed to me with the dead. They have their own
distinctive character which belongs to no living man—the physiognomy
of death; impassive, expressionless, immovable; fixed for ever, or at
least, until the changes of the tomb shall obliterate even its
semblance of humanity.

I stepped back a pace and looked thoughtfully at the dead man who had
slipped so quietly out of the land of the living. There he lay,
stretched out in an easy, restful posture, just as I had often seen
him; the eyes half-closed and one long, thin arm lying on the
counterpane, the waxen hand lightly grasping the open volume;
looking—save for the stony immobility—as he might if he had fallen
asleep over his book. It was not surprising that the housemaid had
been deceived, for the surroundings all tended to support the
illusion. The bedside table with its pathetic little provisions for a
sick man’s needs: the hooded candle-lamp, drawn to the table-edge and
turned to light the book; the little decanter of brandy, the unused
tumbler, the water-bottle, the watch, still ticking in its upright
case, the candle-box, two or three spare volumes and the hand-bell for
night use; all spoke of illness and repose with never a hint of death.

There was nothing by which I could judge when he had died. I touched
his arm and found it rigid as an iron bar. So Mabel had found it some
hours earlier, whence I inferred that death had occurred not much past
midnight. But the doctors would be able to form a better opinion, if
it should seem necessary to form any opinion at all. More to the point
than the exact time of death was the exact cause. I recalled the blunt
question that Amos had put to Dr. Dimsdale and the almost indignant
tone in which the latter had put it aside. That was less than a week
ago; and now that question had to be answered in unequivocal terms. I
found myself wondering what the politic and plausible Dimsdale would
put on the death certificate and whether he would seek Sir Robert
Detling’s collaboration in the execution of that document.

I was about to replace the sheet when my ear caught the footsteps of
some one approaching on tip-toe along the corridor. The next moment
the door opened softly and Amos stole into the room. He passed me with
a silent greeting and drew near the bed, beside which he halted with
his hand laid on the dead hand and his eyes fixed gloomily on the
yellowish-white, impassive face. He spoke no word, nor did I presume
to disturb this solemn meeting and farewell, but silently slipped out
into the corridor where I waited for him to come out.

Two or three minutes passed, during which I heard him, once or twice,
moving softly about the room and judged that he was examining the
surroundings amidst which his brother had passed the last few weeks of
his life. Presently he came out, closing the door noiselessly behind
him, and joined me opposite the window. I looked a little nervously
into the stern, grief-stricken face, and as he did not speak, I said,
lamely enough:

“This is a grievous and terrible thing, Mr. Monkhouse.” He shook his
head gravely. “Grievous indeed; and the more so if one suspects, as I
do, that it need not have happened. However, he is gone and
recriminations will not bring him back.”

“No,” I agreed, profoundly relieved and a little surprised at his
tone; “whatever we may feel or think, reproaches and bitter words will
bring no remedy. Have you seen Barbara?”

“No; and I think I won’t—this morning. In a day or two, I hope I shall
be able to meet and speak to her as a Christian man should. To-day I
am not sure of myself. You will let me know what arrangements are made
about the funeral?”

I promised that I would, and walked with him to the head of the
stairs, and when I had watched him descend and heard the street door
close, I went back to Barbara’s little sitting-room.

I found her alone, and, when I entered she was standing before a
miniature that hung on the wall. She looked round as I entered and I
saw that she still looked rather dazed and strange. Her eyes were red,
as if she had been weeping but they were now tearless, and she seemed
calmer than when I had first seen her. I went to her side, and for a
few moments we stood silently regarding the smiling, girlish face that
looked out at us from the miniature. It was that of Barbara’s
step-sister, a very sweet, loveable girl, little more than a child,
who had died some four years previously, and who, I had sometimes
thought, was the only human creature for whom Barbara had felt a
really deep affection. The miniature had been painted from a
photograph after her death and a narrow plait of her gorgeous,
red-gold hair had been carried round inside the frame.

“Poor little Stella!” Barbara murmured. “I have been asking myself if
I neglected her, too. I often left her for days at a time.”

“You mustn’t be morbid, Barbara,” I said. “The poor child was very
well looked after and as happy as she could be made. And nobody could
have done any more for her. Rapid consumption is beyond the resources
of medical science at present.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I
wonder if anything could have been done for Harold. Do you think it
possible that he might have been saved?”

“I know of no reason for thinking so, and now that he is gone I see no
use in raising the question.”

She drew closer to me and slipped her hand into mine.

“You will be with us as much as you can, Rupert, won’t you? We always
look to you in trouble or difficulty, and you have never failed us.
Even now you don’t condemn me, whatever you may think.”

“No, I blame myself for not being more alert, though it was really
Dimsdale who misled us all. Has Madeline gone to the school?”

“Yes. She had to give a lecture or demonstration, but I hope she will
manage to get a day or two off duty. I don’t want to be left alone
with poor Tony. It sounds unkind to say so, for no one could be more
devoted to me than he is. But he is so terribly high-strung. Just now,
he is in an almost hysterical state. I suppose you haven’t seen him
this morning?”

“No. I came straight up to you.” I had, in fact, kept out of his way,
for, to speak the truth, I did not much care for Anthony Wallingford.
He was of a type that I dislike rather intensely; nervous,
high-strung, emotional and in an incessant state of purposeless
bustle. I did not like his appearance, his manners or his dress. I
resented the abject fawning way in which he followed Barbara about,
and I disapproved of his position in this house; which was nominally
that of secretary to Barbara’s husband, but actually that of tame cat
and generally useless hanger-on. I think I was on the point of making
some disparaging comments on him, but at that moment there came a
gentle tap at the door and the subject of my thoughts entered.

I was rather sorry that Barbara was still holding my hand. Of course,
the circumstances were very exceptional, but I have an Englishman’s
dislike of emotional demonstrations in the presence of third parties.
Nevertheless, Wallingford’s behaviour filled me with amazed
resentment. He stopped short with a face black as thunder, and, after
a brief, insolent stare, muttered that he “was afraid he was
intruding” and walked out of the room, closing the door sharply after
him.

Barbara flushed (and I daresay I did, too), but made no outward sign
of annoyance. “You see what I mean,” she said. “The poor fellow is
quite unstrung. He is an added anxiety instead of a help.”

“I see that plainly enough,” I replied, “but I don’t see why he is
unstrung, or why an unstrung man should behave like an ill-mannered
child. At any rate, he will have to pull himself together. There is a
good deal to be done and he will have to do some of it. I may assume,
I suppose, that it will be his duty to carry out the instructions of
the executors?”

“I suppose so. But you know more about such things than I do.”

“Then I had better go down and explain the position to him and set him
to work. Presently I must call on Mr. Brodribb, the other executor,
and let him know what has happened. But meanwhile there are certain
things which have to be done at once. You understand?”

“Yes, indeed. You mean arrangements for the funeral. How horrible it
sounds! I can’t realize it yet. It is all so shocking and so sudden
and unlooked-for. It seems like some dreadful dream.”

“Well, Barbara,” I said gently, “you shan’t be troubled more than is
unavoidable. I will see to all the domestic affairs and leave the
legal business to Brodribb. But I shall want Wallingford’s help, and I
think I had better go down and see him now.”

“Very well, Rupert,” she replied with a sigh. “I shall lean on you now
as I always have done in times of trouble and difficulty, and you must
try to imagine how grateful I am since I can find no words to tell
you.”

She pressed my hand and released me, and I took my way down to the
library with a strong distaste for my mission.

That distaste was not lessened when I opened the door and was met by a
reek of cigarette smoke. Wallingford was sitting huddled up in an easy
chair, but as I entered, he sprang to his feet and stood facing me
with a sort of hostile apprehensiveness. The man was certainly
unstrung; in fact he was on wires. His pale, haggard face twitched,
his hands trembled visibly and his limbs were in constant, fidgety
movement. But, to me, there seemed to be no mystery about his
condition. The deep yellow stains on his fingers, the reek in the air
and a pile of cigarette-ends in an ash-bowl were enough to account for
a good deal of nervous derangement, even if there were nothing more—no
drugs or drink.

I opened the business quietly, explaining what had to be done and what
help I should require from him. At first he showed a tendency to
dispute my authority and treat me as an outsider, but I soon made the
position and powers of an executor clear to him. When I had brought
him to heel I gave him a set of written instructions the following-out
of which would keep him fairly busy for the rest of the day; and
having set the dismal preparations going, I went forth from the house
of mourning and took my way to New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, where were
the offices of Mr. Brodribb, the family solicitor and my co-executor.



Chapter III

A Shock for the Mourners

It was on the day of the funeral that the faint, unheeded mutterings
of the approaching storm began to swell into audible and threatening
rumblings, though, even then, the ominous signs failed to deliver
their full significance.

How well do I recall the scene in the darkened dining room where we
sat in our sable raiment, “ready to wenden on our pilgrimage” to the
place of everlasting rest and eternal farewell. There were but four of
us, for Amos Monkhouse had not yet arrived, though it was within a few
minutes of the appointed time to start; quite a small party; for the
deceased had but few relatives, and no outsiders had been bidden.

We were all rather silent. Intimate as we were, there was no need to
make conversation. Each, no doubt, was busy with his or her own
thoughts, and as I recall my own they seem to have been rather trivial
and not very suitable to the occasion. Now and again I stole a look at
Barbara and thought what a fine, handsome woman she was, and dimly
wondered why, in all the years that I had known her, I had never
fallen in love with her. Yet so it was. I had always admired her; we
had been intimate friends, with a certain amount of quiet affection,
but nothing more—at any rate on my part. Of her I was not so sure.
There had been a time, some years before, when I had had an uneasy
feeling that she looked to me for something more than friendship. But
she was always a reticent girl; very self-reliant and self-contained.
I never knew a woman better able to keep her own counsel or control
her emotions.

She was now quite herself again; quiet, dignified, rather reserved and
even a little inscrutable. Seated between Wallingford and Madeline,
she seemed unconscious of either and quite undisturbed by the
secretary’s incessant nervous fidgeting and by his ill-concealed
efforts to bring himself to her notice.

From Barbara my glance turned to the woman who sat by her side, noting
with dull interest the contrast between the two; a contrast as marked
in their bearing as in their appearance. For whereas Barbara was a
rather big woman, dark in colouring, quiet and resolute in manner,
Madeline Norris was somewhat small and slight, almost delicately fair,
rather shy and retiring, but yet with a suggestion of mental alertness
under the diffident manner. If Barbara gave an impression of quiet
strength, Madeline’s pretty, refined face was rather expressive of
subtle intelligence. But what chiefly impressed me at this moment was
the curious inversion of their attitudes towards the existing
circumstances; for whereas Barbara, the person mainly affected,
maintained a quiet, untroubled demeanour, Madeline appeared to be
overcome by the sudden catastrophe. Looking at her set, white face and
the dismay in her wide, grey eyes, and comparing her with the woman at
her side, a stranger would at once have assumed the bereavement to be
hers.

My observations were interrupted by Wallingford once more dragging out
his watch.

“What on earth can have happened to Mr. Amos?” he exclaimed. “We are
due to start in three minutes. If he isn’t here by then we shall have
to start without him. It is perfectly scandalous! Positively indecent!
But there, it’s just like a parson.”

“My experience of parsons,” said I, “is that they are, as a rule,
scrupulously punctual. But certainly, Mr. Amos is unpardonably late.
It will be very awkward if he doesn’t arrive in time. Ah, there he
is,” I added as the bell rang and a muffled knock at the street door
was heard.

At the sound, Wallingford sprang up as if the bell had actuated a
hidden spring in the chair, and darted over to the window, from which
he peered out through the chink beside the blind.

“It isn’t Amos,” he reported. “It’s a stranger, and a fool at that, I
should say, if he can’t see that all the blinds are down.”

We all listened intently. We heard the housemaid’s hurried footsteps,
though she ran on tip-toe; the door opened softly, and then, after an
interval, we heard some one ushered along the hall to the drawing
room. A few moments later, Mabel entered with an obviously scandalized
air.

“A gentleman wishes to speak to you, Ma’am,” she announced.

“But, Mabel,” said Barbara, “did you tell him what is happening in
this house?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I explained exactly how things were and told him that he
must call to-morrow. But he said that his business was urgent and that
he must see you at once.”

“Very well,” said Barbara. “I will go and see what he wants. But it is
very extraordinary.”

She rose, and nearly colliding with Wallingford, who had rushed to
open the door—which was, in fact, wide open—walked out quickly,
closing the door after her. After a short interval—during which
Wallingford paced the room excitedly, peered out of the window, sat
down, got up again and looked at his watch—she came back, and,
standing in the doorway, looked at me.

“Would you come here for a minute, Rupert,” she said, quietly.

I rose at once and walked back with her to the drawing room, on
entering which I became aware of a large man, standing monumentally on
the hearth-rug and inspecting the interior of his hat. He looked to me
like a plainclothes policeman, and my surmise was verified by a
printed card which he presented and which bore the inscription
“Sergeant J. Burton.”

“I am acting as coroner’s officer,” he explained in reply to my
interrogatory glance, “and I have come to notify you that the funeral
will have to be postponed as the coroner has decided to hold an
inquest. I have seen the undertakers and explained matters to them.”

“Do you know what reason there is for an inquest?” I asked. “The cause
of death was certified in the regular way.”

“I know nothing beyond my instructions, which were to notify Mrs.
Monkhouse that the funeral is put off and to serve the summonses for
the witnesses. I may as well do that now.”

With this he laid on the table six small blue papers, which I saw were
addressed respectively to Barbara, Madeline, Wallingford, the
housemaid, the cook and myself.

“Have you no idea at all why an inquest is to be held?” I asked as I
gathered up the papers.

“I have no information,” he replied, cautiously, “but I expect there
is some doubt about the exact cause of death. The certificate may not
be quite clear or it may be that some interested party has
communicated with the coroner. That is what usually happens, you know,
Sir. But at any rate,” he added, cheerfully, “you will know all about
it the day after to-morrow, which, you will observe, is the day fixed
for the inquest.”

“And what have we to do meanwhile?” Barbara asked. “The inquest will
not be held in this house, I presume.”

“Certainly not, Madam,” the sergeant replied. “A hearse will be sent
round to-night to remove the body to the mortuary, where the post
mortem examination will be carried out, and the inquest will be held
in the parish hall, as is stated on the summons. I am sorry that you
should be put to this inconvenience,” he concluded, moving tentatively
towards the door, “but—er—it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. Good
morning, Madam.”

I walked with him to the door and let him out, while Barbara waited
for me in the hall, not unobserved by Wallingford, whose eye appeared
in a chink beside the slightly open dining room door. I pointedly led
her back into the drawing room and closed the door audibly behind us.
She turned a pale and rather shocked face to me but she spoke quite
composedly as she asked:

“What do you make of it, Rupert? Is it Amos?”

I had already reluctantly decided that it must be. I say, reluctantly,
because, if this were really his doing, the resigned tone of his last
words to me would appear no less than sheer, gross hypocrisy.

“I don’t know who else it could be,” I answered. “The fact that he did
not come this morning suggests that he at least knew what was
happening. If he did, I think he might have warned us.”

“Yes, indeed. It will be a horrid scandal; most unpleasant for us all,
and especially for me. Not that I am entitled to any sympathy. Poor
Harold! How he would have hated the thought of a public fuss over his
dead body. I suppose we must go in now and tell the others. Do you
mind telling them, Rupert?”

We crossed the hall to the dining room where we found the two waiting
impatiently, Madeline very pale and agitated while Wallingford was
pacing the room like a wild beast. Both looked at us with eager
interrogation as we entered, and I made the announcement bluntly and
in a dozen words.

The effect on both was electrical. Madeline, with a little cry of
horror, sank, white-faced and trembling, into a chair. As for
Wallingford, his behaviour was positively maniacal. After staring at
me for a few moments with starting eyes and mouth agape, he flung up
his arms and uttered a hoarse shout.

“This,” he yelled, “is the doing of that accursed parson! Now we know
why he kept out of the way—and it is well for him that he did!”

He clenched his fists and glared around him, showing his
tobacco-stained teeth in a furious snarl while the sweat gathered in
beads on his livid face. Then, suddenly, his mood changed and he
dropped heavily on a chair, burying his face in his shaking hands.
Barbara admonished him, quietly.

“Do try to be calm, Tony. There is nothing to get so excited about. It
is all very unpleasant and humiliating, of course, but at any rate you
are not affected. It is I who will be called to account.”

“And do you suppose that doesn’t affect me?” demanded Wallingford, now
almost on the verge of tears.

“I am sure it does, Tony,” she replied, gently, “but if you want to be
helpful to me you will try to be calm and reasonable. Come, now,” she
added, persuasively, “let us put it away for the present. I must tell
the servants. Then we had better have lunch and go our several ways to
think the matter over quietly each of us alone. We shall only agitate
one another if we remain together.”

I agreed emphatically with this sensible suggestion. “Not,” I added,
“that there is much for us to think over. The explanations will have
to come from Dimsdale. It was he who failed to grasp the seriousness
of poor Harold’s condition.”

While Barbara was absent, breaking the news to the servants, I tried
to bring Madeline to a more composed frame of mind. With Wallingford I
had no patience. Men should leave hysterics to the other sex. But I
was sorry for Madeline; and even if she seemed more overwhelmed by the
sudden complications than the occasion justified, I told myself that
the blow had fallen when she was already shaken by Harold’s unexpected
death.

The luncheon was a silent and comfortless function; indeed it was
little more than an empty form. But it had the merit of brevity. When
the last dish had been sent away almost intact, Wallingford drew out
his cigarette case and we all rose.

“What are you going to do, Madeline?” Barbara asked.

“I must go to the school, I suppose, and let the secretary know
that—that I may have to be absent for a day or two. It will be horrid.
I shall have to tell him all about it—after having got leave for the
funeral. But it will sound so strange, so extraordinary. Oh! It is
horrible!”

“It is!” exclaimed Wallingford, fumbling with tremulous fingers at his
cigarette case. “It is diabolical! A fiendish plot to disgrace and
humiliate us. As to that infernal parson, I should like—”

“Never mind that, Tony,” said Barbara; “and we had better not stay
here, working up one another’s emotions. What are you doing, Rupert?”

“I shall go to my chambers and clear off some correspondence.”

“Then you might walk part of the way with Madeline and see if you
can’t make her mind a little more easy.”

Madeline looked at me eagerly. “Will you, Rupert?” she asked.

Of course I assented, and a few minutes later we set forth together.

For a while she walked by my side in silence with an air of deep
reflection, and I refrained from interrupting her thoughts, having no
very clear idea as to what I should say to her. Moreover, my own mind
was pretty busily occupied. Presently she spoke, in a tentative way,
as if opening a discussion.

“I am afraid you must think me very weak and silly to be so much upset
by this new trouble.”

“Indeed, I don’t,” I replied. “It is a most disturbing and humiliating
affair and it will be intensely unpleasant for us all, but especially
for Barbara—to say nothing of Dimsdale.”

“Dr. Dimsdale is not our concern,” said she, “but it will be perfectly
horrible for Barbara. For she really has been rather casual, poor
girl, and they are sure to make things unpleasant for her. It will be
a most horrid scandal. Don’t you think so?”

To be candid, I did. Indeed, I had just been picturing to myself the
possibilities with an officious coroner—and he would not need to be so
very officious, either—and one or two cross-grained jurymen. Barbara
might be subjected to a very unpleasant examination. But I did not
think it necessary to say this to Madeline. Sufficient for the day is
the evil thereof. I contented myself with a vague agreement.

There was another interval of silence. Then, a little to my surprise,
she drew closer to me, and, slipping her hand under my arm, said very
earnestly: “Rupert, I want you to tell me what you really think. What
is it all about?”

I looked down, rather disconcerted, into the face that was turned up
to me so appealingly; and suddenly—and rather irrelevantly—it was
borne in on me that it was a singularly sweet and charming face. I had
never quite realized it before. But then she had never before looked
at me quite in this way; with this trustful, coaxing, appealing
expression.

“I don’t quite understand you, Madeline,” I said, evasively. “I know
no more about it than you do.”

“Oh, but you do, Rupert. You are a lawyer and you have had a lot of
experience. You must have formed some opinion as to why they have
decided to hold an inquest. Do tell me what you think.”

The coaxing, almost wheedling tone, and the entreaty in her eyes,
looking so earnestly into mine, nearly conquered my reserve. But not
quite. Once more I temporized.

“Well, Madeline, we all realize that what Dimsdale has written on the
certificate is little more than a guess, and quite possibly wrong; and
even Detling couldn’t get much farther.”

“Yes, I realize that. But I didn’t think that inquests were held just
to find out whether the doctors’ opinions were correct or not.”

Of course she was perfectly right; and I now perceived that her
thoughts had been travelling along the same lines as my own. An
inquest would not be held merely to clear up an obscure diagnosis.
There was certainly something more behind this affair than Dimsdale’s
failure to recognize the exact nature of the illness. There was only
one simple explanation of the coroner’s action, and I gave it—with a
strong suspicion that it was not the right one.

“They are not, as a rule, excepting in hospitals. But this is a
special case. Amos Monkhouse was obviously dissatisfied with Dimsdale,
and with Barbara, too. He may have challenged the death certificate
and asked for an inquest. The coroner would be hardly likely to
refuse, especially if there were a hint of negligence or malpractice.”

“Did Mr. Amos say anything to you that makes you think he may have
challenged the certificate?”

“He said very little to me at all,” I replied, rather casuistically
and suppressing the fact that Amos had explicitly accepted the actual
circumstances and deprecated any kind of recrimination.

“I can hardly believe that he would have done it,” said Madeline,
“just to punish Barbara and Dr. Dimsdale. It would be so vindictive,
especially for a clergyman.”

“Clergymen are very human sometimes,” I rejoined; and, as, rather to
my relief, we now came in sight of Madeline’s destination, I adverted
to the interview which she seemed to dread so much. “There is no
occasion for you to go into details with the secretary,” I said. “In
fact you can’t. The exact cause of death was not clear to the doctors
and it has been considered advisable to hold an inquest. That is all
you know, and it is enough. You are summoned as a witness and you are
legally bound to attend, so you are asking no favour. Cut the
interview dead short, and when you have done with it, try, like a
sensible girl, to forget the inquest for the present. I shall come
over to-morrow and then we can reconstitute the history of the case,
so that we may go into the witness-box, or its equivalent, with a
clear idea of what we have to tell. And now, good-bye, or rather au
revoir!”

“Good-bye, Rupert.” She took my proffered hand and held it as she
thanked me for walking with her. “Do you know, Rupert,” she added,
“there is something strangely comforting and reassuring about you. We
all feel it. You seem to carry an atmosphere of quiet strength and
security. I don’t wonder that Barbara is so fond of you. Not,” she
concluded, “that she holds a monopoly.”

With this she let go my hand, and, with a slightly shy smile and the
faintest suspicion of a blush, turned away and walked quickly and with
an air quite cheerful and composed towards the gateway of the
institution. Apparently, my society had had a beneficial effect on her
nervous condition.

I watched her until she disappeared into the entry, and then resumed
my journey eastward, rather relieved, I fear, at having disposed of my
companion. For I wanted to think—of her among other matters; and it
was she who first occupied my cogitations. The change from her usual
matter-of-fact friendliness had rather taken me by surprise; and I had
to admit that it was not a disagreeable surprise. But what was the
explanation? Was this intimate, clinging manner merely a passing phase
due to an emotional upset, or was it that the special circumstances
had allowed feelings hitherto concealed to come to the surface? It was
an interesting question, but one that time alone could answer; and as
there were other questions, equally interesting and more urgent, I
consigned this one to the future and turned to consider the others.

What could be the meaning of this inquest? The supposition that Amos
had suddenly turned vindictive and resolved to expose the neglect, to
which he probably attributed his brother’s death, I could not
entertain, especially after what he had said to me. It would have
written him down the rankest of hypocrites. And yet he was in some way
connected with the affair as was proved by his failure to appear at
the funeral. As to the idea that the inquiry was merely to elucidate
the nature of the illness, that was quite untenable. A private autopsy
would have been the proper procedure for that purpose.

I was still turning the question over in my mind when, as I passed the
Griffin at Temple Bar, I became aware of a tall figure some distance
ahead walking in the same direction. The build of the man and his
long, swinging stride seemed familiar. I looked at him more
attentively; and just as he turned to enter Devereux Court I
recognized him definitely as a fellow Templar named Thorndyke.

The chance encounter seemed a singularly fortunate one, and at once I
quickened my pace to overtake him. For Dr. Thorndyke was a medical
barrister and admittedly the greatest living authority on medical
jurisprudence. The whole subject of inquests and Coroners’ Law was an
open book to him. But he was not only a lawyer. He had, I understood,
a professional and very thorough knowledge of pathology and of the
science of medicine in general, so that he was the very man to
enlighten me in my present difficulties.

I overtook him at the Little Gate of the Middle Temple and we walked
through together into New Court. I wasted no time, but, after the
preliminary greetings, asked him if he had a few minutes to spare. He
replied, in his quiet, genial way: “But, of course, Mayfield. I always
have a few minutes to spare for a friend and a colleague.”

I thanked him for the gracious reply, and, as we slowly descended the
steps and sauntered across Fountain Court, I opened the matter without
preamble and gave him a condensed summary of the case; to which he
listened with close attention and evidently with keen interest.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that your family doctor will cut rather a
poor figure. He seems to have mismanaged the case rather badly, to
judge by the fact that the death of the patient took him quite by
surprise. By the way, can you give me any idea of the symptoms—as
observed by yourself, I mean?”

“I have told you what was on the certificate.”

“Yes. But the certified cause of death appears to be contested. You
saw the patient pretty often, I understand. Now what sort of
appearance did he present to you?”

The question rather surprised me. Dimsdale’s opinion might not be
worth much, but the casual and inexpert observations of a layman would
have seemed to me to be worth nothing at all. However, I tried to
recall such details as I could remember of poor Monkhouse’s appearance
and his own comments on his condition and recounted them to Thorndyke
with such amplifications as his questions elicited. “But,” I
concluded, “the real question is, who has set the coroner in motion
and with what object?”

“That question,” said Thorndyke, “will be answered the day after
to-morrow, and there is not much utility in trying to guess at the
answer in advance. The real question is whether any arrangements ought
to be made in the interests of your friends. We are quite in the dark
as to what may occur in the course of the inquest.”

“Yes, I had thought of that. Some one ought to be present to represent
Mrs. Monkhouse. I suppose it would not be possible for you to attend
to watch the case on her behalf?”

“I don’t think it would be advisable,” he replied. “You will be
present and could claim to represent Mrs. Monkhouse so far as might be
necessary to prevent improper questions being put to her. But I do
think that you should have a complete record of all that takes place.
I would suggest that I send Holman, who does most of my shorthand
reporting, with instructions to make a verbatim report of the entire
proceedings. It may turn out to be quite unnecessary; but if any
complications should arise, we shall have the complete depositions
with the added advantage that you will have been present and will have
heard all the evidence. How will that suit you?”

“If you think it is the best plan there is nothing more to say,
excepting to thank you for your help.”

“And give me a written note of the time and place to hand to Holman
when I give him his instructions.”

I complied with this request at once; and having by this time reached
the end of the Terrace, I shook hands with him and walked slowly back
to my chambers in Fig Tree Court. I had not got much out of Thorndyke
excepting a very useful suggestion and some valuable help; indeed, as
I turned over his extremely cautious utterances and speculated on what
he meant by “complications,” I found myself rather more uncomfortably
puzzled than I had been before I met him.



Chapter IV

“How, When and Where—”

It was on the second day after the interrupted funeral that the
thunderbolt fell. I cannot say that it found me entirely unprepared,
for my reflections during the intervening day had filled me with
forebodings; and by Thorndyke the catastrophe was pretty plainly
foreseen. But on the others the blow fell with devastating effect.
However, I must not anticipate. Rather let me get back to a
consecutive narration of the actual events.

On the day after the visit of the coroner’s officer we had held, at my
suggestion, a sort of family committee to consider what we knew of the
circumstances and antecedents of Harold’s death, so that we might be
in a position to give our evidence clearly and readily and be in
agreement as to the leading facts. Thus we went to the coroner’s court
prepared, at least, to tell an intelligible and consistent story.

As soon as I entered the large room in which the inquest was to be
held, my forebodings deepened. The row of expectant reporters was such
as one does not find where the proceedings are to be no more than a
simple, routine inquiry. Something of public interest was anticipated,
and these gentlemen of the Press had received a hint from some
well-informed quarter. I ran my eye along the row and was somewhat
relieved to observe Mr. Holman, Thorndyke’s private reporter, seated
at the table with a large note-book and a half-dozen well-sharpened
pencils before him. His presence—as, in a sense, Thorndyke’s
deputy—gave me the reassuring feeling that, if there were to be
“complications,” I should not have to meet them with my own limited
knowledge and experience, but that there were reserves of special
knowledge and weighty counsel on which I could fall back.

The coroner’s manner seemed to me ominous. His introductory address to
the jury was curt and ambiguous, setting forth no more than the name
of the deceased and the fact that circumstances had seemed to render
an inquiry advisable; and having said this, he proceeded forthwith
(the jury having already viewed the body) to call the first witness,
the Reverend Amos Monkhouse.

I need not repeat the clergyman’s evidence in detail. When he had
identified the body as that of his brother, Harold, he went on to
relate the events which I have recorded: his visit to his sick
brother, his alarm at the patient’s appearance, his call upon Dr.
Dimsdale and his subsequent interview with Sir Robert Detling. It was
all told in a very concise, matter-of-fact manner, and I noted that
the coroner did not seek to amplify the condensed statement by any
questions.

“At about nine o’clock in the morning of the 13th,” the witness
continued, “I received a telegram from Miss Norris informing me that
my brother had died in the night. I went out at once and sent a
telegram to Sir Robert Detling informing him of what had happened. I
then went to number 16 Hilborough Square, where I saw the body of
deceased lying in his bed quite cold and stiff. I saw nobody at the
house excepting the housemaid and Mr. Mayfield. After leaving the
house I walked about the streets for several hours and did not return
to my hotel until late in the afternoon. When I arrived there, I found
awaiting me a telegram from Sir Robert Detling asking me to call on
him without delay. I set forth at once and arrived at Sir Robert’s
house at half-past five, and was shown into his study immediately. Sir
Robert then told me that he had come to the conclusion that the
circumstances of my brother’s death called for some investigation and
that he proposed to communicate with the coroner. He urged me not to
raise any objections and advised me to say nothing to any one but to
wait until the coroner’s decision was made known. I asked him for his
reasons for communicating with the coroner, but he said that he would
rather not make any statement. I heard no more until the morning of
the fifteenth, the day appointed for the funeral, when the coroner’s
officer called at my hotel to inform me that the funeral would not
take place and to serve the summons for my attendance here as a
witness.”

When Amos had concluded his statement, the coroner glanced at the
jury, and as no one offered to put any questions, he dismissed the
witness and called the next—Mabel Withers—who, at once, came forward
to the table. Having been sworn and having given her name, the witness
deposed that she had been housemaid to deceased and that it was she
who had discovered the fact of his death, relating the circumstances
in much the same words as I have recorded. When she had finished her
narrative, the coroner said: “You have told us that the candle in the
deceased’s lamp was completely burnt out. Do you happen to know how
long one of those candles would burn?”

“Yes. About four hours.”

“When did you last see deceased alive?”

“At half-past ten on Tuesday night, the twelfth. I looked in at his
room on my way up to bed to see if he wanted anything, and I gave him
a dose of medicine.”

“What was his condition then?”

“He looked very ill, but he seemed fairly comfortable. He had a book
in his hand but was not reading.”

“Was the candle alight then?”

“No, the gas was alight. I asked him if I should turn it out but he
said ‘no.’ He would wait until Miss Norris or Mr. Wallingford came.”

“Did you notice how much candle there was in the lamp then?”

“There was a whole candle. I put it in myself in the afternoon and it
had not been lit. He used to read by the gas as long as it was alight.
He only used the candle-lamp if he couldn’t sleep and the gas was
out.”

“Could you form any opinion as to how long the candle had been burnt
out?”

“It must have been out some time, for there was no smell in the room
as there would have been if it had only been out a short time. The
window was hardly open at all; only just a small crack.”

“Do you know when deceased last took food?”

“Yes, he had his supper at eight o’clock; an omelette and a tiny piece
of toast with a glass of milk.”

“Who cooked the omelette?”

“Miss Norris.”

“Why did Miss Norris cook it? Was the cook out?”

“No. But Miss Norris usually cooked his supper and sometimes made
little dishes for his lunch. She is a very expert cook.”

“Who took the omelette up to deceased?”

“Miss Norris. I asked if I should take his supper up, but she said she
was going up and would take it herself.”

“Was any one else present when Miss Norris was cooking the omelette?”

“Yes, I was present and so was the cook.”

“Did deceased usually have the same food as the rest of the
household?”

“No, he usually had his own special diet.”

“Who prepared his food, as a rule?”

“Sometimes the cook, but more often Miss Norris.”

“Now, with regard to his medicine. Did deceased usually take it
himself?”

“No, he didn’t like to have the bottle on the bedside table, as it was
rather crowded with his books and things. The bottle and the
medicine-glass were kept on the mantelpiece and the medicine was given
to him by whoever happened to be in the room when a dose was due.
Sometimes I gave it to him; at other times Mrs. Monkhouse or Miss
Norris or Mr. Wallingford.”

“Do you remember when the last bottle of medicine came?”

“Yes. It came early in the afternoon of the day before he died. I took
it in and carried it up at once.”

When he had written down this answer, the coroner ran his eye through
his previous notes and then glanced at the jury.

“Do any of you gentlemen wish to ask the witness any questions?” he
enquired; and as no one answered, he dismissed the witness with the
request that she would stay in the court in case any further testimony
should be required of her. He then announced that he would take the
evidence of Sir Robert Detling next in order to release him for his
probably numerous engagements. Sir Robert’s name was accordingly
called and a grave-looking, elderly gentleman rose from near the
doorway and walked up to the table. When the new witness had been
sworn and the formal preliminaries disposed of, the coroner said:

“I will ask you, Sir Robert, to give the jury an account of the
circumstances which led to your making a certain communication to me.”

Sir Robert bowed gravely and proceeded at once to make his statement
in the clear, precise manner of a practised speaker.

“On Friday, the 8th instant, the Reverend Amos Monkhouse called on me
to arrange a consultation with Dr. Dimsdale who was in attendance on
his brother, the deceased. I met Dr. Dimsdale by appointment the
following afternoon, the 9th, and with him made a careful examination
of deceased. I was extremely puzzled by the patient’s condition. He
was obviously very seriously—I thought, dangerously—ill, but I was
unable to discover any signs or symptoms that satisfactorily accounted
for his grave general condition. I could not give his disease a name.
Eventually, I took a number of blood-films and some specimens of the
secretions to submit to a pathologist for examination and to have them
tested for micro-organisms. I took them that night to Professor
Garnett’s laboratory, but the professor was unfortunately absent and
not returning until the following night—Sunday. I therefore kept them
until Sunday night when I took them to him and asked him to examine
them with as little delay as possible. He reported on the following
day that microscopical examination had not brought to light anything
abnormal, but he was making cultures from the secretions and would
report the result on Wednesday morning. On Wednesday morning at about
half-past nine, I received a telegram from the Reverend Amos Monkhouse
informing me that his brother had died during the night. A few minutes
later, a messenger brought Professor Garnett’s report; which was to
the effect that no disease-bearing organisms had been found, nor
anything abnormal excepting a rather singular scarcity of
micro-organisms of any kind.

“This fact, together with the death of the patient, suddenly aroused
my suspicions. For the absence of the ordinary micro-organisms
suggested the presence of some foreign chemical substance. And now, as
I recalled the patient’s symptoms, I found them consistent with the
presence in the body of some foreign substance. Instantly, I made my
way to Professor Garnett’s laboratory and communicated my suspicions
to him. I found that he shared them and had carefully preserved the
remainder of the material for further examination. We both suspected
the presence of a foreign substance, and we both suspected it to be
arsenic.

“The professor had at hand the means of making a chemical test, so we
proceeded at once to use them. The test that we employed was the one
known as Reinsch’s test. The result showed a very appreciable amount
of arsenic in the secretions tested. On this, I sealed up what was
left of the specimens, and, after notifying Mr. Monkhouse of my
intention, reported the circumstances to the coroner.”

When Sir Robert ceased speaking, the coroner bowed, and having written
down the last words, reflected for a few moments. Then he turned to
the jury and said: “I don’t think we need detain Sir Robert any longer
unless there are any questions that you would like to ask.”

At this point the usual over-intelligent juryman interposed.

“We should like to know whether the vessels in which the specimens
were contained were perfectly clean and free from chemicals.”

“The bottles,” Sir Robert replied, “were clean in the ordinary sense.
I rinsed them out with clean water before introducing the material.
But, of course, they could not be guaranteed to be chemically clean.”

“Then doesn’t that invalidate the analysis?” the juror asked.

“It was hardly an analysis,” the witness replied. “It was just a
preliminary test.”

“The point which you are raising, Sir,” said the coroner, “is quite a
sound one but it is not relevant to this inquiry. Sir Robert’s test
was made to ascertain if an inquiry was necessary. He decided that it
was, and we are now holding that inquiry. You will not form your
verdict on the results of Sir Robert’s test but on those of the post
mortem examination and the special analysis that has been made.”

This explanation appeared to satisfy the juror and Sir Robert was
allowed to depart. The coroner once more seemed to consider awhile and
then addressed the jury.

“I think it will be best to take next the evidence relating to the
examination of the body. When you have heard that you will be better
able to weigh the significance of what the other witnesses have to
tell us. We will now take the evidence of Dr. Randall.”

As the new witness, a small, dry, eminently professional-looking man,
stepped briskly up to the table, I stole a quick, rather furtive
glance at my companions and saw my own alarm plainly reflected in
their faces and bearing. Barbara, on my left hand, sat up stiffly,
rigid as a statue, her face pale and set, but quite composed, her eyes
fixed on the man who was about to be sworn. Madeline, on my right, was
ghastly. But she, too, was still and quiet, sitting with her hands
tightly clasped, as if to restrain or conceal their trembling, and her
eyes bent on the floor. As to Wallingford, who sat on the other side
of Barbara, I could not see his face, but by his foot, which I could
see and hear, tapping quickly on the floor as if he were working a
spinning-wheel, and his incessantly moving hands, I judged that his
nerves were at full tension.

The new witness deposed that his name was Walter Randall, that he was
a Bachelor of Medicine and police surgeon of the district and that he
had made a careful examination of the body of deceased and that, with
Dr. Barnes, he had made an analysis of certain parts of that body.

“To anticipate a little,” said the coroner, “did you arrive at an
opinion as to the cause of death?”

“Yes. From the post mortem examination and the analysis taken
together, I came to the conclusion that deceased died from the effects
of arsenic poisoning.”

“Have you any doubt that arsenic poisoning was really the cause of the
deceased’s death?”

“No, I have no doubt whatever.”

The reply, uttered with quiet decision, elicited a low murmur from the
jury and the few spectators, amidst which I heard Madeline gasp in a
choking whisper, “Oh! God!” and even Barbara was moved to a low cry of
horror. But I did not dare to look at either of them. As for me, the
blow had fallen already. Sir Robert’s evidence had told me all.

“You said,” the coroner resumed, “that the post mortem and the
analysis, taken together, led you to this conclusion. What did you
mean by that?”

“I meant that the appearance of the internal organs, taken alone,
would not have been conclusive. The conditions that I found were
suggestive of arsenic poisoning but might possibly have been due to
disease. It was only the ascertained presence of arsenic that
converted the probability into certainty.”

“You are quite sure that the conditions were not due to disease?”

“Not entirely. I would rather say that the effects of arsenical
poisoning were added to and mingled with those of old-standing
disease.”

“Would you tell us briefly what abnormal conditions you found?”

“The most important were those in the stomach, which showed marked
signs of inflammation.”

“You are aware that the death certificate gives old-standing chronic
gastritis as one of the causes of death?”

“Yes, and I think correctly. The arsenical gastritis was engrafted on
an already existing chronic gastritis. That is what made the
appearances rather difficult to interpret, especially as the post
mortem appearances in arsenical poisoning are extraordinarily
variable.”

“What else did you find?”

“There were no other conditions that were directly associated with the
poison. The heart was rather fatty and dilated, and its condition
probably accounts for the sudden collapse which seems to have
occurred.”

“Does not collapse usually occur in poisoning by arsenic?”

“Eventually it does, but it is usually the last of a long train of
symptoms. In some cases, however, collapse occurs quite early and may
carry the victim off at once. That is what appears from the
housemaid’s evidence to have happened in this case. Death seems to
have been sudden and almost peaceful.”

“Were there any other signs of disease?”

“Yes, the lungs were affected. There were signs of considerable
bronchial catarrh, but I do not regard this as having any connection
with the effects of the poison. It appeared to be an old-standing
condition.”

“Yes,” said the coroner. “The certificate mentions chronic bronchial
catarrh of several years’ standing. Did you find any arsenic in the
stomach?”

“Not in the solid form and only a little more than a hundredth of a
grain altogether. The stomach was practically empty. The other organs
were practically free from disease, excepting, perhaps, the kidneys,
which were congested but not organically diseased.”

“And as to the amount of arsenic present?”

“The analysis was necessarily a rather hasty one and probably shows
less than the actual quantity; but we found, as I have said, just over
a hundredth of a grain in the stomach, one and a half grains in the
liver, nearly a fifth of a grain in the kidneys and small quantities,
amounting in all to two grains, in the blood and tissues. The total
amount actually found was thus a little over three and a half grains—a
lethal dose.”

“What is the fatal dose of arsenic?”

“Two grains may prove fatal if taken in solution, as it appears to
have been in this case. Two and a half grains, in a couple of ounces
of fly-paper water, killed a strong, healthy girl of nineteen in
thirty-six hours.”

“And how long does a poisonous dose take to produce death?”

“The shortest period recorded is twenty minutes, the longest, over
three weeks.”

“Did you come to any general conclusion as to how long deceased had
been suffering from the effects of arsenic and as to the manner in
which it had been administered?”

“From the distribution of the poison in the organs and tissues and
from the appearance of the body, I inferred that the administration of
arsenic had been going on for a considerable time. There were signs of
chronic poisoning which led me to believe that for quite a long
time—perhaps months—deceased had been taking repeated small doses of
the poison, and that the final dose took such rapid effect by reason
of the enfeebled state of the deceased at the time when it was
administered.”

“And as to the mode of administration? Did you ascertain that?”

“In part, I ascertained it quite definitely. When the bearers went to
the house to fetch the body, I accompanied them and took the
opportunity to examine the bedroom. There I found on the mantelpiece a
bottle of medicine with the name of deceased on the label and brought
it away with me. It was an eight ounce bottle containing when full
eight doses, of which only one had been taken. Dr. Barnes and I,
together, analyzed the remaining seven ounces of the medicine and
obtained from it just over eleven grains of arsenic; that is a
fraction over a grain and a half in each ounce dose. The arsenic was
in solution and had been introduced into the medicine in the form of
the solution known officially as Liquor Arsenicalis, or Fowler’s
Solution.”

“That is perfectly definite,” said the coroner. “But you said that you
ascertained the mode of administration in part. Do you mean that you
inferred the existence of some other vehicle?”

“Yes. A single dose of this medicine contained only a grain and a half
of arsenic, which would hardly account for the effects produced or the
amount of arsenic which was found in the body. Of course, the
preceding dose from the other bottle may have contained the poison,
too, or it may have been taken in some other way.”

“What other way do you suggest?”

“I can merely suggest possibilities. A meal was taken about eight
o’clock. If that meal had contained a small quantity of arsenic—even a
single grain—that, added to what was in the medicine, would have been
enough to cause death. But there is no evidence whatever that the food
did contain arsenic.”

“If the previous dose of medicine had contained the same quantity of
the poison as the one that was last taken, would that account for the
death of deceased?”

“Yes. He would then have taken over three grains in four hours—more
than the minimum fatal dose.”

“Did you see the other—the empty medicine bottle?”

“No. I looked for it and should have taken possession of it, but it
was not there.”

“Is there anything else that you have to tell us concerning your
examination?”

“No, I think I have told you all I know about the case.”

The coroner cast an interrogatory glance at the jury, and when none of
them accepted the implied invitation, he released the witness and
named Dr. Barnes as his successor.

I need not record in detail the evidence of this witness. Having
deposed that he was a Doctor of Science and lecturer on Chemistry at
St. Martha’s Medical College, he proceeded to confirm Dr. Randall’s
evidence as to the analysis, giving somewhat fuller and more precise
details. He had been present at the autopsy, but he was not a
pathologist and was not competent to describe the condition of the
body. He had analyzed the contents of the medicine bottle with Dr.
Randall’s assistance and he confirmed the last witness’s statement as
to the quantity of arsenic found and the form in which it had been
introduced—Fowler’s Solution.

“What is the strength of Fowler’s Solution?”

“It contains four grains of arsenic—or, more strictly, of arsenious
acid—to the fluid ounce. So that, as the full bottle of medicine must
have contained just over twelve and a half grains of arsenious acid,
the quantity of Fowler’s Solution introduced must have been a little
over three fluid ounces; three point fourteen, to be exact.”

“You are confident that it was Fowler’s Solution that was used?”

“Yes; the chemical analysis showed that; but in addition, there was
the colour and the smell. Fowler’s Solution is coloured red with Red
Sandalwood and scented with Tincture of Lavender as a precaution
against accidents. Otherwise it would be colourless, odourless and
tasteless, like water.”

On the conclusion of Dr. Barnes’s evidence, the coroner remarked to
the jury: “I think we ought to be clear on the facts with regard to
this medicine. Let Mabel Withers be recalled.”

Once more the housemaid took her place by the table and the coroner
resumed the examination.

“You say that the last bottle of medicine came early in the afternoon.
Can you tell us the exact time?”

“It was about a quarter to three. I remember that because when I took
up the new bottle, I asked Mr. Monkhouse if he had had his medicine
and he said that his brother, Mr. Amos Monkhouse, had given him a dose
at two o’clock just before he left.”

“Did you open the fresh bottle?”

“I took off the paper wrapping and the cap but I didn’t take the cork
out.”

“Was the old bottle empty then?”

“No; there was one dose left in it. That would be due at six o’clock.”

“Do you know what became of the old bottle?”

“Yes. When I had given him his last dose—that was out of the new
bottle—I took the old bottle away and washed it at once.”

“Why did you wash the bottle?”

“The used medicine bottles were always washed and sent back to Dr.
Dimsdale.”

“Did you send back the corks, too?”

“No, the corks were usually burned in the rubbish destructor.”

“Do you know what happened to this particular cork?”

“I took it down with me in the morning and dropped it in the bin which
was kept for the rubbish to be taken out to the destructor. The cork
must have been burned with the other rubbish the same day.”

“When you gave deceased that last dose of medicine from the new
bottle, did you notice anything unusual about it? Any smell, for
instance?”

“I noticed a very faint smell of lavender. But that was not unusual.
His medicine often smelt of lavender.”

“Do you know if the previous bottle of medicine smelt of lavender?”

“Yes, it did. I noticed it when I was washing out the bottle.”

“That, gentlemen,” said the coroner, as he wrote down the answer, “is
a very important fact. You will notice that it bears out Dr. Randall’s
opinion that more than one dose of the poison had been given; that, in
fact, a number of repeated small doses had been administered. And, so
far as we can see at present, the medicine was, at least, the
principal medium of its administration. The next problem that we have
to solve is how the poison got into the medicine. If none of you wish
to put any questions to the very intelligent witness whom we have just
been examining, I think we had better call Dr. Dimsdale and hear what
he has to tell us.”

The jury had no questions to put to Mabel but were manifestly all agog
to hear Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence. The housemaid was accordingly sent
back to her seat, and the doctor stepped briskly—almost too briskly, I
thought—up to the table.



Chapter V

Madeline’s Ordeal

I was rather sorry for Dimsdale. His position was a very disagreeable
one and he fully realized it. His patient had been poisoned before his
very eyes and he had never suspected even grave illness. In a sense,
the death of Harold Monkhouse lay at his door and it was pretty
certain that every one present would hold him accountable for the
disaster. Indeed, it was likely that he would receive less than
justice. Those who judged him would hardly stop to reflect on the
extraordinary difficulties that beset a busy medical man whose patient
is being secretly poisoned; would fail to consider the immense number
of cases of illness presented to him in the course of years of
practice and the infinitely remote probability that any one of them is
a case of poison. The immense majority of doctors pass through the
whole of their professional lives without meeting with such a case;
and it is not surprising that when the infinitely rare contingency
arises, it nearly always takes the practitioner unawares. My own
amazement at this incredible horror tended to make me sympathetic
towards Dimsdale and it was with some relief that I noted the
courteous and considerate manner that the coroner adopted in dealing
with the new witness.

“I think,” the former observed, “that we had better, in the first
place, pursue our inquiries concerning the medicine. You have heard
the evidence of Dr. Randall and Dr. Barnes. This bottle of medicine,
before any was taken from it, contained twelve and a half grains of
arsenious acid, in the form of just over three fluid ounces of
Fowler’s Solution. Can you suggest any explanation of that fact?”

“No,” replied Dimsdale, “I cannot.”

“What should the bottle have contained? What was the composition of
the medicine?”

“The medicine was just a simple, very mild tonic and alternative. The
bottle contained twenty-four minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica, sixteen
minims of Liquor Arsenicalis, half a fluid ounce of Syrup of Bitter
Orange to cover the taste of the Nux Vomica and half an ounce of
Compound Tincture of Cardamoms. So that each dose contained three
minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica and two minims of Liquor
Arsenicalis.”

“Liquor Arsenicalis is another name for Fowler’s Solution I
understand?”

“Yes, it is the official name; the other is the popular name.”

“Who supplied this medicine?”

“It was supplied by me.”

“Do you usually supply your patients with medicine?”

“No. Only a few of my old patients who prefer to have their medicine
from me. Usually, I write prescriptions which my patients have made up
by chemists.”

“This bottle, then, was made up in your own dispensary?”

“Yes.”

“Now, I put it to you, Dr. Dimsdale: this medicine did actually
contain Fowler’s Solution, according to the prescription. Is it not
possible that some mistake may have occurred in the amount put into
the bottle?”

“No, it is quite impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because I made up this particular bottle myself. As my dispenser is
not a qualified pharmacist, I always dispense, with my own hands, any
medicines containing poisons. All dangerous drugs are kept in a poison
cupboard under lock and key, and I carry the key on my private bunch.
This is the key, and as you see, the lock is a Yale lock.”

He held up the bunch with the little flat key separated, for the
coroner’s and the jurymen’s inspection.

“But,” said the coroner, “you have not made it clear that a mistake in
the quantity was impossible.”

“I was coming to that,” replied Dimsdale. “The poisons in the cupboard
are, of course, powerful drugs which are given only in small doses,
and a special measure-glass is kept in the cupboard to measure them.
This glass holds only two drachms—a hundred and twenty minims, that
is, a quarter of an ounce. Now, the analysts found in this bottle
three fluid ounces of Fowler’s Solution. But to measure out that
quantity, I should have had to fill the measure-glass twelve times!
That is impossible. No one could do such a thing as that
inadvertently, especially when he was dispensing poisons.

“But that is not all. The poison bottles are all quite small. The one
in which the Liquor Arsenicalis is kept is a four ounce bottle. It
happened that I had refilled it a few days previously and it was full
when I dispensed this medicine. Now, obviously, if I had put three
ounces of the Liquor into the medicine bottle, there would have
remained in the dispensing bottle only one ounce. But the dispensing
bottle is still practically full. I had occasion to use it this
morning and I found it full save for the few minims that had been
taken to make up the deceased’s medicine.

“And there is another point. This medicine was coloured a deepish pink
by the Tincture of Cardamoms. But if it had contained three ounces of
Fowler’s Solution in addition, it would have been a deep red of quite
a different character. But I clearly remember the appearance of the
bottle as it lay on the white paper when I was wrapping it up. It had
the delicate pink colour that is imparted by the cochineal in the
Tincture of Cardamoms.”

The coroner nodded as he wrote down the reply, and enquired:

“Would any of you, gentlemen, like to ask any questions concerning the
bottle of medicine?”

“We should like to know, Sir,” said the foreman, “whether this bottle
of medicine ever left the doctor’s hands before it was sent to
deceased?”

“No, it did not,” replied Dimsdale. “As the dispenser was absent, I
put up the bottle entirely myself. I put in the cork, wrote the label,
tied on the paper cap, wrapped the bottle up, sealed the wrapping,
addressed it and gave it to the boy to deliver.”

The foreman expressed himself as fully satisfied with this answer and
the coroner then resumed:

“Well, we seem to have disposed of the medicine so far as you are
concerned, Doctor. We will now go on to consider the condition of
deceased during the last few days. Did no suspicion of anything
abnormal ever occur to you?”

“No, I neither perceived nor suspected anything abnormal.”

“Is that not rather remarkable? I realize that poisoning would be the
last thing that you would be looking for or expecting. But when it
occurred, is it not a little strange that you did not recognize the
symptoms?”

“Not at all,” replied Dimsdale. “There was nothing to recognize. The
classical symptoms of arsenic poisoning were entirely absent. You will
remember that Sir Robert Detling had no more suspicion than I had.”

“What are the classical symptoms, as you call them, of arsenic
poisoning?”

“The recognized symptoms—which are present in the immense majority of
cases—are acute abdominal pain and tenderness, intense thirst, nausea,
vomiting and purging; the symptoms, in fact, of extreme irritation of
the stomach and intestines. But in the case of deceased, these
symptoms were entirely absent. There was, in my opinion, nothing
whatever in his appearance or symptoms to suggest arsenic poisoning.
His condition appeared in no way different from what I had known it to
be on several previous occasions; just a variation for the worse of
his ordinary ill-health.”

“You do not doubt that arsenic poisoning was really the cause of his
death?”

“The analysis seems to put the matter beyond question; otherwise—I
mean apart from the analysis—I would not have entertained the idea of
arsenic poisoning for a moment.”

“But you do not dispute the cause of death?”

“No. Arsenic is extraordinarily variable in its effects, as Dr.
Randall mentioned, both on the dead body and on the living. Very
anomalous cases of arsenic poisoning have been mistaken, during life,
for opium poisoning.”

The coroner wrote down the answer and having glanced over his notes,
asked:

“What was the condition of deceased when his wife went away from
home?”

“He was much better. In fact his health seemed to be improving so much
that I hoped he would soon be about again.”

“And how soon after his wife’s departure did his last attack begin?”

“I should hardly call it an attack. It was a gradual change for the
worse. Mrs. Monkhouse went away on the 29th of August. On the 2nd of
September deceased was not so well and was extremely depressed and
disappointed at the relapse. From that time his condition fluctuated,
sometimes a little better and sometimes not so well. On the 8th he
appeared rather seriously ill and was no better on the 9th, the day of
the consultation with Sir Robert Detling. After that he seemed to
improve a little, and the slight improvement was maintained up to the
12th. His death came, at least to me, as quite a surprise.”

“You spoke just now of several previous occasions on which attacks—or,
if you prefer it, relapses—of a similar kind occurred. Looking back on
those relapses by the light of what we now know, do you say that they
were quite similar, in respect of the symptoms, to the one which ended
in the death of deceased?”

“I should say they were identically similar. At any rate, I can recall
no difference.”

“Did any of them seem to be as severe as the fatal one?”

“Yes; in fact the last of them—which occurred in June—seemed to be
more severe, only that it was followed by improvement and recovery. I
have here the section of my card-index which relates to deceased. In
the entry dated June 19 you will see that I have noted the patient’s
unsatisfactory condition.”

He handed a small pack of index-cards to the coroner, who examined the
upper card intently and then, with a sudden raising of the eyebrows,
addressed the jury.

“I had better read out the entry. The card is headed ‘Harold
Monkhouse’ and this entry reads: ‘June 19. Patient very low and
feeble. No appetite. Considerable gastric discomfort and troublesome
cough. Pulse 90, small, thready. Heart sounds weak. Sending report to
Mrs. Monkhouse.’”

He laid the cards down on the table, and, looking fixedly at Dimsdale,
repeated: “‘Sending report to Mrs. Monkhouse!’ Where was Mrs.
Monkhouse?”

“Somewhere in Kent, I believe. I sent the report to the head-quarters
of the Women’s Freedom League in Knightrider Street, Maidstone, from
whence I supposed it would be forwarded to her.”

For some seconds after receiving this answer the coroner continued to
gaze steadily at the witness. At length he observed:

“This is a remarkable coincidence. Can you recall the condition of
deceased when Mrs. Monkhouse went away on that occasion?”

“Yes. I remember that he was in comparatively good health. In fact,
his improved condition furnished the opportunity for Mrs. Monkhouse to
make her visit to Maidstone.”

“Can you tell us how soon after her departure on that occasion the
relapse occurred?”

“I cannot say definitely, but my impression is that the change for the
worse began a few days after she went away. Perhaps I might be able to
judge by looking at my notes.”

The coroner handed him back the index-cards, which he looked through
rapidly. “Yes,” he said, at length, “here is an entry on June 11 of a
bottle of tonic medicine for Mrs. Monkhouse. So she must have been at
home on that date; and as it was a double-sized bottle, it was
probably for her to take away with her.”

“Then,” said the coroner, “it is clear that, on the last two
occasions, the deceased was comparatively well when his wife left
home, but had a serious relapse soon after she went away. Now, what of
the previous relapses?”

“I am afraid I cannot remember. I have an impression that Mrs.
Monkhouse was away from home when some of them occurred, but at this
distance of time, I cannot recollect clearly. Possibly Mrs. Monkhouse,
herself, may be able to remember.”

“Possibly,” the coroner agreed, rather drily, “but as the point is of
considerable importance, I should be glad if you would presently look
through your case-cards and see if you can glean any definite
information on the subject. Meanwhile we may pass on to one or two
other matters. First as to the medicine which you prescribed for
deceased; it contained, as you have told us, a certain amount of
Fowler’s Solution, and you considered deceased to be suffering from
chronic gastritis. Is Fowler’s Solution usually given in cases of
gastritis?”

“No. It is usually considered rather unsuitable. But deceased was very
tolerant of small doses of arsenic. I had often given it to him before
as a tonic and it had always seemed to agree with him. The dose was
extremely small—only two minims.”

“How long have you known deceased?”

“I have known, and attended him professionally about twenty years.”

“From your knowledge of him, should you say that he was a man who was
likely to make enemies?”

“Not at all. He was a kindly, just and generous man, amiable and
even-tempered; rather reserved and aloof; not very human, perhaps, and
somewhat self-contained and solitary. But I could not imagine him
making an enemy and, so far as I know, he never did.”

The coroner reflected awhile after writing down this answer and then
turned to the jury.

“Are there any questions that you wish to put to the witness,
gentlemen?”

The jury consulted together for a few moments, and the foreman then
replied:

“We should like to know, Sir, if possible, whether Mrs. Monkhouse was
or was not away from home when the previous relapses occurred.”

“I am afraid,” said Dimsdale, “that I cannot be more explicit as the
events occurred so long ago. The other witnesses—the members of the
household—would be much more likely to remember. And I would urge you
not to detain me from my professional duties longer than is absolutely
necessary.”

Hereupon a brief consultation took place between the coroner and the
jury, with the result that Dimsdale was allowed to go about his
business and Barbara was summoned to take his place. I had awaited
this stage of the proceedings with some uneasiness and was now rather
surprised and greatly relieved at the coroner’s manner towards her;
which was courteous and even sympathetic. Having expressed his and the
jury’s regret at having to trouble her in the very distressing
circumstances, he proceeded at once to clear off the preliminaries,
eliciting the facts that she was 32 years of age and had been married
a little over three years, and then said:

“Dr. Dimsdale has told us that on the occasion of the attack or
relapse in June last you were away from home, but he is not certain
about the previous ones. Can you give us any information on the
subject?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a quiet, steady voice, “I recall quite clearly
at least three previous occasions on which I went away from home
leaving my husband apparently well—as well as he ever was—and came
back to find him quite ill. But I think there were more than three
occasions on which this happened, for I remember having once accused
him, facetiously, of saving up his illnesses until I was out of the
house.”

“Can you remember if a serious relapse ever occurred when you were at
home?”

“Not a really serious one. My husband’s health was always very
unstable and he often had to rest in bed for a day or two. But the
really bad attacks of illness seem always to have occurred when I was
away from home.”

“Did it never strike you that this was a very remarkable fact?”

“I am afraid I did not give the matter as much consideration as I
ought to have done. Deceased was always ailing, more or less, and
those about him came to accept his ill-health as his normal
condition.”

“But you see the significance of it now?”

Barbara hesitated and then replied in a low voice and with evident
agitation:

“I see that it may have some significance, but I don’t in the least
understand it. I am quite overwhelmed and bewildered by the dreadful
thing that has happened.”

“Naturally, you are,” the coroner said in a sympathetic tone, “and I
am most reluctant to trouble you with questions under circumstances
that must be so terrible to you. But we must find out the truth if we
can.”

“Yes, I realize that,” she replied, “and thank you for your
consideration.”

The coroner bowed, and after a brief pause, asked: “Did it never occur
to you to engage a nurse to attend to deceased?”

“Yes. I suggested it more than once to deceased, but he wouldn’t hear
of it. And I think he was right. There was nothing that a nurse could
have done for him. He was not helpless and he was not continuously
bed-ridden. He had a bell-push by his bedside and his secretary or the
servants were always ready to do anything that he wanted done. The
housemaid was most attentive to him. But he did not want much
attention. He kept the books that he was reading on his bedside table
and he liked to be left alone to read in peace. He felt that the
presence of a nurse would have been disturbing.”

“And at night?”

“At night his bell-push was connected with a bell in the secretary’s
bedroom. But he hardly ever used it. If his candle-lamp burned out he
could put in a fresh candle from the box on his table; and he never
seemed to want anything else.”

“Besides deceased and yourself, who were the inmates of the house?”

“There was my husband’s secretary, Mr. Wallingford, Miss Norris, the
cook, Anne Baker, the housemaid, Mabel Withers, and the kitchenmaid,
Doris Brown.”

“Why did deceased need a secretary? Did he transact much business?”

“No. The secretary wrote his few business letters, kept the accounts
and executed any commissions, besides doing the various things that
the master of the house would ordinarily have done. He is the son of
an old friend of my husband’s and he came to us when his father died.”

“And Miss Norris? What was her position in the household?”

“She lived with us as a guest at my husband’s invitation. She was the
daughter of his first wife’s sister, and he, more or less informally,
adopted her as he had no children of his own.”

“Deceased was a widower, then, when you married him?”

“Yes. His wife had been dead about two years.”

“What was his age when he died?”

“He had just turned fifty-seven.”

“On what sort of terms was deceased with the members of his
household?”

“On the best of terms with them all. He was an undemonstrative man and
rather cool and reserved with strangers and distinctly solitary and
self-contained. But he was a kind and generous man and all the
household, including the servants, were devoted to him.”

“Was deceased engaged in any business or profession?”

“No, he had independent means, inherited from his father.”

“Would you describe him as a wealthy man?”

“I believe he was quite well off, but he never spoke of his financial
affairs to me, or to anybody but his lawyers.”

“Do you know how his property is disposed of?”

“I know that he made a will, but I never enquired about the terms of
it and he never told me.”

“But surely you were an interested party.”

“It was understood that some provision would be made for me if I
survived him. That was all that concerned me. Deceased was not a man
with whom it was necessary to make conditions; and I have some small
property of my own. Mr. Mayfield, who is present, of course, knows
what the provisions of the will are as he is one of the executors.”

Once more the coroner paused to look over his notes. Then he glanced
inquiringly at the jury, and, when the foreman shook his head, he
thanked Barbara and dismissed her; and as she walked back to her
chair, pale and grave but perfectly composed, I found myself admiring
her calm dignity and only hoping that the other witnesses would make
as good a figure. But this hope was no sooner conceived than it was
shattered. The next name that was called was Madeline Norris and for a
few moments there was no response. At length Madeline rose slowly,
ashen and ghastly of face, and walked unsteadily to the table. Her
appearance—her deathly pallor and her trembling hands—struck me with
dismay; and what increased my concern for the unfortunate girl was the
subtle change in manner that I detected in the jury and the coroner.
The poor girl’s manifest agitation might surely have bespoken their
sympathy; but not a sign of sympathy was discernible in their
faces—nothing but a stony curiosity.

Having been sworn—on a testament which shook visibly in her grasp—she
deposed that her name was Madeline Norris and her age twenty-seven.

“Any occupation?” the coroner enquired drily without looking up.

“I am a teacher at the Westminster College of Domestic Science.”

“Teacher of what?”

“Principally of cookery and kitchen management, especially invalid
cookery.”

“Are you, yourself, a skilled cook?”

“Yes. It is my duty to demonstrate to the class.”

“Have you ever cooked or prepared food for the deceased?”

“Yes. I usually cooked his meals when I was in the house at meal
times.”

“It has been stated that you prepared the last meal that deceased
took. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I cooked an omelette for his supper.”

“Will you describe to us the way in which you prepared that omelette?”

Madeline considered for a few moments and then replied in a low, shaky
voice: “It was just a simple omelette. I first rubbed the pan with a
cut clove of garlic and put in the butter to heat. Then I broke an egg
into a cup, separated the yolk from the white, and, having beaten them
up separately, mixed them and added a very small portion of pounded
anchovy, a pinch or two of finely chopped parsley and a little salt. I
cooked it in the usual way and turned it out on a hot plate which I
covered at once.”

“Who took it up to deceased?”

“I did. I ran straight up with it and sat and talked to deceased while
he ate it.”

“Did you meet any one on your way up or in the bedroom?”

“No. There was nobody on the stairs, and the deceased was alone.”

“Did deceased take anything to drink with his supper?”

“Yes. He had a glass of chablis. I fetched the bottle and the glass
from the dining room and poured out the wine for him.”

“Did you meet anybody in the dining room or coming or going?”

“No, I met nobody.”

“Can you think of any way in which any poison could have got into the
omelette or into the wine?”

“No. Nothing could possibly have got into the omelette. As to the
wine, I poured it from the bottle into a clean glass. But the bottle
was already open and had been in the cellaret since lunch.”

“Now, with regard to the medicine. Did you give deceased any on the
day before his death?”

“Yes. I gave him a dose soon after I came in—about six o’clock. That
was the last dose in the bottle.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the medicine?”

“No. It was similar to what he had been taking for some days past.”

“What was the medicine like?”

“It was nearly colourless with the faintest tinge of red and smelled
slightly of lavender and bitter orange.”

“Was there anything that caused you to notice particularly, on this
occasion, the appearance and smell of the medicine?”

“No. I noticed the colour and the smell when I opened the bottle on
the previous morning to give deceased a dose.”

“Did you examine the new bottle which had just been sent?”

“Yes. I looked at it and took out the cork and smelled it and tasted
it.”

“What made you do that?”

“I noticed that it seemed to contain Tincture of Cardamoms and I
smelled and tasted it to find out if the other ingredients had been
changed.”

“And what conclusion did you arrive at?”

“That they had not been changed. I could taste the Nux Vomica and
smell the orange and the Liquor Arsenicalis—at least the lavender.”

“Did you realize what the lavender smell was due to?”

“Yes. I recognized it as the smell of Liquor Arsenicalis. I knew that
deceased was taking Liquor Arsenicalis because I had asked Dr.
Dimsdale about it when I first noticed the smell.”

The coroner wrote down this answer and then, raising his head, looked
steadily at Madeline for some seconds without speaking; and the jury
looked harder still. At length the former spoke, slowly, deliberately,
emphatically.

“You have told us that you examined this medicine to find out what it
contained, and that you were able to recognize Tincture of Cardamoms
by its colour and Liquor Arsenicalis by its smell. It would seem,
then, that you know a good deal about drugs. Is that so?”

“I know something about drugs. My father was a doctor and he taught me
simple dispensing so that I could help him.”

The coroner nodded. “Was there any reason why you should have taken so
much interest in the composition of deceased’s medicine?”

Madeline did not answer immediately. And as she stood trembling and
hesitating in evident confusion, the coroner gazed at her stonily, and
the jury craned forward to catch her reply.

“I used to examine his medicine,” she replied at length, in a low
voice and a reluctant and confused manner, “because I knew that it
often contained Liquor Arsenicalis and I used to wonder whether that
was good for him. I understood from my father that it was a rather
irritating drug, and it did not seem very suitable for a patient who
suffered from gastritis.”

There was a pause after she had spoken and something in the appearance
of the inquisitors almost as if they had been a little disappointed by
this eminently reasonable answer. At length the coroner broke the
silence by asking, with a slight softening of manner:

“You have said that the change in colour of the last medicine led you
to taste and smell it to ascertain if the other ingredients had been
changed. You have said that you decided that they had not been
changed. Are you sure of that? Can you swear that the smell of
lavender was not stronger in this bottle than in the previous ones?”

“It did not seem to me to be stronger.”

“Supposing the bottle had then contained as much Liquor Arsenicalis as
was found in it by the analysts, would you have been able to detect it
by the smell or otherwise?”

“Yes, I feel sure that I should. The analysts found three ounces of
Liquor Arsenicalis; that would be nearly half the bottle. I am sure I
should have detected that amount, not only by the strong smell but by
the colour, too.”

“You are sure that the colour of this medicine was due to Cardamoms
only?”

“Yes, that is to cochineal. I recognized it at once. It is perfectly
unmistakable and quite different from the colour of Red Sandalwood,
with which Liquor Arsenicalis is coloured. Besides, this medicine was
only a deepish pink in colour. But if three ounces of Liquor
Arsenicalis had been in the bottle, the medicine would have been quite
a dark red.”

“You have had some experience in dispensing. Do you consider it
possible that the Liquor Arsenicalis could have been put into the
medicine by mistake when it was being made up?”

“It would be quite impossible if a minim measure-glass was used, as
the glass would have had to be filled twelve times. But this is never
done. One does not measure large quantities in small measures. Three
ounces would be measured out in a four or five ounce measure, as a
rule, or, possibly in a two ounce measure, by half refilling it.”

“Might not the wrong measure-glass have been taken up by mistake?”

“That is, of course, just possible. But it is most unlikely; for the
great disproportion between the large measure-glass and the little
stock-bottle would be so striking that it could hardly fail to be
noticed.”

“Then, from your own observation and from Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence, you
reject the idea that a mistake may have been made in dispensing this
bottle of medicine?”

“Yes, entirely. I have heard Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence and I examined
the medicine. I am convinced that he could not have made a mistake
under the circumstances that he described and I am certain that the
medicine that I saw did not contain more than a small quantity—less
than a drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis.”

“You are not forgetting that the analysts actually found the
equivalent of three ounces of Liquor Arsenicalis in the bottle?”

“No. But I am sure it was not there when I examined the bottle.”

The coroner wrote down this answer with a deliberate air, and, when he
had finished, turned to the jury.

“I think we have nothing more to ask this witness, unless there is any
point that you want made more clear.”

There was a brief silence. Then the super-intelligent juryman
interposed.

“I should like to know if this witness ever had any Liquor Arsenicalis
in her possession.”

The coroner held up a warning hand to Madeline, and replied:

“That question, Sir, is not admissible. It is a principle of English
law that a witness cannot be compelled to make a statement
incriminating him—or herself. But an affirmative answer to this
question would be an incriminating statement.”

“But I am perfectly willing to answer the question,” Madeline said
eagerly. “I have never had in my possession any Liquor Arsenicalis or
any other preparation of arsenic.”

“That answers your question, Sir,” said the coroner, as he wrote down
the answer, “and if you have nothing more to ask, we can release the
witness.”

He handed his pen to Madeline, and when she had signed her
depositions—a terribly shaky signature it must have been—she came back
to her chair, still very pale and agitated, but obviously relieved at
having got through the ordeal. I had taken her arm as she sat down and
was complimenting her on the really admirable way in which she had
given her evidence, when I heard the name of Anthony Wallingford
called and realized that another unpleasant episode had arrived.



Chapter VI

The Verdict

I had not been taking much notice of Wallingford, my attention being
occupied with the two women when it strayed from the proceedings.
Beyond an irritated consciousness of his usual restless movements, I
had no information as to how the soul-shaking incidents of this
appalling day were affecting him. But when he rose drunkenly and,
grasping the back of his chair, rolled his eyes wildly round the
Court, I realized that there were breakers ahead.

When I say that he rose drunkenly, I use the word advisedly. Familiar
as I was with his peculiarities—his jerkings, twitchings and
grimacings—I saw, at once, that there was something unusual both in
his face and in his bearing; a dull wildness of expression and an
uncertainty of movement that I had never observed before. He had not
come to the Court with the rest of us, preferring, for some reason, to
come alone. And I now suspected that he had taken the opportunity to
fortify himself on the way.

I was not the only observer of his condition. As he walked, with
deliberate care, from his seat to the table, I noticed the coroner
eyeing him critically and the jury exchanging dubious glances and
whispered comments. He made a bad start by dropping the book on the
floor and sniggering nervously as he stooped to pick it up; and I
could see plainly, by the stiffness of the coroner’s manner that he
had made an unfavourable impression before he began his evidence.

“You were secretary to the deceased?” said the coroner, when the
witness had stated his name, age (33) and occupation. “What was the
nature of your duties?”

“The ordinary duties of a secretary,” was the dogged reply.

“Will you kindly give us particulars of what you did for deceased?”

“I opened his business letters and answered them and some of his
private ones. And I kept his accounts and paid his bills.”

“What accounts would those be? Deceased was not in business, I
understand?”

“No, they were his domestic accounts; his income from investments and
rents and his expenditure.”

“Did you attend upon deceased personally; I mean in the way of looking
after his bodily comfort and supplying his needs?”

“I used to look in on him from time to time to see if he wanted
anything done. But it wasn’t my business to wait on him. I was his
secretary, not his valet.”

“Who did wait on him, and attend to his wants?”

“The housemaid, chiefly, and Miss Norris, and of course, Mrs.
Monkhouse. But he didn’t usually want much but his food, his medicine,
a few books from the library and a supply of candles for his lamp. His
bell-push was connected with a bell in my room at night, but he never
rang it.”

“Then, practically, the housemaid did everything for him?”

“Not everything. Miss Norris cooked most of his meals, we all used to
give him his medicine, I used to put out his books and keep his
fountain pen filled, and Mrs. Monkhouse kept his candle-box supplied.
That was what he was most particular about as he slept badly and used
to read at night.”

“You give us the impression, Mr. Wallingford,” the coroner said,
dryly, “that you must have had a good deal of leisure.”

“Then I have given you the wrong impression. I was kept constantly on
the go, doing jobs, paying tradesmen, shopping and running errands.”

“For whom?”

“Everybody. Deceased, Mrs. Monkhouse, Miss Norris and even Dr.
Dimsdale. I was everybody’s servant.”

“What did you do for Mrs. Monkhouse?”

“I don’t see what that has got to do with this inquest?”

“That is not for you to decide,” the coroner said, sternly. “You will
be good enough to answer my question.”

Wallingford winced as if he had had his ears cuffed. In a moment, his
insolence evaporated and I could see his hands shaking as he,
evidently, cudgelled his brains for a reply. Suddenly he seemed to
have struck an idea.

“Shopping of various kinds,” said he; “for instance, there were the
candles for deceased. His lamp was of German make and English
lamp-candles wouldn’t fit it. So I used to have to go to a German shop
at Sparrow Corner by the Tower, to get packets of Schneider’s stearine
candles. That took about half a day.”

The coroner, stolidly and without comment, wrote down the answer, but
my experience as a counsel told me that it had been a dummy question,
asked to distract the witness’s attention and cover a more significant
one that was to follow. For that question I waited expectantly, and
when it came my surmise was confirmed.

“And Dr. Dimsdale? What did you have to do for him?”

“I used to help him with his books sometimes when he hadn’t got a
dispenser. I am a pretty good accountant and he isn’t.”

“Where does Dr. Dimsdale do his bookkeeping?”

“At the desk in the surgery.”

“And is that where you used to work?”

“Yes.”

“Used Dr. Dimsdale to work with you or did you do the books by
yourself?”

“I usually worked by myself.”

“At what time in the day used you to work there?”

“In the afternoon, as a rule.”

“At what hours does Dr. Dimsdale visit his patients?”

“Most of the day. He goes out about ten and finishes about six or
seven.”

“So that you would usually be alone in the surgery?”

“Yes, usually.”

As the coroner wrote down the answer I noticed the super-intelligent
juryman fidgeting in his seat. At length he burst out:

“Is the poison cupboard in the surgery?”

The coroner looked interrogatively at Wallingford, who stared at him
blankly in sudden confusion.

“You heard the question? Is the poison cupboard there?”

“I don’t know. It may be. It wasn’t any business of mine.”

“Is there any cupboard in the surgery? You must know that.”

“Yes, there is a cupboard there, but I don’t know what is in it.”

“Did you never see it open?”

“No. Never.”

“And you never had the curiosity to look into it?”

“Of course I didn’t. Besides I couldn’t. It was locked.”

“Was it always locked when you were there?”

“Yes, always.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes, perfectly certain.”

Here the super-intelligent juror looked as if he were about to spring
across the table as he demanded eagerly:

“How does the witness know that that cupboard was locked?”

The coroner looked slightly annoyed. He had been playing his fish
carefully and was in no wise helped by this rude jerk of the line.
Nevertheless, he laid down his pen and looked expectantly at the
witness. As for Wallingford, he was struck speechless. Apparently his
rather muddled brain had suddenly taken in the import of the question,
for he stood with dropped jaw and damp, pallid face, staring at the
juryman in utter consternation.

“Well,” said the coroner, after an interval, “how did you know that it
was locked?”

Wallingford pulled himself together by an effort and replied:

“Why, I knew—I knew, of course, that it must be locked.”

“Yes; but the question is, how did you know?”

“Why it stands to reason that it must have been locked.”

“Why does it stand to reason? Cupboards are not always locked.”

“Poison cupboards are. Besides, you heard Dimsdale say that he always
kept this cupboard locked. He showed you the key.”

Once more the coroner, having noted the answer, laid down his pen and
looked steadily at the witness.

“Now, Mr. Wallingford,” said he, “I must caution you to be careful as
to what you say. This is a serious matter, and you are giving evidence
on oath. You said just now that you did not know whether the poison
cupboard was or was not in the surgery. You said that you did not know
what was in that cupboard. Now you say that you knew the cupboard must
have been locked because it was the poison cupboard. Then it seems
that you _did_ know that it was the poison cupboard. Isn’t that so?”

“No. I didn’t know then. I do now because I heard Dimsdale say that it
was.”

“Then, you said that you were perfectly certain that the cupboard was
always locked whenever you were working there. That meant that you
knew positively, as a fact, that it _was_ locked. Now you say that you
knew that it must be locked. But that is an assumption, an opinion, a
belief. Now, a man of your education must know the difference between
a mere belief and actual knowledge. Will you, please, answer
definitely: Did you, or did you not, know as a fact whether that
cupboard was or was not locked?”

“Well, I didn’t actually know, but I took it for granted that it was
locked.”

“You did not try the door?”

“Certainly not. Why should I?”

“Very well. Does any gentleman of the jury wish to ask any further
questions about this cupboard?”

There was a brief silence. Then the foreman said:

“We should like the witness to say what he means and not keep
contradicting himself.”

“You hear that, Sir,” said the coroner. “Please be more careful in
your answers in future. Now, I want to ask you about that last bottle
of medicine. Did you notice anything unusual in its appearance?”

“No. I didn’t notice it at all. I didn’t know that it had come.”

“Did you go into deceased’s room on that day—the Wednesday?”

“Yes, I went to see deceased in the morning about ten o’clock and gave
him a dose of his medicine; and I looked in on him in the evening
about nine o’clock to see if he wanted anything, but he didn’t.”

“Did you give him any medicine then?”

“No. It was not due for another hour.”

“What was his condition then?”

“He looked about the same as usual. He seemed inclined to doze, so I
did not stay long.”

“Is that the last time you saw him alive?”

“No. I looked in again just before eleven. He was then in much the
same state—rather drowsy—and, at his request, I turned out the gas and
left him.”

“Did you light the candle?”

“No, he always did that himself, if he wanted it.”

“Did you give him any medicine?”

“No. He had just had a dose.”

“Did he tell you that he had?”

“No. I could see that there was a dose gone.”

“From which bottle was that?”

“There was only one bottle there. It must have been the new bottle, as
only one dose had been taken.”

“What colour was the medicine?”

Wallingford hesitated a moment or two as if suspecting a trap. Then he
replied, doggedly: “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t notice it.”

“You said that you didn’t notice it at all and didn’t know that it had
come. Now you say that you observed that only one dose had been taken
from it and that you inferred that it was the new bottle. Which of
those statements is the true one?”

“They are both true,” Wallingford protested in a whining tone. “I
meant that I didn’t notice the medicine particularly and that I didn’t
know when it came.”

“That is not what you said,” the coroner rejoined. “However, we will
let that pass. Is there anything more that you wish to ask this
witness, gentlemen? If not, we will release him and take the evidence
of Mr. Mayfield.”

I think the jury would have liked to bait Wallingford but apparently
could not think of any suitable questions. But they watched him
malevolently as he added his—probably quite illegible—signature to his
depositions and followed him with their eyes as he tottered shakily
back to his seat. Immediately afterwards my name was called and I took
my place at the table, not without a slight degree of nervousness;
for, though I was well enough used to examinations, it was in the
capacity of examiner, not of witness, and I was fully alive to the
possibility of certain pitfalls which the coroner might, if he were
wide enough awake, dig for me. However, when I had been sworn and had
given my particulars (Rupert Mayfield, 35, Barrister-at-Law, of No. 64
Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple) the coroner’s conciliatory manner led me
to hope that it would be all plain sailing.

“How long have you known deceased?” was the first question.

“About two and a half years,” I replied.

“You are one of the executors of his will, Mrs. Monkhouse has told
us.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why you were appointed executor after so short an
acquaintance?”

“I am an old friend of Mrs. Monkhouse. I have known her since she was
a little girl. I was a friend of her father—or rather, her
step-father.”

“Was it by her wish that you were made executor?”

“I believe that the suggestion came from the deceased’s family
solicitor, Mr. Brodribb, who is my co-executor. But probably he was
influenced by my long acquaintance with Mrs. Monkhouse.”

“Has probate been applied for?”

“Yes.”

“Then there can be no objections to your disclosing the provisions of
the will. We don’t want to hear them in detail, but I will ask you to
give us a general idea of the disposal of deceased’s property.”

“The gross value of the estate is about fifty-five thousand pounds, of
which twelve thousand represents real property and forty-three
thousand personal. The principal beneficiaries are: Mrs. Monkhouse,
who receives a house valued at four thousand pounds and twenty
thousand pounds in money and securities; the Reverend Amos Monkhouse,
land of the value of five thousand and ten thousand invested money;
Madeline Norris, a house and land valued at three thousand and five
thousand in securities; Anthony Wallingford, four thousand pounds.
Then there are legacies of a thousand pounds each to the two
executors, and of three hundred, two hundred and one hundred
respectively to the housemaid, the cook and the kitchen maid. That
accounts for the bulk of the estate. Mrs. Monkhouse is the residuary
legatee.”

The coroner wrote down the answer as I gave it and then read it out
slowly for me to confirm, working out, at the same time, a little sum
on a spare piece of paper—as did also the intellectual juryman.

“I think that gives us all the information we want,” the former
remarked, glancing at the jury; and as none of them made any comment,
he proceeded:

“Did you see much of deceased during the last few months?”

“I saw him usually once or twice a week. Sometimes oftener. But I did
not spend much time with him. He was a solitary, bookish man who
preferred to be alone most of his time.”

“Did you take particular notice of his state of health?”

“No, but I did observe that his health seemed to grow rather worse
lately.”

“Did it appear to you that he received such care and attention as a
man in his condition ought to have received?”

“It did not appear to me that he was neglected.”

“Did you realize how seriously ill he was?”

“No, I am afraid not. I regarded him merely as a chronic invalid.”

“It never occurred to you that he ought to have had a regular nurse?”

“No, and I do not think he would have consented. He greatly disliked
having any one about his room.”

“Is there anything within your knowledge that would throw any light on
the circumstances of his death?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Have you ever known arsenic in any form to be used in that household
for any purpose; any fly-papers, weed-killer or insecticides, for
instance?”

“No, I do not remember ever having seen anything used in that
household which, to my knowledge or belief, contained arsenic.”

“Do you know of any fact or circumstance which, in your opinion, ought
to be communicated to this Court or which might help the jury in
arriving at their verdict?”

“No, I do not.”

This brought my examination to an end. I was succeeded by the cook and
the kitchen-maid, but, as they had little to tell, and that little
entirely negative, their examination was quite brief. When the last
witness was dismissed, the coroner addressed the jury.

“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “heard all the evidence that is at
present available, and we have the choice of two courses; which are,
either to adjourn the inquiry until further evidence is available, or
to find a verdict on the evidence which we have heard. I incline
strongly to the latter plan. We are now in a position to answer the
questions, how, when and where the deceased came by his death, and
when we have done that, we shall have discharged our proper function.
What is your feeling on the matter, gentlemen?”

The jury’s feeling was very obviously that they wished to get the
inquiry over and go about their business, and when they had made this
clear, the coroner proceeded to sum up.

“I shall not detain you, gentlemen, with a long address. All that is
necessary is for me to recapitulate the evidence very briefly and
point out the bearing of it.

“First as to the cause of death. It has been given in evidence by two
fully qualified and expert witnesses that deceased died from the
effects of poisoning by arsenic. That is a matter of fact which is not
disputed and which you must accept, unless you have any reasons for
rejecting their testimony, which I feel sure you have not. Accepting
the fact of death by poison, the question then arises as to how the
poison came to be taken by deceased. There are three possibilities: he
may have taken it himself, voluntarily and knowingly; he may have
taken it by accident or mischance; or it may have been administered to
him knowingly and maliciously by some other person or persons. Let us
consider those three possibilities.

“The suggestion that deceased might have taken the poison voluntarily
is highly improbable in three respects. First, since deceased was
mostly bed-ridden, it would have been almost impossible for him to
have obtained the poison. Second, there is the nature of the poison.
Arsenic has often been used for homicidal poisoning but seldom for
suicide; for an excellent reason. The properties of arsenic which
commend it to poisoners—its complete freedom from taste and the
indefinite symptoms that it produces—do not commend it to the suicide.
He has no need to conceal either the administration or its results.
His principal need is rapidity of effect. But arsenic is a relatively
slow poison and one which usually causes great suffering. It is not at
all suited to the suicide. Then there is the third objection that the
mode of administration was quite unlike that of a suicide. For the
latter usually takes his poison in one large dose, to get the business
over; but here it was evidently given in repeated small doses over a
period that may have been anything from a week to a year. And,
finally, there is not a particle of evidence in favour of the
supposition that deceased took the poison himself.

“To take the second case, that of accident: the only possibility known
to us is that of a mistake in dispensing the medicine. But the
evidence of Dr. Dimsdale and Miss Norris must have convinced you that
the improbability of a mistake is so great as to be practically
negligible. Of course, the poison might have found its way
accidentally into the medicine or the food or both in some manner
unknown to us. But while we admit this, we have, in fact, to form our
decision on what is known to us, not what is conceivable but unknown.

“When we come to the third possibility, that the poison was
administered to deceased by some other person or persons with intent
to compass his death, we find it supported by positive evidence. There
is the bottle of medicine for instance. It contained a large quantity
of arsenic in a soluble form. But two witnesses have sworn that it
could not have contained, and, in fact, did not contain that quantity
of arsenic when it left Dr. Dimsdale’s surgery or when it was
delivered at deceased’s house. Moreover, Miss Norris has sworn that
she examined this bottle of medicine at six o’clock in the evening and
that it did not then contain more than a small quantity—less than a
drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis. She was perfectly positive. She spoke
with expert knowledge. She gave her reasons, and they were sound
reasons. So that the evidence in our possession is to the effect that
at six o’clock in the afternoon, that bottle of medicine did not
contain more than a drachm—about a teaspoonful—of Liquor Arsenicalis;
whereas at half-past ten, when a dose from the bottle was given to
deceased by the housemaid, it contained some three ounces—about six
tablespoonfuls. This is proved by the discovery of the poison in the
stomach of deceased and by the exact analysis of the contents of the
bottle. It follows that, between six o’clock and half-past ten, that a
large quantity of arsenical solution must have been put into the
bottle. It is impossible to suppose that it could have got in by
accident. Somebody must have put it in; and the only conceivable
object that the person could have had in putting that poison into the
bottle would be to cause the death of deceased.

“But further; the evidence of the medical witnesses proves that
arsenic had been taken by deceased on several previous occasions.
That, in fact, he had been taking arsenic in relatively small doses
for some time past—how long we do not know—and had been suffering from
chronic arsenical poisoning. The evidence, therefore, points very
strongly and definitely to the conclusion that some person or persons
had been, for some unascertained time past, administering arsenic to
him.

“Finally, as to the identity of the person or persons who administered
the poison, I need not point out that we have no evidence. You will
have noticed that a number of persons benefit in a pecuniary sense by
deceased’s death. But that fact establishes no suspicion against any
of them in the absence of positive evidence; and there is no positive
evidence connecting any one of them with the administration of the
poison. With these remarks, gentlemen, I leave you to consider the
evidence and agree upon your decision.”

The jury did not take long in arriving at their verdict. After a few
minutes’ eager discussion, the foreman announced that they had come to
an unanimous decision.

“And what is the decision upon which you have agreed?” the coroner
asked.

“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased died from the effects of
arsenic, administered to him by some person or persons unknown, with
the deliberate intention of causing his death.”

“Yes,” said the coroner; “that is, in effect, a verdict of wilful
murder against some person or persons unknown. I agree with you
entirely. No other verdict was possible on the evidence before us. It
is unfortunate that no clue has happened as to the perpetrator of this
abominable crime, but we may hope that the investigations of the
police will result in the identification and conviction of the
murderer.”

The conclusion of the coroner’s address brought the proceedings to an
end, and as he finished speaking, the spectators rose and began to
pass out of the Court. I remained for a minute to speak a few words to
Mr. Holman and ask him to transcribe his report in duplicate. Then, I,
too, went out to find my three companions squeezing into a taxicab
which had drawn up opposite the entrance, watched with ghoulish
curiosity by a quite considerable crowd. The presence of that crowd
informed me that the horrible notoriety which I had foreseen had even
now begun to envelop us. The special editions of the evening papers
were already out, with, at least, the opening scenes of the inquest in
print. Indeed, during the short drive to Hilborough Square, I saw more
than one news-vendor dealing out papers to little knots of eager
purchasers, and once, through the open window, a stentorian voice was
borne in with hideous distinctness, announcing: “Sensational Inquest!
Funeral stopped!”

I glanced from Wallingford, cowering in his corner, to Barbara,
sitting stiffly upright with a slight frown on her pale face. As she
caught my eye, she remarked bitterly:

“It seems that we are having greatness thrust upon us.”



Chapter VII

The Search Warrant

The consciousness of the horrid notoriety that had already attached
itself to us was brought home to me once more when the taxi drew up at
the house in Hilborough Square. I stepped out first to pay the driver,
and Barbara following, with the latch-key ready in her hand, walked
swiftly to the door, looking neither to the right nor left, opened it
and disappeared into the hall; while the other two, lurking in the cab
until the door was open, then darted across the pavement, entered and
disappeared also. Nor was their hasty retreat unjustified. Lingering
doggedly and looking about me with a sort of resentful defiance, I
found myself a focus of observation. In the adjoining houses, not a
window appeared to be unoccupied. The usually vacant foot-way was
populous with loiterers whose interest in me and in the ill-omened
house was undissembled; while raucous voices, strange to those quiet
precincts, told me that the astute news-vendors had scented and
exploited a likely market.

With ill-assumed indifference I entered the house and shut the
door—perhaps rather noisily; and was about to enter the dining-room
when I heard hurried steps descending the stairs and paused to look
up. It was the woman—the cook’s sister, I think—who had been left to
take care of the house while the servants were absent; and something
of eagerness and excitement in her manner caused me to walk to the
foot of the stairs to meet her.

“Is anything amiss?” I asked in a low voice as she neared the bottom
of the flight.

She held up a warning finger, and coming close to me, whispered
hoarsely:

“There’s two gentlemen upstairs, Sir, leastways they look like
gentlemen, but they are really policemen.”

“What are they doing upstairs?” I asked.

“Just walking through the rooms and looking about. They came about a
quarter of an hour ago, and when I let them in they said they were
police officers and that they had come to search the premises.”

“Did they say anything about a warrant?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. I forgot about that. One of them showed me a paper and
said it was a search warrant. So of course I couldn’t do anything. And
then they started going through the house with their note-books like
auctioneers getting ready for a sale.”

“I will go up and see them,” said I; “and meanwhile you had better let
Mrs. Monkhouse know. Where did you leave them?”

“In the large back bedroom on the first floor,” she replied. “I think
it was Mr. Monkhouse’s.”

On this I began quickly to ascend the stairs, struggling to control a
feeling of resentment which, though natural enough, I knew to be quite
unreasonable. Making my way direct to the dead man’s room, I entered
and found two tall men standing before an open cupboard. They turned
on hearing me enter and the elder of them drew a large wallet from his
pocket.

“Mr. Mayfield, I think, Sir,” said he. “I am Detective Superintendent
Miller and this is Detective-Sergeant Cope. Here is my card and this
is the search warrant, if you wish to see it.”

I glanced at the document and returning it to him asked: “Wouldn’t it
have been more in order if you had waited to show the warrant to Mrs.
Monkhouse before beginning your search?”

“That is what we have done,” he replied, suavely. “We have disturbed
nothing yet. We have just been making a preliminary inspection. Of
course,” he continued, “I understand how unpleasant this search is for
Mrs. Monkhouse and the rest of your friends, but you, Sir, as a lawyer
will realize the position. That poor gentleman was poisoned with
arsenic in this house. Somebody in this house had arsenic in his or
her possession and we have got to see if any traces of it are left.
After all, you know, Sir, we are acting in the interests of everybody
but the murderer.”

This was so obviously true that it left me nothing to say. Nor was
there any opportunity, for, as the superintendent concluded, Barbara
entered the room. I looked at her a little anxiously as I briefly
explained the situation. But there was no occasion. Pale and sombre of
face, she was nevertheless perfectly calm and self-possessed and
greeted the two officers without a trace of resentment; indeed, when
the superintendent was disposed to be apologetic, she cut him short by
exclaiming energetically: “But, surely, who should be more anxious to
assist you than I? It is true that I find it incredible that this
horrible crime could have been perpetrated by any member of my
household. But it was perpetrated by somebody. And if, either here or
elsewhere, I can help you in any way to drag that wretch out into the
light of day, I am at your service, no matter who the criminal may be.
Do you wish any one to attend you in your search?”

“I think, Madam, it would be well if you were present, and perhaps Mr.
Mayfield. If we want any of the others, we can send for them. Where
are they now?”

“Miss Norris and Mr. Wallingford are in the dining room. The servants
have just come in and I think have gone to the kitchen or their
sitting room.”

“Then,” said Miller, “we had better begin with the dining room.”

We went down the stairs, preceded by Barbara, who opened the dining
room door and introduced the visitors to the two inmates in tones as
quiet and matter-of-fact as if she were announcing the arrival of the
gas-fitter or the upholsterer. I was sorry that the other two had not
been warned, for the announcement took them both by surprise and they
were in no condition for surprises of this rather alarming kind. At
the word “search,” Madeline started up with a smothered exclamation
and then sat down again, trembling and pale as death; while as for
Wallingford, if the two officers had come to pinion him and lead him
forth to the gallows, he could not have looked more appalled.

Our visitors were scrupulously polite, but they were also keenly
observant and I could see that each had made a mental note of the
effect of their arrival. But, of course, they made no outward sign of
interest in any of us but proceeded stolidly with their business; and
I noticed that, before proceeding to a detailed inspection, they
opened their note-books and glanced through what was probably a rough
inventory, to see that nothing had been moved in the interval since
their preliminary inspection.

The examination of the dining room was, however, rather perfunctory.
It contained nothing that appeared to interest them, and after going
through the contents of the sideboard cupboards methodically, the
superintendent turned a leaf of his note-book and said:

“I think that will do, Madam. Perhaps we had better take the library
next. Who keeps the keys of the bureau and the cupboard?”

“Mr. Wallingford has charge of the library,” replied Barbara. “Will
you give the superintendent your keys, Tony?”

“There’s no need for that,” said Miller. “If Mr. Wallingford will come
with us, he can unlock the drawers and cupboard and tell us anything
that we want to know about the contents.”

Wallingford rose with a certain alacrity and followed us into the
library, which adjoined the dining room. Here the two officers again
consulted their note-books, and having satisfied themselves that the
room was as they had left it, began a detailed survey, watched closely
and with evident anxiety by Wallingford. They began with a cupboard,
or small armoire, which formed the upper member of a large,
old-fashioned bureau. Complying with Miller’s polite request that it
might be unlocked, Wallingford produced a bunch of keys, and,
selecting from it, after much nervous fumbling, a small key,
endeavoured to insert it into the keyhole; but his hand was in such a
palsied condition that he was unable to introduce it.

“Shall I have a try, Sir?” the superintendent suggested, patiently,
adding with a smile, “I don’t smoke quite so many cigarettes as you
seem to.”

His efforts, however, also failed, for the evident reason that it was
the wrong key. Thereupon he looked quickly through the bunch, picked
out another key and had the cupboard open in a twinkling, revealing a
set of shelves crammed with a disorderly litter of cardboard boxes,
empty ink-bottles, bundles of letters and papers and the miscellaneous
rubbish that accumulates in the receptacles of a thoroughly untidy
man. The superintendent went through the collection methodically,
emptying the shelves, one at a time, on to the flap of the bureau,
where he and the sergeant sorted the various articles and examining
each, returned it to the shelf. It was a tedious proceeding and, so
far as I could judge, unproductive, for, when all the shelves had been
looked through and every article separately inspected, nothing was
brought to light save an empty foolscap envelope which had apparently
once contained a small box and was addressed to Wallingford, and two
pieces of what looked like chemist’s wrapping-paper, the creases in
which showed that they had been small packets. These were not returned
to the shelves, but, without comment, enclosed in a large envelope on
which the superintendent scribbled a few words with a pencil and which
was then consigned to a large handbag that the sergeant had brought in
with him from the hall.

The large drawers of the bureau were next examined. Like the shelves,
they were filled with a horrible accumulation of odds and ends which
had evidently been stuffed into them to get them out of the way. From
this collection nothing was obtained which interested the officers,
who next turned their attention to the small drawers and pigeonholes
at the back of the flap. These, however, contained nothing but
stationery and a number of letters, bills and other papers, which the
two officers glanced through and replaced. When all the small drawers
and pigeonholes had been examined, the superintendent stood up, fixing
a thoughtful glance at the middle of the range of drawers; and I
waited expectantly for the next development. Like many old bureaus,
this one had as a central feature a nest of four very small drawers
enclosed by a door. I knew the arrangement very well, and so,
apparently, did the superintendent; for, once more opening the top
drawer, he pulled it right out and laid it on the writing flap. Then,
producing from his pocket a folding foot-rule, he thrust it into one
of the pigeonholes, showing a depth of eight and a half inches, and
then into the case of the little drawer, which proved to be only a
fraction over five inches deep.

“There is something more here than meets the eye,” he remarked
pleasantly. “Do you know what is at the back of those drawers, Mr.
Wallingford?”

The unfortunate secretary, who had been watching the officer’s
proceedings with a look of consternation, did not reply for a few
moments, but remained staring wildly at the aperture from which the
drawer had been taken out.

“At the back?” he stammered, at length. “No, I can’t say that I do. It
isn’t my bureau, you know. I only had the use of it.”

“I see,” said Miller. “Well, I expect we can soon find out.”

He drew out a second drawer and, grasping the partition between the
two, gave a gentle pull, when the whole nest slid easily forward and
came right out of its case. Miller laid it on the writing flap, and,
turning it round, displayed a sliding lid at the back, which he drew
up; when there came into view a set of four little drawers similar to
those in front but furnished with leather tabs instead of handles.
Miller drew out the top drawer and a sudden change in the expression
on his face told me that he had lighted on something that seemed to
him significant.

“Now I wonder what this is?” said he, taking from the drawer a small
white-paper packet. “Feels like some sort of powder. You say you don’t
know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”

Wallingford shook his head but made no further reply, whereupon the
superintendent laid the packet on the flap and very carefully unfolded
the ends—it had already been opened—when it was seen that the contents
consisted of some two or three teaspoonfuls of a fine, white powder.

“Well,” said Miller, “we shall have to find out what it is. Will you
pass me that bit of sealing-wax, Sergeant?”

He reclosed the packet with the greatest care and having sealed both
the ends with his signet-ring, enclosed it in an envelope and put it
into his inside breast pocket. Then he returned to the little nest of
drawers. The second drawer was empty, but on pulling out the third, he
uttered an exclamation.

“Well, now! Look at that! Somebody seems to have been fond of physic.
And there’s no doubt as to what this is. Morphine hydrochlor, a
quarter of a grain.”

As he spoke, he took out of the drawer a little bottle filled with
tiny white discs or tablets and bearing on the label the inscription
which the superintendent had read out. Wallingford gazed at it with a
foolish expression of surprise as Miller held it up for our—and
particularly Wallingford’s—inspection; and Barbara, I noticed, cast at
the latter a side-long, inscrutable glance which I sought in vain to
interpret.

“Morphine doesn’t seem much to the point,” Miller remarked as he
wrapped the little bottle in paper and bestowed it in his inner
pocket, “but, of course, we have only got the evidence of the label.
It may turn out to be something else, when the chemical gentlemen come
to test it.”

With this he grasped the tab of the bottom drawer and drew the latter
out; and in a moment his face hardened. Very deliberately, he picked
out a small, oblong envelope, which appeared once to have contained a
box or hard packet, but was now empty. It had evidently come through
the post and was addressed in a legible business hand to “A.
Wallingford Esq., 16 Hilborough Square.” Silently the superintendent
held it out for us all to see, as he fixed a stern look on
Wallingford. “You observe, Sir,” he said, at length, “that the
post-mark is dated the 20th of August; only about a month ago. What
have you to say about it?”

“Nothing,” was the sullen reply. “What comes to me by post is my
affair. I am not accountable to you or anybody else.”

For a moment, the superintendent’s face took on a very ugly
expression. But he seemed to be a wise man and not unkindly, for he
quickly controlled his irritation and rejoined without a trace of
anger, though gravely enough:

“Be advised by me, Mr. Wallingford, and don’t make trouble for
yourself. Let me remind you what the position is. In this house a man
has died from arsenic poisoning. The police will have to find out how
that happened and if any one is open to the suspicion of having
poisoned him. I have come here to-day for that purpose with full
authority to search this house. In the course of my search I have
asked you for certain information, and you have made a number of false
statements. Believe me, Sir, that is a very dangerous thing to do. It
inevitably raises the question why those false statements should have
been made. Now, I am going to ask you one or two questions. You are
not bound to answer them, but you will be well advised to hold nothing
back, and, above all, to say nothing that is not true. To begin with
that packet of powder. What do you say that packet contains?”

Wallingford, who characteristically, was now completely cowed by the
superintendent’s thinly-veiled threats, hung his head for a moment and
then replied, almost inaudibly, “Cocaine.”

“What were you going to do with cocaine?” Miller asked.

“I was going to take a little of it for my health.”

The superintendent smiled faintly as he demanded:

“And the morphine tablets?”

“I had thought of taking one of them occasionally to—er—to steady my
nerves.”

Miller nodded, and casting a swift glance at the sergeant, asked:

“And the packet that was in this envelope: what did that contain?”

Wallingford hesitated and was so obviously searching for a plausible
lie that Miller interposed, persuasively: “Better tell the truth and
not make trouble”; whereupon Wallingford replied in a barely audible
mumble that the packet had contained a very small quantity of cocaine.

“What has become of that cocaine?” the superintendent asked.

“I took part of it; the rest got spilt and lost.”

Miller nodded rather dubiously at this reply and then asked:

“Where did you get this cocaine and the morphine?”

Wallingford hesitated for some time and at length, plucking up a
little courage again, replied:

“I would rather not answer that question. It really has nothing to do
with your search. You are looking for arsenic.”

Miller reflected for a few moments and then rejoined, quietly:

“That isn’t quite correct, Mr. Wallingford. I am looking for anything
that may throw light on the death of Mr. Monkhouse. But I don’t want
to press you unduly, only I would point out that you could not have
come by these drugs lawfully. You are not a doctor or a chemist.
Whoever supplied you with them was acting illegally and you have been
a party to an illegal transaction in obtaining them. However, if you
refuse to disclose the names of the persons who supplied them, we will
let the matter pass, at least for the present; but I remind you that
you have had these drugs in your possession and that you may be, and
probably will be compelled to give an account of the way in which you
obtained them.”

With that he pocketed the envelope, closed the drawers and turned to
make a survey of the room. There was very little in it, however, for
the bureau and its surmounting cupboard were the only receptacles in
which anything could be concealed, the whole of the walls being
occupied by open book-shelves about seven feet high. But even these
the superintendent was not prepared to take at their face value.
First, he stood on a chair and ran his eye slowly along the tops of
all the shelves; then he made a leisurely tour of the room, closely
inspecting each row of books, now and again taking one out or pushing
one in against the back of the shelves. A set of box-files was
examined in detail, each one being opened to ascertain that it
contained nothing but papers, and even one or two obvious portfolios
were taken out and inspected. Nothing noteworthy, however, was brought
to light by this rigorous search until the tour of inspection was
nearly completed. The superintendent was, in fact, approaching the
door when his attention was attracted by a row of books which seemed
to be unduly near the front edge of the shelf. Opposite this he halted
and began pushing the books back, one at a time. Suddenly I noticed
that one of the books, on being pushed, slid back about half an inch
and stopped as if there were something behind it. And there was. When
the superintendent grasped the book and drew it out, there came into
view, standing against the back of the shelf, a smallish bottle,
apparently empty, and bearing a white label.

“Queer place to keep a bottle,” Miller remarked, adding, with a smile,
“unless it were a whiskey bottle, which it isn’t.” He drew it out, and
after looking at it suspiciously and holding it up to the light, took
out the cork and sniffed at it. “Well,” he continued, “it is an empty
bottle and it is labelled ‘Benzine.’ Do you know anything about it,
Mr. Wallingford?”

“No, I don’t,” was the reply. “I don’t use benzine, and if I did I
should not keep it on a book-shelf. But I don’t see that it matters
much. There isn’t any harm in benzine, is there?”

“Probably not,” said Miller; “but, you see, the label doesn’t agree
with the smell. What do you say, Mrs. Monkhouse?”

He once more drew out the cork and held the bottle towards her. She
took it from him and having smelled at it, replied promptly:

“It smells to me like lavender. Possibly the bottle has had lavender
water in it, though I shouldn’t, myself, have chosen a benzine bottle
to keep a perfume in.”

“I don’t think it was lavender water,” said the superintendent. “That,
I think, is nearly colourless. But the liquid that was in this bottle
was red. As I hold it up to the light, you can see a little ring of
red round the edge of the bottom. I daresay the chemists will be able
to tell us what was in the bottle, but the question now is, who put it
there? You are sure you can’t tell us anything about it, Mr.
Wallingford?”

“I have never seen it before, I assure you,” the latter protested
almost tearfully. “I know nothing about it, whatsoever. That is the
truth, Superintendent; I swear to God it is.”

“Very well, Sir,” said Miller, writing a brief note on the label and
making an entry in his note-book. “Perhaps it is of no importance
after all. But we shall see. I think we have finished this room.
Perhaps, Sergeant, you might take a look at the drawing room while I
go through Mr. Monkhouse’s room. It will save time. And I needn’t
trouble you any more just at present, Mr. Wallingford.”

The secretary retired, somewhat reluctantly, to the dining room while
Barbara led the way to the first floor. As we entered the room in
which that unwitnessed tragedy had been enacted in the dead of the
night, I looked about me with a sort of shuddering interest. The bed
had been stripped, but otherwise nothing seemed to be changed since I
had seen the room but a few days ago when it was still occupied by its
dread tenant. The bedside table still bore its pathetic furnishings;
the water-bottle, the little decanter, the books, the candle-box, the
burnt-out lamp, the watch—though that ticked no longer, but seemed,
with its motionless hands, to echo the awesome stillness that pervaded
that ill-omened room.

As the superintendent carried out his methodical search, joined
presently by the sergeant, Barbara came and stood by me with her eyes
fixed gloomily on the table.

“Were you thinking of him, Rupert?” she whispered. “Were you thinking
of that awful night when he lay here, dying, all alone, and I— Oh! the
thought of it will haunt me every day of my life until my time comes,
too, however far off that may be.”

I was about to make some reply, as consolatory as might be, when the
superintendent announced that he had finished and asked that
Wallingford might be sent for to be present at the examination of his
room. I went down to deliver the message, and, as it would have
appeared intrusive for me to accompany him, I stayed in the dining
room with Madeline, who, though she had recovered from the shock of
the detectives’ arrival, was still pale and agitated.

“Poor Tony seemed dreadfully upset when he came back just now,” she
said. “What was it that happened in the library?”

“Nothing very much,” I answered. “The superintendent unearthed his
little stock of dope; which, of course, was unpleasant for him, but it
would not have mattered if he had not been fool enough to lie about
it. That was a fatal thing to do, under the circumstances.”

As Wallingford seemed not to have said anything about the bottle, I
made no reference to it, but endeavoured to distract her attention
from what was going on in the house by talking of other matters. Nor
was it at all difficult; for the truth is that we all, with one
accord, avoided any reference to the horrible fact which was staring
us in the face, and of which we must all have been fully conscious. So
we continued a somewhat banal conversation, punctuated by pauses in
which our thoughts stole secretly back to the hideous realities,
until, at length, Wallingford returned, pale and scowling, and flung
himself into an arm-chair. Madeline looked at him inquiringly, but as
he offered no remark but sat in gloomy silence, smoking furiously, she
asked him no questions, nor did I.

A minute or two later, Barbara came into the room, quietly and with an
air of calm self-possession that was quite soothing in the midst of
the general emotional tension.

“Do you mind coming up, Madeline?” she said. “They are examining your
room and they want you to unlock the cupboard. You have your keys
about you, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Madeline replied, rising and taking from her pocket a little
key-wallet. “That is the key. Will you take it up to them?”

“I think you had better come up yourself,” Barbara replied. “It is
very unpleasant but, of course, they have to go through the
formalities, and we must not appear unwilling to help them.”

“No, of course,” said Madeline. “Then I will come with you, but I
should like Rupert to come, too, if he doesn’t mind. Will you?” she
asked, looking at me appealingly. “Those policemen make me feel so
nervous.”

Of course, I assented at once; and as Wallingford, muttering “Damned
impertinence! Infernal indignity!” rose to open the door for us, we
passed out and took our way upstairs.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Norris,” said Miller, in a suave
tone, as we entered, “but we must see everything if only to be able to
say that we have. Would you be so kind as to unlock this cupboard?”

He indicated a narrow cupboard which occupied one of the recesses by
the chimney-breast, and Madeline at once inserted the key and threw
open the door. The interior was then seen to be occupied by shelves,
of which the lower ones were filled, tidily enough, with an assortment
of miscellaneous articles—shoes, shoe-trees, brushes, leather bags,
cardboard boxes, note-books and other “oddments”—while the top shelf
seemed to have been used as a repository for jars, pots and bottles,
of which several appeared to be empty. It was this shelf which seemed
to attract the superintendent’s attention and he began operations by
handing out its various contents to the sergeant, who set them down on
a table in orderly rows. When they were all set out and the
superintendent had inspected narrowly and swept his hand over the
empty shelf, the examination of the jars and bottles began.

The procedure was very methodical and thorough. First, the sergeant
picked up a bottle or jar, looked it over carefully read the label if
there was one, uncovered or uncorked it, smelled it and passed it to
the superintendent, who, when he had made a similar inspection, put it
down at the opposite end of the table.

“Can you tell us what this is?” Miller asked, holding out a bottle
filled with a thickish, nearly black liquid.

“That is caramel,” Madeline replied. “I use it in my cookery classes
and for cooking at home, too.”

The superintendent regarded the bottle a little dubiously but set it
down at the end of the table without comment. Presently he received
from the sergeant a glass jar filled with a brownish powder.

“There is no label on this,” he remarked, exhibiting it to Madeline.

“No,” she replied. “It is turmeric. That also is used in my classes;
and that other is powdered saffron.”

“I wonder you don’t label them,” said Miller. “It would be easy for a
mistake to occur with all these unlabelled bottles.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “they ought to be labelled. But I know what each
of them is, and they are all pretty harmless. Most of them are
materials that are used in cookery demonstrations, but that one that
you have now is French chalk, and the one the sergeant has is
pumice-powder.”

“H’m,” grunted Miller, dipping his finger into the former and rubbing
it on his thumb; “what would happen if you thickened a soup with
French chalk or pumice-powder? Not very good for the digestion, I
should think.”

“No, I suppose not,” Madeline agreed, with the ghost of a smile on her
pale face. “I must label them in future.”

During this colloquy I had been rapidly casting my eye over the
collection that still awaited examination, and my attention had been
almost at once arrested by an empty bottle near the end of the row. It
looked to me like the exact counterpart of the bottle which had been
found in the library; a cylindrical bottle of about the capacity of
half a pint, or rather less, and like the other, labelled in printed
characters “Benzine.”

But mine was not the only eye that had observed it. Presently, I saw
the sergeant pick it up—out of its turn—scrutinize it suspiciously,
hold it up to the light, take out the cork and smell both it and the
bottle, and then, directing the latter, telescope-fashion, towards the
window, inspect the bottom by peering in through the mouth. Finally,
he clapped in the cork with some emphasis, and with a glance full of
meaning handed the bottle to the superintendent.

The latter repeated the procedure in even more detail. When he had
finished, he turned to Madeline with a distinctly inquisitorial air.

“This bottle, Miss Norris,” said he, “is labelled ‘Benzine.’ But it
was not benzine that it contained. Will you kindly smell it and tell
me what you think it did contain. Or perhaps you can say off-hand.”

“I am afraid I can’t,” she replied. “I have no recollection of having
had any benzine and I don’t remember this bottle at all. As it is in
my cupboard I suppose I must have put it there, but I don’t remember
having ever seen it before. I can’t tell you anything about it.”

“Well, will you kindly smell it and tell me what you think it
contained?” the superintendent persisted, handing her the open bottle.
She took it from him apprehensively, and, holding it to her nose, took
a deep sniff; and instantly her already pale face became dead white to
the very lips.

“It smells of lavender,” she said in a faint voice.

“So I thought,” said Miller. “And now, Miss Norris, if you will look
in at the mouth of the bottle against the light you will see a faint
red ring round the bottom. Apparently, the liquid that the bottle
contained was a red liquid. Moreover, if you hold the bottle against
the light and look through the label, you can see the remains of
another label under it. There is only a tiny scrap of it left, but it
is enough for us to see that it was a red label. So it would seem that
the liquid was a poisonous liquid—poisonous enough to require a red
poison label. And then you notice that this red poison label seems to
have been scraped off and the benzine label stuck on over the place
where it had been, although, as the lavender smell and the red stain
clearly show, the bottle never had any benzine in it at all. Now, Miss
Norris, bearing those facts in mind, I ask you if you can tell me what
was in that bottle.”

“I have told you,” Madeline replied with unexpected firmness, “that I
know nothing about this bottle. I have no recollection of ever having
seen it before. I do not believe that it ever belonged to me. It may
have been in the cupboard when I first began to use it. At any rate, I
am not able to tell you anything about it.”

The superintendent continued to look at her keenly, still holding the
bottle. After a few moments’ silence he persisted:

“A red, poisonous liquid which smells of lavender. Can you not form
any idea as to what it was?”

I was about to enter a protest—for the question was really not
admissible—when Madeline, now thoroughly angry and quite
self-possessed, replied, stiffly: “I don’t know what you mean. I have
told you that I know nothing about this bottle. Are you suggesting
that I should try to guess what it contained?”

“No,” he rejoined hastily; “certainly not. A guess wouldn’t help us at
all. If you really do not know anything about the bottle, we must
leave it at that. You always keep this cupboard locked, I suppose?”

“Usually. But I am not very particular about it. There is nothing of
value in the cupboard, as you see, and the servants are quite
trustworthy. I sometimes leave the key in the door, but I don’t
imagine that anybody ever meddles with it.”

The superintendent took the key out of the lock and regarded it
attentively. Then he examined the lock itself, and I also took the
opportunity of inspecting it. Both the lock and the key were of the
simplest kind, just ordinary builder’s fittings, which, so far as any
real security was concerned, could not be taken seriously. In the
absence of the key, a stiff wire or a bent hair-pin would probably
have shot the little bolt quite easily, as I took occasion to remark
to the superintendent, who frankly agreed with me.

The bottle having been carefully wrapped up and deposited in the
sergeant’s hand-bag, the examination was resumed; but nothing further
of an interesting or suspicious character was discovered among the
bottles or jars. Nor did the sorting-out of the miscellaneous contents
of the lower shelves yield anything remarkable with a single
exception. When the objects on the lowest shelf had been all taken
out, a small piece of white paper was seen at the back, and on this
Miller pounced with some eagerness. As he brought it out I could see
that it was a chemist’s powder paper, about six inches square (when
Miller had carefully straightened it out), and the creases which
marked the places where it had been folded showed that it had
contained a mass of about the bulk of a dessert-spoonful. But what
attracted my attention—and the superintendent’s—was the corner of a
red label which adhered to a torn edge in company with a larger
fragment of a white label on which the name or description of the
contents had presumably been written or printed. Miller held it out
towards Madeline, who looked at it with a puzzled frown.

“Do you remember what was in this paper, Miss Norris?” the former
asked.

“I am afraid I don’t,” she replied.

“H’m,” grunted Miller; “I should have thought you would. It seems to
have been a good-sized powder and it had a poison label in addition to
the descriptive label. I should have thought that would have recalled
it to your memory.”

“So should I,” said Madeline. “But I don’t remember having bought any
powder that would be labelled ‘poison.’ It is very odd; and it is odd
that the paper should be there. I don’t usually put waste paper into
my cupboard.”

“Well, there it is,” said Miller; “but if you can’t remember anything
about it, we must see if the analysts can find out what was in it.”
With which he folded it and having put it into an envelope, bestowed
it in his pocket in company with his other treasures.

This was the last of the discoveries. When they had finished their
inspection of Madeline’s room the officers went on to Barbara’s, which
they examined with the same minute care as they had bestowed on the
others, but without bringing anything of interest to light. Then they
inspected the servants’ bedrooms and finally the kitchen and the other
premises appertaining to it, but still without result. It was a
tedious affair and we were all relieved when, at last, it came to an
end. Barbara and I escorted the two detectives to the street door, at
which the superintendent paused to make a few polite acknowledgments.

“I must thank you, Madam,” said he, “for the help you have given us
and for the kind and reasonable spirit in which you have accepted a
disagreeable necessity. I assure you that we do not usually meet with
so much consideration. A search of this kind is always an unpleasant
duty to carry out and it is not made any more pleasant by a hostile
attitude on the part of the persons concerned.”

“I can understand that,” replied Barbara; “but really the thanks are
due from me for the very courteous and considerate way in which you
have discharged what I am sure must be a most disagreeable duty. And
of course, it had to be; and I am glad that it has been done so
thoroughly. I never supposed that you would find what you are seeking
in this house. But it was necessary that the search should be made
here if only to prove that you must look for it somewhere else.”

“Quite so, Madam,” the superintendent returned, a little drily; “and
now I will wish you good afternoon and hope that we shall have no
further occasion to trouble you.”

As I closed the street door and turned back along the hall, the dining
room door—apparently already ajar—opened and Madeline and Wallingford
stepped out; and I could not help reflecting, as I noted their pale,
anxious faces and shaken bearing, how little their appearance
supported the confident, optimistic tone of Barbara’s last remarks.
But, at any rate, they were intensely relieved that the ordeal was
over, and Wallingford even showed signs of returning truculence.
Whatever he was going to say, however, was cut short by Barbara, who,
passing the door and moving towards the staircase, addressed me over
her shoulder.

“Do you mind coming up to my den, Rupert? I want to ask your advice
about one or two things.”

The request seemed a little inopportune; but it was uttered as a
command and I had no choice but to obey. Accordingly, I followed
Barbara up the stairs, leaving the other two in the hall, evidently
rather disconcerted by this sudden retreat. At the turn of the stairs
I looked down on the two pale faces. In Madeline’s I seemed to read a
new apprehensiveness, tinged with suspicion; on Wallingford’s a scowl
of furious anger which I had no patience to seek to interpret.



Chapter VIII

Thorndyke Speaks Bluntly

When I had entered the little sitting room and shut the door, I turned
to Barbara, awaiting with some curiosity what she had to say to me.
But for a while she said nothing, standing before me silently, and
looking at me with a most disquieting expression. All her calm
self-possession had gone. I could read nothing in her face but alarm
and dismay.

“It is dreadful, Rupert!” she exclaimed, at length, in a half-whisper.
“It is like some awful dream! What can it all mean? I don’t dare to
ask myself the question.”

I shook my head, for I was in precisely the same condition. I did not
dare to weigh the meaning of the things that I had seen and heard.

Suddenly, the stony fixity of her face relaxed and with a little,
smothered cry she flung her arm around my neck and buried her face on
my shoulder.

“Forgive me, Rupert, dearest, kindest friend,” she sobbed. “Suffer a
poor lonely woman for a few moments. I have only you, dear, faithful
one; only your strength and steadfastness to lean upon. Before the
others I must needs be calm and brave, must cloak my own fears to
support their flagging courage. But it is hard, Rupert; for they see
what we see and dare not put it into words. And the mystery, Rupert,
the horrible shadow that is over us all! In God’s name, what can it
all mean?”

“That is what I ask myself, Barbara, and dare not answer my own
question.”

She uttered a low moan and clung closer to me, sobbing quietly. I was
deeply moved, for I realized the splendid courage that enabled her to
go about this house of horror, calm and unafraid; to bear the burden
of her companions’ weakness as well as her own grief and humiliation.
But I could find nothing to say to her. I could only offer her a
silent sympathy, holding her head on my shoulder and softly stroking
her hair while I wondered dimly what the end of it all would be.

Presently she stood up, and, taking out her handkerchief, wiped her
eyes resolutely and finally.

“Thank you, dear Rupert,” she said, “for being so patient with me. I
felt that I had come to the end of my endurance and had to rest my
burden on you. It was a great relief. But I didn’t bring you up here
for that. I wanted to consult you about what has to be done. I can’t
look to poor Tony in his present state.”

“What is it that has to be done?” I asked.

“There is the funeral. That has still to take place.”

“Of course it has,” I exclaimed, suddenly taken aback; for amidst all
the turmoils and alarms, I had completely lost sight of this detail.
“I suppose I had better call on the undertaker and make the necessary
arrangements.”

“If you would be so kind, Rupert, and if you can spare the time. You
have given up the whole day to us already.”

“I can manage,” said I. “And as to the time of the funeral. I don’t
know whether it could be arranged for the evening. It gets dark pretty
early.”

“No, Rupert,” she exclaimed, firmly. “Not in the evening. Certainly
not. I will not have poor Harold’s body smuggled away in the dark like
the dishonoured corpse of some wretched suicide. The funeral shall
take place at the proper time, if I go with it alone.”

“Very well, Barbara. I will arrange for us to start at the time
originally fixed. I only suggested the evening because—well, you know
what to expect.”

“Yes, only too well! But I refuse to let a crowd of gaping sight-seers
intimidate me into treating my dead husband with craven disrespect.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said I with secret approval of her decision,
little as I relished the prospect that it opened. “Then I had better
go and make the arrangements at once. It is getting late. But I am
loath to leave you alone with Madeline and Wallingford.”

“I think, perhaps, we shall be better alone for the present, and you
have your own affairs to attend to. But you must have some food before
you go. You have had nothing since the morning, and I expect a meal is
ready by now.”

“I don’t think I will wait, Barbara,” I replied. “This affair ought to
be settled at once. I can get some food when I have dispatched the
business.”

She was reluctant to let me go. But I was suddenly conscious of a
longing to escape from this house into the world of normal things and
people; to be alone for a while with my own thoughts, and, above all,
to take counsel with Thorndyke. On my way out I called in at the
dining room to make my adieux to Madeline and Wallingford. The former
looked at me, as she shook my hand, very wistfully and I thought a
little reproachfully.

“I am sorry you have to go, Rupert,” she said. “But you will try to
come and see us to-morrow, won’t you? And spend as much time here as
you can.”

I promised to come at some time on the morrow; and having exchanged a
few words with Wallingford, took my departure, escorted to the street
door by the two women.

The closing of the door, sounding softly in my ears, conveyed a sense
of relief of which I felt ashamed. I drew a deep breath and stepped
forward briskly with a feeling of emancipation that I condemned as
selfish and disloyal even as I was sensible of its intensity. It was
almost with a sense of exhilaration that I strode along, a normal,
unnoticed wayfarer among ordinary men and women, enveloped by no cloud
of mystery, overhung by no shadow of crime. There was the undertaker,
indeed, who would drag me back into the gruesome environment, but I
would soon have finished with him, and then, for a time, at least, I
should be free.

I finished with him, in fact, sooner than I had expected, for he had
already arranged the procedure of the postponed funeral and required
only my assent; and when I had given this, I went my way breathing
more freely but increasingly conscious of the need for food.

Yet, after all, my escape was only from physical contact. Try as I
would to forget for a while the terrible events of this day of wrath,
the fresh memories of them came creeping back in the midst of those
other thoughts which I had generated by a deliberate effort. They
haunted me as I walked swiftly through the streets, they made
themselves heard above the rumble of the train, and even as I sat in a
tavern in Devereux Court, devouring with ravenous appreciation a
well-grilled chop, accompanied by a pint of claret, black care stood
behind the old-fashioned, high-backed settle, an unseen companion of
the friendly waiter.

The lighted windows of Thorndyke’s chambers were to my eyes as the
harbour lights to the eyes of a storm-beaten mariner. As I emerged
from Fig Tree Court and came in sight of them, I had already the
feeling that the burden of mystery and vague suspicion was lightened;
and I strode across King’s Bench Walk with the hopeful anticipation of
one who looks to shift his fardel on to more capable shoulders.

The door was opened by Thorndyke, himself; and the sheaf of papers in
his hand suggested that he was expecting me.

“Are those the depositions?” I asked as we shook hands.

“Yes,” he replied. “I have just been reading through them and making
an abstract. Holman has left the duplicate at your chambers.”

“I suppose the medical evidence represents the ‘complications’ that
you hinted at? You expected something of the kind?”

“Yes. An inquest in the face of a regular death certificate suggested
some pretty definite information; and then your own account of the
illness told one what to expect.”

“And yet,” said I, “neither of the doctors suspected anything while
the man was alive.”

“No; but that is not very remarkable. I had the advantage over them of
knowing that a death certificate had been challenged. It is always
easier to be wise after than before the event.”

“And now that you have read the depositions, what do you think of the
case? Do you think, for instance, that the verdict was justified?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied. “What other verdict was possible on the
evidence that was before the court? The medical witness swore that
deceased died from the effects of arsenic poisoning. That is an
inference, it is true. The facts are that the man died and that a
poisonous quantity of arsenic was found in the body. But it is the
only reasonable inference and we cannot doubt that it is the true one.
Then again as to the question of murder as against accident or
suicide, it is one of probabilities. But the probabilities are so
overwhelmingly in favour of murder that no others are worth
considering. No, Mayfield, on the evidence before us, we have to
accept the verdict as expressing the obvious truth.”

“You think it impossible that there can be any error or fallacy in the
case?”

“I don’t say that,” he replied. “I am referring exclusively to the
evidence which is set forth in these depositions. That is all the
evidence that we possess. Apart from the depositions we have no
knowledge of the case at all; at least I have none, and I don’t
suppose you have any.”

“I have not. But I understand that you think it at least conceivable
that there may be, after all, some fallacy in the evidence of wilful
murder?”

“A fallacy,” he replied, “is always conceivable. As you know,
Mayfield, complete certainty, in the most rigorous sense, is hardly
ever attainable in legal practice. But we must be reasonable. The law
has to be administered; and if certainty, in the most extreme,
academic sense, is unattainable, we must be guided in our action by
the highest degree of probability that is within our reach.”

“Yes, I realize that. But still you admit that a fallacy is
conceivable. Can you, just for the sake of illustration, suggest any
such possibility in the evidence that you have read?”

“Well,” he replied, “as a matter of purely academic interest, there is
the point that I mentioned just now. The body of this man contained a
lethal quantity of arsenic. With that quantity of poison in his body,
the man died. The obvious inference is that those two facts were
connected as cause and effect. But it is not absolutely certain that
they were. It is conceivable that the man may have died from some
natural cause overlooked by the pathologist—who was already aware of
the presence of arsenic, from Detling’s information; or again it is
conceivable that the man may have been murdered in some other way—even
by the administration of some other, more rapidly acting poison, which
was never found because it was never looked for. These are undeniable
possibilities. But I doubt if any reasonable person would entertain
them, seeing that they are mere conjectures unsupported by any sort of
evidence. And you notice that the second possibility leaves the
verdict of wilful murder unaffected.”

“Yes, but it might transfer the effects of that verdict to the wrong
person.”

“True,” he rejoined with a smile. “It might transfer them from a
poisoner who had committed a murder to another poisoner who had only
attempted to commit one; and the irony of the position would be that
the latter would actually believe himself to be the murderer. But as I
said, this is mere academic talk. The coroner’s verdict is the reality
with which we have to deal.”

“I am not so sure of that, Thorndyke,” said I, inspired with a sudden
hope by his “illustration.” “You admit that fallacies are possible and
you are able to suggest two off-hand. You insist, very properly, that
our opinions at present must be based exclusively on the evidence
given at the inquest. But, as I listened to that evidence, I had the
feeling—and I have it still—that it did not give a credible
explanation of the facts that were proved. I had—and have—the feeling
that careful and competent investigation might bring to light some
entirely new evidence.”

“It is quite possible,” he admitted, rather drily.

“Well, then,” I pursued, “I should wish some such investigation to be
made. I can recall a number of cases in which the available evidence,
as in the present case, appeared to point to a certain definite
conclusion, but in which investigations undertaken by you brought out
a body of new evidence pointing in a totally different direction.
There was the Hornby case, the case of Blackmore, deceased, the
Bellingham case and a number of others in which the result of your
investigations was to upset completely a well-established case against
some suspected individual.”

He nodded, but made no comment, and I concluded with the question:

“Well, why should not a similar result follow in the present case?”

He reflected for a few moments and then asked:

“What is it that is in your mind, Mayfield? What, exactly do you
propose?”

“I am proposing that you should allow me to retain you on my own
behalf and that of other interested parties to go thoroughly into this
case.”

“With what object?”

“With the object of bringing to light the real facts connected with
the death of Harold Monkhouse.”

“Are you authorized by any of the interested parties to make this
proposal?”

“No; and perhaps I had better leave them out and make the proposal on
my own account only.”

He did not reply immediately but sat looking at me steadily with a
rather inscrutable expression which I found a little disturbing. At
length he spoke, with unusual deliberation and emphasis.

“Are you sure, Mayfield, that you want the real facts brought to
light?”

I stared at him, startled and a good deal taken aback by his question,
and especially by the tone in which it was put.

“But, surely,” I stammered, in reply. “Why not?”

“Don’t be hasty, Mayfield,” said he. “Reflect calmly and impartially
before you commit yourself to any course of action of which you cannot
foresee the consequences. Perhaps I can help you. Shall we, without
prejudice and without personal bias, take a survey of the _status quo_
and try to see exactly where we stand?”

“By all means,” I replied, a little uncomfortably.

“Well,” he said, “the position is this. A man has died in a certain
house, to which he has been confined as an invalid for some
considerable time. The cause of his death is stated to be poisoning by
arsenic. That statement is made by a competent medical witness who has
had the fullest opportunity to ascertain the facts. He makes the
statement with complete confidence that it is a true statement, and
his opinion is supported by those of two other competent professional
witnesses. It is an established fact, which cannot be contested, that
the body of deceased contained sufficient arsenic to cause his death.
So far as we can see, there is not the slightest reason to doubt that
the man died from arsenical poisoning.

“When we come to the question, ‘How did the arsenic find its way into
the man’s body?’ there appears to be only one possible answer. Suicide
and accident are clearly excluded. The evidence makes it practically
certain that the poison was administered to him by some person or
persons with the intent to compass his death; and the circumstances in
which the poisoning occurred make it virtually certain that the
arsenic was administered to this man by some person or persons
customarily and intimately in contact with him.

“The evidence shows that there were eight persons who would answer
this description; and we have no knowledge of the existence of any
others. Those persons are: Barbara Monkhouse, Madeline Norris, Anthony
Wallingford, the housemaid, Mabel Withers, the cook, the kitchen-maid,
Dr. Dimsdale and Rupert Mayfield. Of these eight persons the police
will assume that one, or more, administered the poison; and, so far as
we can see, the police are probably right.”

I was rather staggered by his bluntness. But I had asked for his
opinion and I had got it. After a brief pause, I said:

“We are still, of course, dealing with the depositions. On those, as
you say, a presumption of guilt lies against these eight persons
collectively. That doesn’t carry us very far in a legal sense. You
can’t indict eight persons as having among them the guilty party. Do
you take it that the presumption of guilt lies more heavily on some of
these persons than on others?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied. “I enumerated them merely as the body of
persons who fulfilled the necessary conditions as to opportunity and
among whom the police will—reasonably—look for the guilty person. In a
sense, they are all suspect until the guilt is fixed on a particular
person. They all had, technically, a motive, since they all benefited
by the death of deceased. Actually, none of them has been shown to
have any motive at all in an ordinary and reasonable sense. But for
practical purposes, several of them can almost be put outside the area
of suspicion; the kitchen-maid, for instance, and Dr. Dimsdale and
yourself.”

“And Mrs. Monkhouse,” I interposed, “seeing that she appears to have
been absent and far away on each occasion when the poison seems to
have been administered.”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “In fact, her absence would seem to exclude
her from the group of possible suspects. But apart from its bearing on
herself, her absence from home on these occasions has a rather
important bearing on some of the others.”

“Indeed!” said I, trying rapidly to judge what that bearing might be.

“Yes, it is this: the fact that the poisoning occurred—as it
appears—only when Mrs. Monkhouse was away from home, suggests not only
that the poisoner was fully cognizant of her movements, which all the
household would be, but that her presence at home would have hindered
that poisoner from administering the poison. Now, the different
persons in the house would be differently affected by her presence. We
need not pursue the matter any further just now, but you must see that
the hindrance to the poisoning caused by Mrs. Monkhouse’s presence
would be determined by the nature of the relations between Mrs.
Monkhouse and the poisoner.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“And you see that this circumstance tends to confirm the belief that
the crime was committed by a member of the household?”

“I suppose it does,” I admitted, grudgingly.

“It does, certainly,” said Thorndyke; “and that being so, I ask you
again: do you think it expedient that you should meddle with this
case? If you do, you will be taking a heavy responsibility; for I must
remind you that you are not proposing to employ me as a counsel, but
as an investigator who may become a witness. Now, when I plead in
court, I act like any other counsel; I plead my client’s case frankly
as an advocate, knowing that the judge is there to watch over the
interests of justice. But as an investigator or witness I am concerned
only with the truth. I never give ex parte evidence. If I investigate
a crime and discover the criminal, I denounce him, even though he is
my employer; for otherwise I should become an accessory. Whoever
employs me as an investigator of crime does so at his own risk.

“Bear this in mind, Mayfield, before you go any further in this
matter. I don’t know what your relations are to these people, but I
gather that they are your friends; and I want you to consider very
seriously whether you are prepared to risk the possible consequences
of employing me. It is actually possible that one or more of these
persons may be indicted for the murder of Harold Monkhouse. That
would, in any case, be extremely painful for you. But if it happened
through the action of the police, you would be, after all, but a
passive spectator of the catastrophe. Very different would be the
position if it were your own hand that had let the axe fall. Are you
prepared to face the risk of such a possibility?”

I must confess that I was daunted by Thorndyke’s blunt statement of
the position. There was no doubt as to the view that he took of the
case. He made no secret of it. And he clearly gauged my own state of
mind correctly. He saw that it was not the crime that was concerning
me; that I was not seeking justice against the murderer but that I was
looking to secure the safety of my friends.

I turned the question over rapidly in my mind. The contingency that
Thorndyke had suggested was horrible. I could not face such a risk.
Rather, by far, would I have had the murderer remain unpunished than
be, myself, the agent of vengeance on any of these suspects. Hideous
as the crime was, I could not bring myself to accept the office of
executioner if one of my own friends was to be the victim.

I had almost decided to abandon the project and leave the result to
Fate or the police. But then came a sudden revulsion. From the grounds
of suspicion my thoughts flew to the persons suspected; to gentle,
sympathetic Madeline, so mindful of the dead man’s comfort, so
solicitous about his needs, so eager to render him the little services
that mean so much to a sick man. Could I conceive of her as hiding
under this appearance of tender sympathy the purposes of a cruel and
callous murderess? The thing was absurd. My heart rejected it utterly.
Nor could I entertain for a moment such a thought of the kindly,
attentive housemaid; and even Wallingford, much as I disliked him, was
obviously outside the area of possible suspicion. An intolerable
coxcomb he certainly was; but a murderer—never!

“I will take the risk, Thorndyke,” said I.

He looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows, and I continued:

“I know these people pretty intimately and I find it impossible to
entertain the idea that any of them could have committed this callous,
deliberate crime. At the moment, I realize circumstances seem to
involve them in suspicion; but I am certain that there is some
fallacy—that there are some facts which did not transpire at the
inquest but which might be brought to the surface if you took the case
in hand.”

“Why not let the police disinter those facts?”

“Because the police evidently suspect the members of the household and
they will certainly pursue the obvious probabilities.”

“So should I, for that matter,” said he; “and in any case, we can’t
prevent the police from bringing a charge if they are satisfied that
they can support it. And your own experience will tell you that they
will certainly not take a case into the Central Criminal Court unless
they have enough evidence to make a conviction a virtual certainty.
But I remind you, Mayfield, that they have got it all to do. There is
grave suspicion in respect of a number of persons, but there is not,
at present, a particle of positive evidence against any one person. It
looks to me as if it might turn out to be a very elusive case.”

“Precisely,” said I. “That is why I am anxious that the actual
perpetrator should be discovered. Until he is, all these people will
be under suspicion, with the peril of a possible arrest constantly
hanging over them. I might even say, ‘hanging over us’; for you,
yourself, have included me in the group of possible suspects.”

He reflected for a few moments. At length he replied:

“You are quite right, Mayfield. Until the perpetrator of a crime is
discovered and his guilt established, it is always possible for
suspicion to rest upon the innocent and even for a miscarriage of
justice to occur. In all cases it is most desirable that the crime
should be brought home to the actual perpetrator without delay for
that reason, to say nothing of the importance, on grounds of public
policy, of exposing and punishing wrong-doers. You know these people
and I do not. If you are sufficiently confident of their innocence to
take the risk of associating yourself with the agencies of detection,
I have no more to say on that point. I am quite willing to go into the
case so far as I can, though, at present, I see no prospect of
success.”

“It seems to you a difficult case, then?”

“Very. It is extraordinarily obscure and confused. Whoever poisoned
that unfortunate man, seems to have managed most skilfully to confuse
all the issues. Whatever may have been the medium through which the
poison was given, that medium is associated equally with a number of
different persons. If the medicine was the vehicle, then the
responsibility is divided between Dimsdale, who prepared it, and the
various persons who administered it. If the poison was mixed with the
food, it may have been introduced by any of the persons who prepared
it or had access to it on its passage from the kitchen to the
patient’s bedroom. There is no one person of whom we can say that he
or she had any special opportunity that others had not. And it is the
same with the motive. No one had any really, adequate motive for
killing Monkhouse; but all the possible suspects benefited by his
death, though they were apparently not aware of it.”

“They all knew, in general terms, that they had been mentioned in the
will though the actual provisions and amounts were not disclosed. But
I should hardly describe Mrs. Monkhouse as benefiting by her husband’s
death. She will not be as well off now as she was when he was alive
and the whole of his income was available.”

“No. But we were not including her in the group since she was not in
the house when the poison was being administered. We were speaking of
those who actually had the opportunity to administer the poison; and
we see that the opportunity was approximately equal in all. And you
see, Mayfield, the trouble is that any evidence incriminating any one
person would be in events which are past and beyond recall. The
depositions contain all that we know and all that we are likely to
know, unless the police are able to ascertain that some one of the
parties has purchased arsenic from a chemist; which is extremely
unlikely considering the caution and judgment that the poisoner has
shown. The truth is that, if no new evidence is forthcoming, the
murder of Harold Monkhouse will take its place among the unsolved and
insoluble mysteries.”

“Then, I take it that you will endeavour to find some new evidence?
But I don’t see, at all, how you will go about it.”

“Nor do I,” said he. “There seems to be nothing to investigate.
However, I shall study the depositions and see if a careful
consideration of the evidence offers any suggestion for a new line of
research. And as the whole case now lies in the past, I shall try to
learn as much as possible about everything and everybody concerned.
Perhaps I had better begin with you. I don’t quite understand what
your position is in this household.”

“I will tell you with pleasure all about my relations with the
Monkhouses, but it is a rather long story, and I don’t see that it
will help you in any way.”

“Now, Mayfield,” said Thorndyke, “don’t begin by considering what
knowledge may or may not be helpful. We don’t know. The most trivial
or seemingly irrelevant fact may offer a most illuminating suggestion.
My rule is, when I am gravelled for lack of evidence, to collect,
indiscriminately, all the information that I can obtain that is in the
remotest way connected with the problem that I am dealing with. Bear
that in mind. I want to know all that you can tell me, and don’t be
afraid of irrelevant details. They may not be irrelevant, after all;
and if they are, I can sift them out afterwards. Now, begin at the
beginning and tell me the whole of the long story.”

He provided himself with a note-book, uncapped his fountain pen and
prepared himself to listen to what I felt to be a perfectly useless
recital of facts that could have no possible bearing on the case.

“I will take you at your word,” said I, “and begin at the very
beginning, when I was quite a small boy. At that time, my father, who
was a widower, lived at Highgate and kept the chambers in the Temple
which I now occupy. A few doors away from us lived a certain Mr.
Keene, an old friend of my father’s—his only really intimate friend,
in fact—and, of course, I used to see a good deal of him. Mr. Keene,
who was getting on in years, had married a very charming woman,
considerably younger than himself, and at this time there was one
child, a little girl about two years old. Unfortunately, Mrs. Keene
was very delicate, and soon after the child’s birth she developed
symptoms of consumption. Once started, the disease progressed rapidly
in spite of the most careful treatment, and in about two years from
the outset of the symptoms, she died.

“Her death was a great grief to Mr. Keene, and indeed, to us all, for
she was a most lovable woman; and the poor little motherless child
made the strongest appeal to our sympathies. She was the loveliest
little creature imaginable and as sweet and winning in nature as she
was charming in appearance. On her mother’s death, I adopted her as my
little sister, and devoted myself to her service. In fact, I became
her slave; but a very willing slave; for she was so quick and
intelligent, so affectionate and so amiable that, in spite of the
difference in our ages—some eight or nine years—I found her a
perfectly satisfying companion. She entered quite competently into all
my boyish sports and amusements, so that our companionship really
involved very little sacrifice on my part but rather was a source of
constant pleasure.

“But her motherless condition caused Mr. Keene a good deal of anxiety.
As I have said, he was getting on in life and was by no means a strong
man, and he viewed with some alarm the, not very remote, possibility
of her becoming an orphan with no suitable guardian, for my father was
now an elderly man, and I was, as yet, too young to undertake the
charge. Eventually, he decided, for the child’s sake, to marry again;
and about two years after his first wife’s death he proposed to and
was accepted by a lady named Ainsworth whom he had known for many
years, who had been left a widow with one child, a girl some two years
younger than myself.

“Naturally, I viewed the advent of the new Mrs. Keene with some
jealousy. But there was no occasion. She was a good, kindly woman who
showed from the first that she meant to do her duty by her little
step-daughter. And her own child, Barbara, equally disarmed our
jealousy. A quiet, rather reserved little girl, but very clever and
quick-witted, she not only accepted me at once with the frankest
friendliness but, with a curious tactfulness for such a young girl,
devoted herself to my little friend, Stella Keene, without in the
least attempting to oust me from my position. In effect, we three
young people became a most united and harmonious little coterie in
which our respective positions were duly recognized. I was the head of
the firm, so to speak, Stella was my adopted sister, and Barbara was
the ally of us both.

“So our relations continued as the years passed; but presently the
passing years began to take toll of our seniors. My father was the
first to go. Then followed Mr. Keene, and after a few more years,
Barbara’s mother. By the time my twenty-fifth birthday came round, we
were all orphans.”

“What were your respective ages then?” Thorndyke asked.

Rather surprised at the question, I paused to make a calculation.

“My own age,” I replied, “was, as I have said, twenty-five. Barbara
would then be twenty-two and Stella sixteen.”

Thorndyke made a note of my answer and I proceeded:

“The death of our elders made no appreciable difference in our way of
living. My father had left me a modest competence and the two girls
were fairly provided for. The houses that we occupied were beyond our
needs, reduced as we were in numbers and we discussed the question of
sharing a house. But, of course, the girls were not really my sisters
and the scheme was eventually rejected as rather too unconventional;
so we continued to live in our respective houses.”

“Was there any trustee for the girls?” Thorndyke asked.

“Yes, Mr. Brodribb. The bulk of the property was, I believe, vested in
Stella, but, for reasons which I shall come to in a moment, there was
a provision that, in the event of her death, it should revert to
Barbara.”

“On account, I presume, of the tendency to consumption?”

“Exactly. For some time before Mr. Keene’s death there had been signs
that Stella inherited her mother’s delicacy of health. Hence the
provisions for Barbara. But no definite manifestations of disease
appeared until Stella was about eighteen. Then she developed a cough
and began to lose weight; but, for a couple of years the disease made
no very marked progress, in fact, there were times when she seemed to
be in a fair way to recovery. Then, rather suddenly, her health took a
turn for the worse. Soon she became almost completely bed-ridden. She
wasted rapidly, and, in fact, was now the typical consumptive, hectic,
emaciated, but always bright, cheerful and full of plans for the
future and enthusiasm for the little hobbies that I devised to keep
her amused.

“But all the time, she was going down the hill steadily, although, as
I have said, there were remissions and fluctuations; and, in short,
after about a year’s definite illness, she went the way of her mother.
Her death was immediately caused, I understand, by an attack of
hemorrhage.”

“You understand?” Thorndyke repeated, interrogatively.

“Yes. To my lasting grief, I was away from home when she died. I had
been recently called to the bar and was offered a brief for the
Chelmsford Assizes, which I felt I ought not to refuse, especially as
Stella seemed, just then, to be better than usual. What made it worse
was that the telegram which was sent to recall me went astray. I had
moved on to Ipswich and had only just written to give my new address,
so that I did not get home until just before the funeral. It was a
fearful shock, for no one had the least suspicion that the end was so
near. If I had supposed that there was the slightest immediate danger,
nothing on earth would have induced me to go away from home.”

Thorndyke had listened to my story not only with close attention but
with an expression of sympathy which I noted gratefully and perhaps
with a little surprise. But he was a strange man; as impersonal as
Fate when he was occupied in actual research and yet showing at times
unexpected gleams of warm human feeling and the most sympathetic
understanding. He now preserved a thoughtful silence for some time
after I had finished. Presently he said:

“I suppose this poor girl’s death caused a considerable change in your
way of living?”

“Yes, indeed! Its effects were devastating both on Barbara and me.
Neither of us felt that we could go on with the old ways of life.
Barbara let her house and went into rooms in London, where I used to
visit her as often as I could; and I sold my house, furniture and all
and took up residence in the Temple. But even that I could not endure
for long. Stella’s death had broken me up completely. Right on from my
boyhood, she had been the very hub of my life. All my thoughts and
interests had revolved around her. She had been to me friend and
sister in one. Now that she was gone, the world seemed to be a great,
chilly void, haunted everywhere by memories of her. She had pervaded
my whole life, and everything about me was constantly reminding me of
her. At last I found that I could bear it no longer. The familiar
things and places became intolerable to my eyes. I did not want to
forget her; on the contrary, I loved to cherish her memory. But it was
harrowing to have my loss thrust upon me at every turn. I yearned for
new surroundings in which I could begin a new life; and in the end, I
decided to go to Canada and settle down there to practise at the Bar.

“My decision came as a fearful blow to Barbara, and indeed, I felt not
a little ashamed of my disloyalty to her; for she, too, had been like
a sister to me and, next to Stella, had been my dearest friend. But it
could not be helped. An intolerable unrest had possession of me. I
felt that I must go; and go I did, leaving poor Barbara to console her
loneliness with her political friends.

“I stayed in Canada nearly two years and meant to stay there for good.
Then, one day, I got a letter from Barbara telling me that she was
married. The news rather surprised me, for I had taken Barbara for an
inveterate spinster with a tendency to avoid male friends other than
myself. But the news had another, rather curious effect. It set my
thoughts rambling amidst the old surroundings. And now I found that
they repelled me no longer; that, on the contrary, they aroused a
certain feeling of home-sickness, a yearning for the fuller, richer
life of London and a sight of the English countryside. In not much
more than a month, I had wound up my Canadian affairs and was back in
my old chambers in the Temple, which I had never given up, ready to
start practice afresh.”

“That,” said Thorndyke, “would be a little less than three years ago.
Now we come to your relations with the Monkhouse establishment.”

“Yes; and I drifted into them almost at once. Barbara received me with
open arms, and of course, Monkhouse knew all about me and accepted me
as an old friend. Very soon I found myself, in a way, a member of the
household. A bedroom was set apart for my use, whenever I cared to
occupy it, and I came and went as if I were one of the family. I was
appointed a trustee, with Brodribb, and dropped into the position of
general family counsellor.”

“And what were your relations with Monkhouse?”

“We were never very intimate. I liked the man and I think he liked me.
But he was not very approachable; a self-contained, aloof,
undemonstrative man, and an inveterate book-worm. But he was a good
man and I respected him profoundly, though I could never understand
why Barbara married him, or why he married Barbara. I couldn’t imagine
him in love. On the other hand I cannot conceive any motive that any
one could have had for doing him any harm. He seemed to me to be
universally liked in a rather lukewarm fashion.”

“It is of no use, I suppose,” said Thorndyke, “to ask you if these
reminiscences have brought anything to your mind that would throw any
light on the means, the motive or the person connected with the
crime?”

“No,” I answered; “nor can I imagine that they will bring anything to
yours. In fact, I am astonished that you have let me go on so long
dribbling out all these trivial and irrelevant details. Your patience
is monumental.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “Your story has interested me deeply. It
enables me to visualize very clearly at least a part of the setting of
this crime, and it has introduced me to the personalities of some of
the principal actors, including yourself. The details are not in the
least trivial; and whether they are or are not irrelevant we cannot
judge. Perhaps, when we have solved the mystery—if ever we do—we may
find connections between events that had seemed to be totally
unrelated.”

“It is, I suppose, conceivable as a mere, speculative possibility. But
what I have been telling you is mainly concerned with my own rather
remote past, which can hardly have any possible bearing on
comparatively recent events.”

“That is perfectly true,” Thorndyke agreed. “Your little autobiography
has made perfectly clear your own relation to these people, but it has
left most of them—and those in whom I am most interested—outside the
picture. I was just wondering whether it would be possible for you to
amplify your sketch of the course of events after Barbara’s marriage—I
am, like you, using the Christian name, for convenience. What I really
want is an account of the happenings in that household during the last
three years, and especially during the last year. Do you think that,
if you were to turn out the garrets of your memory, you could draw up
a history of the house in Hilborough Square and its inmates from the
time when you first made its acquaintance? Have you any sort of notes
that would help you?”

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “Of course I have. There is my diary.”

“Oh,” said Thorndyke, with obviously awakened interest. “You keep a
diary. What sort of diary is it? Just brief jottings, or a full
record?”

“It is a pretty full diary. I began it more than twenty years ago as a
sort of schoolboy hobby. But it turned out so useful and entertaining
to refer to that I encouraged myself to persevere. Now, I am a
confirmed diarist; and I write down not only facts and events, but
also comments, which may be quite illuminating to study by the light
of what has happened. I will read over the last three years and make
an abstract of everything that has happened in that household. And I
hope the reading of that abstract will entertain you; for I can’t
believe that it will help you to unravel the mystery of Harold
Monkhouse’s death.”

“Well,” Thorndyke replied, as I rose to take my leave, “don’t let your
scepticism influence you. Keep in your mind the actual position. In
that house a man was poisoned, and almost certainly feloniously
poisoned. He must have been poisoned either by some one who was an
inmate of that house or by some one who had some sort of access to the
dead man from without. It is conceivable that the entries in your
diary may bring one or other such person into view. Keep that
possibility constantly before you; and fill your abstract with
irrelevancies rather than risk omitting anything from which we could
gather even the most shadowy hint.”



Chapter IX

Superintendent Miller is Puzzled

On arriving at my chambers after my conference with Thorndyke I found
awaiting me a letter from a Maidstone solicitor offering me a brief
for a case of some importance that was to be tried at the forthcoming
assizes. At first, I read it almost impatiently, so preoccupied was my
mind with the tragedy in which I was involved. It seemed inopportune,
almost impertinent. But, in fact it was most opportune, as I presently
realized, in that it recalled me to the realities of normal life. My
duties to my friends I did, indeed, take very seriously. But I was not
an idle man. I had my way to make in my profession and could not
afford to drop out of the race, to sacrifice my ambitions entirely,
even on the altar of friendship.

I sat down and glanced through the instructions. It was a case of
alleged fraud, an intricate case which interested me at once and in
which I thought I could do myself credit; which was also the opinion
of the solicitor, who was evidently anxious for me to undertake it.
Eventually, I decided to accept the brief, and having written a letter
to that effect, I set myself to spend the remainder of the evening in
studying the instructions and mastering the rather involved details.
For time was short, since the case was down for hearing in a couple of
days’ time and the morrow would be taken up by my engagements at
Hilborough Square.

I pass over the incidents of the funeral. It was a dismal and
unpleasant affair, lacking all the dignity and pathos that relieve the
dreariness of an ordinary funeral. None of us could forget, as we sat
back in the mourning coach as far out of sight as possible, that the
corpse in the hearse ahead was the corpse of a murdered man, and that
most of the bystanders knew it. Even in the chapel, the majestic
service was marred and almost vulgarized by the self-consciousness of
the mourners and at the grave-side we found one another peering
furtively around for signs of recognition. To all of us it was a
profound relief, when we were once more gathered together in the
drawing room, to hear the street door close finally and the mourning
carriage rumble away down the square.

I took an early opportunity of mentioning the brief and I could see
that to both the women the prospect of my departure came as a
disagreeable surprise.

“How soon will you have to leave us?” Madeline asked, anxiously.

“I must start for Maidstone to-morrow morning,” I replied.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “How empty the place will seem and how lost
we shall be without you to advise us.”

“I hope,” said I, “that the occasions for advice are past, and I shall
not be so very far away, if you should want to consult me.”

“No,” said Barbara, “and I suppose you will not be away for very long.
Shall you come back when your case is finished or shall you stay for
the rest of the assizes?”

“I shall probably have some other briefs offered, which will detain me
until the assizes are over. My solicitor hinted at some other cases,
and of course there is the usual casual work that turns up on
circuit.”

“Well,” she rejoined, “we can only wish you good luck and plenty of
work, though we shall be glad when it is time for you to come back;
and we must be thankful that you were here to help us through the
worst of our troubles.”

The general tenor of this conversation, which took place at the lunch
table, was not, apparently, to Wallingford’s taste; for he sat glumly
consuming his food and rather ostentatiously abstaining from taking
any part in the discussion. Nor was I surprised; for the obvious way
in which both women leant on me was a reproach to his capacity, which
ought to have made my advice and guidance unnecessary. But though I
sympathized in a way with his displeasure, it nevertheless made me a
little uneasy. For there was another matter that I wanted to broach;
one in which he might consider himself concerned; namely, my
commission to Thorndyke. I had, indeed, debated with myself whether I
should not be wiser to keep my own counsel on the subject; but I had
decided that they were all interested parties and that it would seem
unfriendly and uncandid to keep them in the dark. But, for obvious
reasons, I did not propose to acquaint them with Thorndyke’s views on
the case.

The announcement, when I made it, was received without enthusiasm, and
Wallingford, as I had feared, was inclined to be resentful.

“Don’t you think, Mayfield,” said he, “that you ought to have
consulted the rest of us before putting this private inquiry agent, or
whatever he is, on the case?”

“Perhaps I ought,” I admitted. “But it is important to us all that the
mystery should be cleared up.”

“That is quite true,” said Barbara, “and for my part, I shall never
rest until the wretch who made away with poor Harold is dragged out
into the light of day—that is, if there is really such a person; I
mean, if Harold’s death was not, after all, the result of some ghastly
accident. But is it wise for us to meddle? The police have the case in
hand. Surely, with all their experience and their machinery of
detection, they are more likely to be successful than a private
individual, no matter how clever he may be.”

“That,” I replied, “is, in fact, Dr. Thorndyke’s own view. He wished
to leave the inquiry to the police; and I may say that he will not
come into the case unless it should turn out that the police are
unable to solve the mystery.”

“In which case,” said Wallingford, “it is extremely unlikely that an
outsider, without their special opportunities, will be able to solve
it. And if he should happen to find a mare’s nest, we shall share the
glory and the publicity of his discovery.”

“I don’t think,” said I, “that you need have any anxiety on that
score. Dr. Thorndyke is not at all addicted to finding mare’s nests
and still less to publicity. If he makes any discovery he will
probably keep it to himself until he has the whole case cut and dried.
Then he will communicate the facts to the police; and the first news
we shall have on the subject will be the announcement that an arrest
has been made. And when the police make an arrest on Thorndyke’s
information, you can take it that a conviction will follow
inevitably.”

“I don’t think I quite understand Dr. Thorndyke’s position,” said
Madeline. “What is he? You seem to refer to him as a sort of superior
private detective.”

“Thorndyke,” I replied, “is a unique figure in the legal world. He is
a barrister and a doctor of medicine. In the one capacity he is
probably the greatest criminal lawyer of our time. In the other he is,
among other things, the leading authority on poisons and on crimes
connected with them; and so far as I know, he has never made a
mistake.”

“He must be a very remarkable man,” Wallingford remarked, drily.

“He is,” I replied; and in justification of my statement, I gave a
sketch of one or two of the cases in which Thorndyke had cleared up
what had seemed to be a completely and helplessly insoluble mystery.
They all listened with keen interest and were evidently so far
impressed that any doubts as to Thorndyke’s capacity were set at rest.
But yet I was conscious, in all three, of a certain distrust and
uneasiness. The truth was, as it seemed to me, that none of them had
yet recovered from the ordeal of the inquest. In their secret hearts,
what they all wanted—even Barbara, as I suspected—was to bury the
whole dreadful episode in oblivion. And seeing this, I had not the
courage to remind them of their—of our position as the actual
suspected parties whose innocence it was Thorndyke’s function to make
clear.

In view of my impending departure from London, I stayed until the
evening was well advanced, though sensible of a certain impatience to
be gone; and when, at length, I took my leave and set forth homeward,
I was conscious of the same sense of relief that I had felt on the
previous day. Now, for a time, I could dismiss this horror from my
mind and let my thoughts occupy themselves with the activities that
awaited me at Maidstone; which they did so effectually that by the
time I reached my chambers, I felt that I had my case at my fingers’
ends.

I had just set to work making my preparations for the morrow when my
glance happened to light on the glazed bookcase in which the long
series of my diaries was kept; and then I suddenly bethought me of the
abstract which I had promised to make for Thorndyke. There would be no
time for that now; and yet, since he had seemed to attach some
importance to it, I could not leave my promise unfulfilled. The only
thing to be done was to let him have the diary, itself. I was a little
reluctant to do this for I had never yet allowed any one to read it.
But there seemed to be no alternative; and, after all, Thorndyke was a
responsible person; and if the diary did contain a certain amount of
confidential matter, there was nothing in it that was really secret or
that I need object to any one reading. Accordingly, I took out the
current volume, and, dropping it into my pocket, made my way round to
King’s Bench Walk.

My knock at the door was answered by Thorndyke, himself, and as I
entered the room, I was a little disconcerted at finding a large man
seated in an easy chair by the fire with his back to me; and still
more so when, on hearing me enter, he rose and turned to confront me.
For the stranger was none other than Mr. Superintendent Miller.

His gratification at the meeting seemed to be no greater than mine,
though he greeted me quite courteously and even cordially. I had the
uncomfortable feeling that I had broken in on a conference and began
to make polite preparations for a strategic retreat. But Thorndyke
would have none of it.

“Not at all, Mayfield,” said he. “The superintendent is here on the
same business as you are, and when I tell him that you have
commissioned me to investigate this case, he will realize that we are
colleagues.”

I am not sure that the superintendent realized this so very vividly,
but it was evident that Thorndyke’s information interested him.
Nevertheless he waited for me and Thorndyke to make the opening moves
and only relaxed his caution by slow degrees.

“We were remarking when you came in,” he said, at length, “what a
curiously baffling case this is, and how very disappointing. At first
it looked all plain sailing. There was the lady who used to prepare
the special diet for the unfortunate man and actually take it up to
him and watch him eat it. It seemed as if we had her in the hollow of
our hand. And then she slipped out. The arsenic that was found in the
stomach seemed to connect the death with the food; but then there was
that confounded bottle of medicine that seemed to put the food outside
the case. And when we came to reckon up the evidence furnished by the
medicine, it proved nothing. Somebody put the poison in. All of them
had the opportunity, more or less, and all about equally. Nothing
pointed to one more than another. And that is how it is all through.
There is any amount of suspicion; but the suspicion falls on a group
of people, not on any one in particular.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “the issues are most strangely confused.”

“Extraordinarily,” said Miller. “This queer confusion runs all through
the case. You are constantly thinking that you have got the solution,
and just as you are perfectly sure, it slips through your fingers.
There are lots of clues—fine ones; but as soon as you follow one up it
breaks off in the middle and leaves you gaping. You saw what happened
at the search, Mr. Mayfield.”

“I saw the beginning—the actual search; but I don’t know what came of
it.”

“Then I can tell you in one word. Nothing. And yet we seemed to be
right on the track every time. There was that secret drawer of Mr.
Wallingford’s. When I saw that packet of white powder in it, I thought
it was going to be a walk-over. I didn’t believe for a moment that the
stuff was cocaine. But it was. I went straight to our analyst to have
it tested.”

As the superintendent was speaking I caught Thorndyke’s eye, fixed on
me with an expression of reproachful inquiry. But he made no remark
and Miller continued: “Then there were those two empty bottles. The
one that I found in the library yielded definite traces of arsenic.
But then, whose bottle was it? The place was accessible to the entire
household. It was impossible to connect it with any one person. On the
other hand, the bottle that I found in Miss Norris’s cupboard, and
that was presumably hers—though she didn’t admit it—contained no
arsenic; at least the analyst said it didn’t, though as it smelt of
lavender and had a red stain at the bottom, I feel convinced that it
had had Fowler’s Solution in it. What do you think, Doctor? Don’t you
think the analyst may have been mistaken?”

“No,” Thorndyke replied, decidedly. “If the red stain had been due to
Fowler’s Solution there would have been an appreciable quantity of
arsenic present; probably a fiftieth of a grain at least. But Marsh’s
test would detect a much smaller quantity than that. If no arsenic was
found by a competent chemist who was expressly testing for it, you can
take it that no arsenic was there.”

“Well,” Miller rejoined, “you know best. But you must admit that it is
a most remarkable thing that one bottle which smelt of lavender and
had a red stain at the bottom, should contain arsenic, and that
another bottle, exactly similar in appearance and smelling of lavender
and having a red stain at the bottom, should contain no arsenic.”

“I am entirely with you, Miller,” Thorndyke agreed. “It is a most
remarkable circumstance.”

“And you see my point,” said Miller. “Every discovery turns out a
sell. I find a concealed packet of powder—with the owner lying like
Ananias—but the powder turns out not to be arsenic. I find a bottle
that did contain arsenic, and there is no owner. I find another,
similar bottle, which has an owner, and there is no arsenic in it.
Rum, isn’t it? I feel like the donkey with the bunch of carrots tied
to his nose. The carrots are there all right, but he can never get a
bite at ’em.”

Thorndyke had listened with the closest attention to the
superintendent’s observations and he now began a cautious
cross-examination—cautious because Miller was taking it for granted
that I had told him all about the search; and I could not but admire
his discretion in suppressing the fact that I had not. For, while
Thorndyke, himself, would not suspect me of any intentional
concealment, Miller undoubtedly would, and what little confidence he
had in me would have been destroyed. Accordingly, he managed the
superintendent so adroitly that the latter described, piecemeal, all
the incidents of the search.

“Did Wallingford say how he came to be in possession of all this
cocaine and morphine?” he asked.

“No,” replied Miller. “I asked him, but he refused to say where he had
got it.”

“But he could be made to answer,” said Thorndyke. “Both of these drugs
are poisons. He could be made to account for having them in his
possession and could be called upon to show that he came by them
lawfully. They are not ordinarily purchasable by the public.”

“No, that’s true,” Miller admitted. “But is there any object in going
into the question? You see, the cocaine isn’t really any affair of
ours.”

“It doesn’t seem to be,” Thorndyke agreed, “at least, not directly;
but indirectly it may be of considerable importance. I think you ought
to find out where he got that cocaine and morphine, Miller.”

The superintendent reflected with the air of having seen a new light.

“I see what you mean, Doctor,” said he. “You mean that if he got the
stuff from some Chinaman or common dope merchant, there wouldn’t be
much in it; whereas, if he got it from some one who had a general
stock of drugs, there might be a good deal in it. Is that the point?”

“Yes. He was able to obtain poisons from somebody, and we ought to
know exactly what facilities he had for obtaining poisons and what
poisons he obtained.”

“Yes, that is so,” said Miller. “Well, I will see about it at once.
Fortunately he is a pretty easy chappie to frighten. I expect, if I
give him a bit of a shake-up, he will give himself away; and if he
won’t, we must try other means. And now, as I think we have said all
that we have to say at present, I will wish you two gentlemen good
night.”

He rose and took up his hat, and having shaken our hands, was duly
escorted to the door by Thorndyke; who, when he had seen his visitor
safely on to the stairs, returned and confronted me with a look of
deep significance.

“You never told me about that cocaine,” said he.

“No,” I admitted. “It was stupid of me, but the fact is that I was so
engrossed by your rather startling observations on the case that this
detail slipped my memory.

“And it really had not impressed me as being of any importance. I
accepted Wallingford’s statement that the stuff was cocaine and that,
consequently, it was no concern of ours.”

“I don’t find myself able to agree to that ‘consequently,’ Mayfield.
How did you know that the cocaine was no concern of ours?”

“Well, I didn’t see that it was, and I don’t now. Do you?”

“No; I know very little about the case at present. But it seems to me
that the fact that a person in this house had a considerable quantity
of a highly poisonous substance in his possession is one that at least
requires to be noted. The point is, Mayfield, that until we know all
the facts of this case we cannot tell which of them is or is not
relevant. Try to bear that in mind. Do not select particular facts as
important and worthy of notice. Note everything in any way connected
with our problem that comes under your observation and pass it on to
me without sifting or selection.”

“I ought not to need these exhortations,” said I. “However, I will
bear them in mind should I ever have anything more to communicate.
Probably I never shall. But I will say that I think Miller is wasting
his energies over Wallingford. The man is no favourite of mine. He is
a neurotic ass. But I certainly do not think he has the makings of a
murderer.”

Thorndyke smiled a little drily. “If you are able,” said he, “to
diagnose at sight a potential murderer, your powers are a good deal
beyond mine. I should have said that every man has the makings of a
murderer, given the appropriate conditions.”

“Should you really?” I exclaimed. “Can you, for instance, imagine
either of us committing a murder?”

“I think I can,” he replied. “Of course, the probabilities are very
unequal in different cases. There are some men who may be said to be
prone to murder. A man of low intelligence, of violent temper,
deficient in ordinary self-control, may commit a murder in
circumstances that would leave a man of a superior type unmoved. But
still, the determining factors are motive and opportunity. Given a
sufficient motive and a real opportunity, I can think of no kind of
man who might not commit a homicide which would, in a legal sense, be
murder.”

“But is there such a thing as a sufficient motive for murder?”

“That question can be answered only by the individual affected. If it
seems to him sufficient, it is sufficient in practice.”

“Can you mention a motive that would seem to you sufficient?”

“Yes, I can. Blackmail. Let us take an imaginary case. Suppose a man
to be convicted of a crime of which he is innocent. As he has been
convicted, the evidence, though fallacious, is overwhelming. He is
sentenced to a term of imprisonment—say penal servitude. He serves his
sentence and is in due course discharged. He is now free; but the
conviction stands against him. He is a discharged convict. His name is
in the prison books, his photograph and his finger-prints are in the
Habitual Criminals’ Register. He is a marked man for life.

“Now suppose that he manages to shed his identity and in some place
where he is unknown begins life afresh. He acquires the excellent
character and reputation to which he is, in fact, entitled. He marries
and has a family; and he and his family prosper and enjoy the
advantages that follow deservedly from his industry and excellent
moral qualities.

“And now suppose that at this point his identity is discovered by a
blackmailer who forthwith fastens on him, who determines to live on
him in perpetuity, to devour the products of his industry, to
impoverish his wife and children and to destroy his peace and security
by holding over his head the constant menace of exposure. What is such
a man to do? The law will help him so far as it can; but it cannot
save him from exposure. He can obtain the protection of the law only
on condition that he discloses the facts. But that disclosure is
precisely the evil that he seeks to avoid. He is an innocent man, but
his innocence is known only to himself. The fact, which must transpire
if he prosecutes, is that he is a convicted criminal.

“I say, Mayfield, what can he do? What is his remedy? He has but one;
and since the law cannot really help him, he is entitled to help
himself. If I were in that man’s position and the opportunity
presented itself, I would put away that blackmailer with no more
qualms than I should have in killing a wasp.”

“Then I am not going to blackmail you, Thorndyke, for I have a strong
conviction that an opportunity would present itself.”

“I think it very probable,” he replied with a smile. “At any rate, I
know a good many methods that I should not adopt, and I think arsenic
poisoning is one of them. But don’t you agree with me?”

“I suppose I do, at least in the very extreme case that you have put.
But it is the only case of justifiable premeditated homicide that I
can imagine; and it obviously doesn’t apply to Wallingford.”

“My dear Mayfield,” he exclaimed. “How do we know what does or does
not apply to Wallingford? How do we know what he would regard as an
adequate motive? We know virtually nothing about him or his affairs or
about the crime itself. What we do know is that a man has apparently
been murdered, and that, of the various persons who had the
opportunity to commit the murder (of whom he is one) none had any
intelligible motive at all. It is futile for us to argue back and
forth on the insufficient knowledge that we possess. We can only
docket and classify all the facts that we have and follow up each of
them impartially with a perfectly open mind. But, above all, we must
try to increase our stock of facts. I suppose you haven’t had time to
consider that abstract of which we spoke?”

“That is really what brought me round here this evening. I haven’t had
time, and I shan’t have just at present as I am starting to-morrow to
take up work on the Southeastern Circuit. But I have brought the
current volume of the diary, itself, if you would care to wade through
it.”

“I should, certainly. The complete document is much preferable to an
abstract which might leave me in the dark as to the context. But won’t
you want to have your diary with you?”

“No, I shall take a short-hand note-book to use while I am away. That
is, in fact, what I usually do.”

“And you don’t mind putting this very confidential document into the
hands of a stranger?”

“You are not a stranger, Thorndyke. I don’t mind you, though I don’t
think I would hand it to anybody else. Not that it contains anything
that the whole world might not see, for I am a fairly discreet
diarist. But there are references to third parties with reflections
and comments that I shouldn’t care to have read by Thomas, Richard and
Henry. My only fear is that you will find it rather garrulous and
diffuse.”

“Better that than overcondensed and sketchy,” said he, as he took the
volume from me. He turned the leaves over, and having glanced at one
or two pages exclaimed: “This is something like a diary, Mayfield!
Quite in the classical manner. The common, daily jottings such as most
of us make, are invaluable if they are kept up regularly, but this of
yours is immeasurably superior. In a hundred years’ time it will be a
priceless historical work. How many volumes of it have you got?”

“About twenty: and I must say that I find the older ones quite
interesting reading. You may perhaps like to look at one or two of the
more recent volumes.”

“I should like to see those recording the events of the last three
years.”

“Well, they are all at your service. I have brought you my duplicate
latchkey and you will find the volumes of the diary in the glazed
book-case. It is usually kept locked, but as nobody but you will have
access to the chambers while I am away, I shall leave the key in the
lock.”

“This is really very good of you, Mayfield,” he said, as I rose to
take my departure. “Let me have your address, wherever you may be for
the time being, and I will keep you posted in any developments that
may occur. And now, good-bye and good luck!” He shook my hand
cordially and I betook myself to my chambers to complete my
preparations for my start on the morrow.



Chapter X

A Greek Gift

The incidents of my life while I was following the Southeastern
Circuit are no part of this history, and I refer to this period merely
by way of marking the passage of time. Indeed, it was its
separateness, its detachment from the other and more personal aspects
of my life that specially commended it to me. In the cheerful
surroundings of the Bar Mess I could forget the terrible experiences
of the last few weeks, and even in the grimmer and more suggestive
atmosphere of the courts, the close attention that the proceedings
demanded kept my mind in a state of wholesome preoccupation.

Quite a considerable amount of work came my way, and though most of
the briefs were small—so small, often, that I felt some compunction in
taking them from the more needy juniors—yet it was all experience and
what was more important just now, it was occupation that kept my mind
employed.

That was the great thing. To keep my mind busy with matters that were
not my personal concern. And the intensity of my yearning for
distraction was the measure of the extent to which my waking thoughts
tended to be pervaded by the sinister surroundings of Harold
Monkhouse’s death. That dreadful event and the mystery that
encompassed it had shaken me more than I had at first realized. Nor
need this be a matter for surprise. Harold Monkhouse had apparently
been murdered; at any rate that was the accepted view. And who was the
murderer? Evade the answer as I would, the fact remained that the
finger of suspicion pointed at my own intimate friends—nay, even at
me. It is no wonder, then, that the mystery haunted me. Murder has an
ominous sound to any ears; but to a lawyer practising in criminal
courts the word has connotations to which his daily experiences impart
a peculiarly hideous vividness and realism. Once, I remember that,
sitting in court, listening to the evidence in a trial for murder, as
my glance strayed to the dock where the prisoner stood, watched and
guarded like a captured wild beast, the thought suddenly flashed on me
that it was actually possible—and to the police actually probable—that
thus might yet stand Wallingford or Madeline, or even Barbara or
myself.

It would have been possible for me to run home from time to time at
week-ends but I did not. There was nothing that called for my presence
in London and it was better to stick close to my work. Still, I was
not quite cut off from my friends, for Barbara wrote regularly and I
had an occasional letter from Madeline. As to Thorndyke, he was too
busy to write unnecessary letters and his peculiar circumstances made
a secretary impossible, so that I had from him no more than one or two
brief notes reporting the absence of any new developments. Nor had
Barbara much to tell excepting that she had decided to let or sell the
house in Hilborough Square and take up her residence in a flat. The
decision did not surprise me. I should certainly have done the same in
her place; and I was only faintly surprised when I learned that she
proposed to live alone and that Madeline had taken a small flat near
the school. The two women had always been on excellent terms, but they
were not specially devoted to one another; and Barbara would now
probably pursue her own special interests. Of Wallingford I learned
only that, on the strength of his legacy he had taken a set of rooms
in the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street and that his nerves did not seem
to have benefited by the change.

Such was the position of affairs when the Autumn Assizes came to an
end and I returned home. I remember the occasion very vividly, as I
have good reason to do—indeed, I had better reason than I knew at the
time. It was a cold, dark, foggy evening, though not densely foggy,
and my taxicab was compelled to crawl at an almost funereal pace (to
the exasperation of the driver) through the murky streets, though the
traffic was now beginning to thin out. We approached the Temple from
the east and eventually entered by the Tudor Street Gate whence we
crept tentatively across King’s Bench Walk to the end of Crown Office
Row. As we passed Thorndyke’s chambers I looked up and had a momentary
glimpse of lighted windows glimmering through the fog; then they faded
away and I looked out on the other side where the great shadowy mass
of Paper Buildings loomed above us. A man was standing at the end of
the narrow passage that leads to Fig Tree Court—a tallish man wearing
a preposterous wide-brimmed hat and a long overcoat with its collar
turned up above his ears. I glanced at him incuriously as we
approached but had no opportunity to inspect him more closely, if I
had wished—which I did not—for, as the cab stopped he turned abruptly
and walked away up the passage. The suddenness of his retirement
struck me as a little odd and, having alighted from the cab, I stood
for a moment or two watching his receding figure. But he soon
disappeared in the foggy darkness, and I saw him no more. By the time
that I had paid my fare and carried my portmanteau to Fig Tree Court,
he had probably passed out into Middle Temple Lane.

When I had let myself into my chambers, switched on the light and shut
the door, I looked round my little domain with somewhat mixed
feelings. It was very silent and solitary. After the jovial Bar Mess
and the bright, frequented rooms of the hotels or the excellent
lodgings which I had just left, these chambers struck me as just a
shade desolate. But yet there were compensations. A sense of peace and
quiet pervaded the place and all around were my household gods; my
familiar and beloved pictures, the little friendly cabinet busts and
statuettes, and, above all, the goodly fellowship of books. And at
this moment my glance fell on the long range of my diaries and I
noticed that one of the series was absent. Not that there was anything
remarkable in that, since I had given Thorndyke express permission to
take them away to read. What did surprise me a little was the date of
the missing volume. It was that of the year before Stella’s death. As
I noted this I was conscious of a faint sense of annoyance. I had, it
is true, given him the free use of the diary, but only for purposes of
reference. I had hardly bargained for his perusal of the whole series
for his entertainment. However, it was of no consequence. The diary
enshrined no secrets. If I had, in a way, emulated Pepys in respect of
fulness, I had taken warning from his indiscretions; nor, in fact, was
I quite so rich in the material of indiscreet records as the vivacious
Samuel.

I unpacked my portmanteau—the heavier impedimenta were coming on by
rail—lit the gas fire in my bedroom, boiled a kettle of water, partly
for a comfortable wash and partly to fill a hotwater bottle wherewith
to warm the probably damp bed, and then, still feeling a little like a
cat in a strange house, decided to walk along to Thorndyke’s chambers
and hear the news, if there were any.

The fog had grown appreciably denser when I turned out of my entry,
and, crossing the little quadrangle, strode quickly along the narrow
passage that leads to the Terrace and King’s Bench Walk. I was
approaching the end of the passage when there came suddenly into view
a shadowy figure which I recognized at once as that of the man whom I
had seen when I arrived. But again I had no opportunity for a close
inspection, for he had already heard my footsteps and he now started
to walk away rapidly in the direction of Mitre Court. For a moment I
was disposed to follow him, and did, in fact, make a few quick steps
towards him—which seemed to cause him to mend his pace; but it was not
directly my business to deal with loiterers, and I could have done
nothing even if I had overtaken him. Accordingly I changed my
direction, and crossing King’s Bench Walk, bore down on Thorndyke’s
entry.

As I approached the house I was a little disconcerted to observe that
there were now no lights in his chambers, though the windows above
were lighted. I ran up the stairs, and finding the oak closed, pressed
the electric bell, which I could hear ringing on the floor above.
Almost immediately footsteps became audible descending the stairs and
were followed by the appearance of a small gentleman whom I recognized
as Thorndyke’s assistant, artificer or familiar spirit, Mr. Polton. He
recognized me at the same moment and greeted me with a smile that
seemed to break out of the corners of his eyes and spread in a network
of wrinkles over every part of his face; a sort of compound smile
inasmuch as every wrinkle seemed to have a smile of its own.

“I hope, Mr. Polton,” said I, “that I haven’t missed the doctor.”

“No, Sir,” he replied. “He is up in the laboratory. We are just about
to make a little experiment.”

“Well, I am in no hurry. Don’t disturb him. I will wait until he is at
liberty.”

“Unless, Sir,” he suggested, “you would like to come up. Perhaps you
would like to see the experiment.”

I closed with the offer gladly. I had never seen Thorndyke’s
laboratory and had often been somewhat mystified as to what he did in
it. Accordingly I followed Mr. Polton up the stairs, at the top of
which I found Thorndyke waiting.

“I thought it was your voice, Mayfield,” said he, shaking my hand.
“You are just in time to see us locate a mare’s nest. Come in and lend
a hand.”

He led me into a large room around which I glanced curiously and not
without surprise. One side was occupied by a huge copying camera, the
other by a joiner’s bench. A powerful back-geared lathe stood against
one window, a jeweller’s bench against the other, and the walls were
covered with shelves and tool-racks, filled with all sorts of strange
implements. From this room we passed into another which I recognized
as a chemical laboratory, although most of the apparatus in it was
totally unfamiliar to me.

“I had no idea,” said I, “that the practice of Medical Jurisprudence
involved such an outfit as this. What do you do with it all? The place
is like a factory.”

“It is a factory,” he replied with a smile; “a place where the raw
material of scientific evidence is worked up into the finished product
suitable for use in courts of law.”

“I don’t know that that conveys much to me,” said I. “But you are
going to perform some sort of experiment; perhaps that will enlighten
me.”

“Probably it will, to some extent,” he replied, “though it is only a
simple affair. We have a parcel here which came by post this evening
and we are going to see what is in it before we open it.”

“The devil you are!” I exclaimed. “How in the name of Fortune are you
going to do that?”

“We shall examine it by means of the X-rays.”

“But why? Why not open it and find out what is in it in a reasonable
way?”

Thorndyke chuckled softly. “We have had our little experiences,
Mayfield, and we have grown wary. We don’t open strange parcels
nowadays until we are sure that we are not dealing with a ‘Greek gift’
of some sort. That is what we are going to ascertain now in respect of
this.”

He picked up from the bench a parcel about the size of an ordinary
cigar-box and held it out for my inspection. “The overwhelming
probabilities are,” he continued, “that this is a perfectly innocent
package. But we don’t know. I am not expecting any such parcel and
there are certain peculiarities about this one that attract one’s
attention. You notice that the entire address is in rough Roman
capitals—what are commonly called ‘block letters.’ That is probably
for the sake of distinctness; but it might possibly be done to avoid a
recognizable handwriting or a possibly traceable typewriter. Then you
notice that it is addressed to ‘Dr. Thorndyke’ and conspicuously
endorsed ‘personal.’ Now, that is really a little odd. One understands
the object of marking a letter ‘personal’—to guard against its being
opened and read by the wrong person. But what does it matter who opens
a parcel?”

“I can’t imagine why it should matter,” I admitted without much
conviction, “but I don’t see anything in the unnecessary addition that
need excite suspicion. Do you?”

“Perhaps not; but you observe that the sender was apparently anxious
that the parcel should be opened by a particular person.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The whole proceeding and the reasons given
for it struck me as verging on farce. “Do you go through these
formalities with every parcel that you receive?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Only with those that are unexpected or offer no
evidence as to their origin. But we are pretty careful. As I said just
now, we have had our experiences. One of them was a box which, on
being opened, discharged volumes of poisonous gas.”

“The deuce!” I exclaimed, rather startled out of my scepticism and
viewing the parcel with a new-born respect, not unmixed with
apprehension. “Then this thing may actually be an infernal machine!
Confound it all, Thorndyke! Supposing it should have a clockwork
detonator, ticking away while we are talking. Hadn’t you better get on
with the X-rays?”

He chuckled at my sudden change of attitude. “It is all right,
Mayfield. There is no clockwork. I tried it with the microphone as
soon as it arrived. We always do that. And, of course, it is a
thousand to one that it is just an innocent parcel. But we will just
make sure and then I shall be at liberty for a chat with you.”

He led the way to a staircase leading to the floor above where I was
introduced to a large, bare room surrounded by long benches or tables
occupied by various uncanny-looking apparatus. As soon as we entered,
he placed the parcel on a raised stand while Polton turned a switch
connected with a great coil; the immediate result of which was a
peculiar, high-pitched, humming sound as if a gigantic mosquito had
got into the room. At the same moment a glass globe that was supported
on an arm behind the parcel became filled with green light and
displayed a bright red spot in its interior.

“This is a necromantic sort of business, Thorndyke,” said I, “only you
and Mr. Polton aren’t dressed for the part. You ought to have tall,
pointed caps and gowns covered with cabalistic signs. What is that
queer humming noise?”

“That is the interrupter,” he replied. “The green bulb is the
Crookes’s tube and the little red-hot disc inside it is the
anti-cathode. I will tell you about them presently. That framed plate
that Polton has is the fluorescent screen. It intercepts the X-rays
and makes them visible. You shall see, when Polton has finished his
inspection.”

I watched Polton—who had taken the opportunity to get the first
innings—holding the screen between his face and the parcel. After a
few moments’ inspection he turned the parcel over on its side and once
more raised the screen, gazing at it with an expression of the most
intense interest. Suddenly he turned to Thorndyke with a smile of
perfectly incredible wrinkliness and, without a word, handed him the
screen; which he held up for a few seconds and then silently passed to
me.

I had never used a fluorescent screen before and I must confess that I
found the experience most uncanny. As I raised it before the parcel
behind which was the glowing green bulb, the parcel became invisible
but in its place appeared the shadow of a pistol the muzzle of which
seemed to be inserted into a jar. There were some other, smaller
shadows, of which I could make nothing, but which seemed to be
floating in the air.

“Better not look too long, Mayfield,” said Thorndyke. “X-rays are
unwholesome things. We will take a photograph and then we can study
the details at our leisure; though it is all pretty obvious.”

“It isn’t to me,” said I. “There is a pistol and what looks like a
jar. Do you take it that they are parts of an infernal machine?”

“I suppose,” he replied, “we must dignify it with that name. What do
you say, Polton?”

“I should call it a booby-trap, Sir,” was the reply. “What you might
expect from a mischievous boy of ten—rather backward for his age.”

Thorndyke laughed. “Listen to the artificer,” said he, “and observe
how his mechanical soul is offended by an inefficient and unmechanical
attempt to blow us all up. But we won’t take the inefficiency too much
for granted. Let us have a photograph and then we can get to work with
safety.”

It seemed that this part also of the procedure was already provided
for in the form of a large black envelope which Polton produced from a
drawer and began forthwith to adjust in contact with the parcel; in
fact the appearance of preparedness was so striking that I remarked:

“This looks like part of a regular routine. It must take up a lot of
your time.”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we don’t often have to do this. I
don’t receive many parcels and of those that are delivered, the
immense majority come from known sources and are accompanied by
letters of advice. It is only the strange and questionable packages
that we examine with the X-rays. Of course, this one was suspect at a
glance with that disguised handwriting and the special direction as to
who should open it.”

“Yes, I see that now. But it must be rather uncomfortable to live in
constant expectation of having bombs or poison-gas handed in by the
postman.”

“It isn’t as bad as that,” said he. “The thing has happened only three
or four times in the whole of my experience. The first gift of the
kind was a poisoned cigar, which I fortunately detected and which
served as a very useful warning. Since then I have kept my weather
eyelid lifting, as the mariners express it.”

“But don’t you find it rather wearing to be constantly on the look-out
for some murderous attack?”

“Not at all,” he answered with a laugh. “It rather adds to the zest of
life. Besides, you see, Mayfield, that on the rare occasions when
these trifles come my way, they are so extremely helpful.”

“Helpful!” I repeated. “In the Lord’s name, how?”

“In a number of ways. Consider my position, Mayfield. I am not like an
Italian or Russian politician who may have scores of murderous
enemies. I am a lawyer and an investigator of crime. Whoever wants to
get rid of me has something to fear from me; but at any given time,
there will not be more than one or two of such persons. Consequently,
when I receive a gift such as the present one, it conveys to me
certain items of information. Thus it informs me that some one is
becoming alarmed by some proceedings on my part. That is a very
valuable piece of information, for it tells me that some one of my
inquiries is at least proceeding along the right lines. It is
virtually an admission that I have made, or am in the way of making a
point. A little consideration of the cases that I have in hand will
probably suggest the identity of the sender. But on this question the
thing itself will, in most cases yield quite useful information as
well as telling us a good deal about the personality of the sender.
Take the present case. You heard Polton’s contemptuous observations on
the crudity of the device. Evidently the person who sent this is not
an engineer or mechanician of any kind. There is an obvious ignorance
of mechanism; and yet there is a certain simple ingenuity. The thing
is, in fact, as Polton said, on the level of a schoolboy’s booby-trap.
You must see that if we had in view two or more possible senders,
these facts might enable us to exclude one and select another. But
here is Polton with the photograph. Now we can consider the mechanism
at our leisure.”

As he spoke, Polton deposited on the bench a large porcelain dish or
tray in which was a very odd-looking photograph; for the whole of it
was jet-black excepting the pistol, the jar, the hinges, and a small,
elongated spot, which all stood out in clear, white silhouette.

“Why,” I exclaimed as I stooped over it, “that is a muzzle-loading
pistol!”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “and a pocket pistol, as you can tell by the
absence of a trigger-guard. The trigger is probably hinged and folds
forward into a recess. I daresay you know the kind of thing. They were
usually rather pretty little weapons—and useful, too, for you could
carry one easily in your waistcoat pocket. They had octagon barrels,
which screwed off for loading, and the butts were often quite
handsomely ornamented with silver mounts. They were usually sent out
by the gunsmiths in little baize-lined mahogany cases with
compartments for a little powder-flask and a supply of bullets.”

“I wonder why he used a muzzle-loader?” said I.

“Probably because he had it. It answers the purpose as well as a
modern weapon, and, as it was probably made more than a hundred years
ago, it would be useless to go round the trade enquiring as to recent
purchases.”

“Yes, it was safer to use an old pistol than to buy a new one and
leave possible tracks. But how does the thing work? I can see that the
hammer is at full cock and that there is a cap on the nipple. But what
fires the pistol?”

“Apparently a piece of string, which hasn’t come out in the photograph
except, faintly, just above that small mark—string is not dense enough
to throw a shadow at the full exposure—but you see, about an inch
behind the trigger, an elongated shadow. That is probably a screw-eye
seen end-ways. The string is tied to the trigger, passed through the
screw-eye and fastened to the lid of the box. I don’t see how. There
is no metal fastening, and you see that the lid is not screwed or
nailed down. As to how it works; you open the lid firmly; that pulls
the string tight; that pulls back the trigger and fires the pistol
into the jar, which is presumably full of some explosive; the jar
explodes and—up goes the donkey. There is a noble simplicity about the
whole thing. How do you propose to open it, Polton?”

“I think, Sir,” replied the latter, “we had better get the paper off
and have a look at the box.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke, “but don’t take anything for granted.
Make sure that the paper isn’t part of the joke.”

I watched Polton with intense—and far from impersonal—interest,
wishing only that I could have observed him from a somewhat greater
distance. But for all his contempt for the “booby-trap,” he took no
unnecessary risks. First, with a pair of scissors, he cut out a piece
at the back and enlarged the opening so that he could peer in and
inspect the top of the lid. When he had made sure that there were no
pitfalls, he ran the scissors round the top and exposed the box, which
he carefully lifted out of the remainder of the wrapping and laid down
tenderly on the bench. It was a cigar-box of the flat type and
presented nothing remarkable excepting that the lid, instead of being
nailed or pinned down, was secured by a number of strips of stout
adhesive paper, and bore, near the middle, a large spot of
sealing-wax.

“That paper binding is quite a happy thought,” remarked Thorndyke,
“though it was probably put on because our friend was afraid to knock
in nails. But it would be quite effective. An impatient man would cut
through the front strips and then wrench the lid open. I think that
blob of sealing-wax answers our question about the fastening of the
string. The end of it was probably drawn through a bradawl hole in the
lid and fixed with sealing wax. But it must have been an anxious
business drawing it just tight enough and not too tight. I suggest,
Polton, that an inch and-a-half centre-bit hole just below and to the
right of the sealing-wax would enable us to cut the string. But you
had better try it with the photograph first.”

Polton picked the wet photograph out of the dish and carefully laid it
on the lid of the box, adjusting it so that the shadows of the hinges
were opposite the actual hinges. Then with a marking-awl he pricked
through the shadow of the screw-eye, and again about two inches to the
right and below it.

“You are quite right, Sir,” said he as he removed the photograph and
inspected the lid of the box. “The middle of the wax is exactly over
the screw-eye. I’ll just get the centre-bit.”

He bustled away down the stairs and returned in less than a minute
with a brace and a large centre-bit, the point of which he inserted
into the second awl-hole. Then, as Thorndyke grasped the box (and I
stepped back a pace or two), he turned the brace lightly and steadily,
stopping now and again to clear away the chips and examine the
deepening hole. A dozen turns carried the bit through the thin lid and
the remaining disc of wood was driven into the interior of the box. As
soon as the hole was clear, he cautiously inserted a dentist’s mirror,
which he had brought up in his pocket, and with its aid examined the
inside of the lid.

“I can see the string, Sir,” he reported; “a bit of common white twine
and it looks quite slack. I could reach it easily with a small pair of
scissors.”

He handed the mirror to Thorndyke, who, having confirmed his
observations, produced a pair of surgical scissors from his pocket.
These Polton cautiously inserted into the opening, and as he closed
them there was an audible snip. Then he slowly withdrew them and again
inserted the mirror.

“It’s all right,” said he. “The string is cut clean through. I think
we can open the lid now.” With a sharp penknife he cut through the
paper binding-strips and then, grasping the front of the lid,
continued: “Now for it. Perhaps you two gentlemen had better stand a
bit farther back, in case of accidents.”

I thought the suggestion an excellent one, but as Thorndyke made no
move, I had not the moral courage to adopt it. Nevertheless, I watched
Polton’s proceedings with my heart in my mouth. Very slowly and gently
did that cunning artificer raise the lid until it had opened some two
inches, when he stooped and peered in. Then, with the cheerful
announcement that it was “all clear,” he boldly turned it right back.

Of course, the photograph had shown us, in general, what to expect,
but there were certain details that had not been represented. For
instance, both the pistol and the jar were securely wedged between
pieces of cork—sections of wine-bottle corks, apparently—glued to the
bottom of the box.

“How is it,” I asked, “that those corks did not appear in the
photograph?”

“I think there is a faint indication of them,” Thorndyke replied; “but
Polton gave a rather full exposure. If you want to show bodies of such
low density as corks, you have to give a specially short exposure and
cut short the development, too. But I expect Polton saw them when he
was developing the picture, didn’t you, Polton?”

“Yes,” the latter replied; “they were quite distinct at one time, but
then I developed up to get the pistol out clear.”

While these explanations were being given, Polton proceeded
methodically to “draw the teeth” of the infernal apparatus. First, he
cut a little wedge of cork which he pushed in between the threatening
hammer and the nipple and having thus fixed the former he quietly
removed the percussion-cap from the latter; on which I drew a deep
breath of relief. He next wrenched away one of the corks and was then
able to withdraw the pistol from the jar and lift it out of the box. I
took it from him and examined it curiously, not a little interested to
note how completely it corresponded with Thorndyke’s description. It
had a blued octagon barrel, a folding trigger which fitted snugly into
a recess, a richly-engraved lock-plate and an ebony butt, decorated
with numbers of tiny silver studs and a little lozenge-shaped
scutcheon-plate on which a monogram had been engraved in minute
letters, which, however, had been so thoroughly scraped out that I was
unable to make out or even to guess what the letters had been.

My investigations were cut short by Thorndyke, who, having slipped on
a pair of rubber gloves now took the pistol from me, remarking: “You
haven’t touched the barrel, I think, Mayfield?”

“No,” I answered; “but why do you ask?”

“Because we shall go over it and the jar for finger-prints. Not that
they will be much use for tracing the sender of this present, but they
will be valuable corroboration if we catch him by other means; for
whoever sent this certainly had a guilty conscience.”

With this he delicately lifted out the jar—a small, dark-brown
stoneware vessel such as is used as a container for the choicer kinds
of condiments—and inverted it over a sheet of paper, upon which its
contents, some two or three tablespoonfuls of black powder, descended
and formed a small heap.

“Not a very formidable charge,” Thorndyke remarked, looking at it with
a smile.

“Formidable!” repeated Polton. “Why, it wouldn’t have hurt a fly!
Common black powder such as old women use to blow out the copper
flues. He must be an innocent, this fellow—if it is a he,” he added
reflectively.

Polton’s proviso suddenly recalled to my mind the man whom I had seen
lurking at the corner of Fig Tree Court. It was hardly possible to
avoid connecting him with the mysterious parcel, as Thorndyke agreed
when I had described the incident.

“Yes,” exclaimed Polton, “of course. He was waiting to hear the
explosion. It is a pity you didn’t mention it sooner, Sir. But he may
be waiting there still. Hadn’t I better run across and see?”

“And suppose he is there still,” said Thorndyke. “What would you
propose to do?”

“I should just pop up to the lodge and tell the porter to bring a
policeman down. Why we should have him red-handed.”

Thorndyke regarded his henchman with an indulgent smile. “Your
handicraft, Polton,” said he, “is better than your law. You can’t
arrest a man without a warrant unless he is doing something unlawful.
This man was simply standing at the corner of Fig Tree Court.”

“But,” protested Polton, “isn’t it unlawful to send infernal machines
by parcel post?”

“Undoubtedly it is,” Thorndyke admitted, “but we haven’t a particle of
evidence that this man has any connection with the parcel or with us.
He may have been waiting there to meet a friend.”

“He may, of course,” said I, “but seeing that he ran off like a
lamp-lighter on both the occasions when I appeared on the scene, I
should suspect that he was there for no good. And I strongly suspect
him of having some connection with this precious parcel.”

“So do I,” said Thorndyke. “As a matter of fact, I have once or twice,
lately, met a man answering to your description, loitering about
King’s Bench Walk in the evening. But I think it much better not to
appear to notice him. Let himself think himself unobserved and
presently he will do something definite that will enable us to take
action. And remember that the more thoroughly he commits himself the
more valuable his conduct will be as indirect evidence on certain
other matters.”

I was amused at the way in which Thorndyke sank all considerations of
personal safety in the single purpose of pursuing his investigations
to a successful issue. He was the typical enthusiast. The possibility
that this unknown person might shoot at him from some ambush, he
would, I suspected, have welcomed as offering the chance to seize the
aggressor and compel him to disclose his motives. Also, I had a shrewd
suspicion that he knew or guessed who the man was and was anxious to
avoid alarming him.

“Well,” he said when he had replaced the pistol and the empty jar in
the box and closed the latter, “I think we have finished for the
present. The further examination of these interesting trifles can be
postponed until to-morrow. Shall we go downstairs and talk over the
news?”

“It is getting rather late,” said I, “but there is time for a little
chat, though, as to news, they will have to come from you, for I have
nothing to tell.”

We went down to the sitting room where, when he had locked up the box,
we took each an armchair and filled our pipes.

“So you have no news of any kind?” said he.

“No; excepting that the Hilborough Square household has been broken up
and the inmates scattered into various flats.”

“Then the house is now empty?” said he, with an appearance of some
interest.

“Yes, and likely to remain so with this gruesome story attached to it.
I suppose I shall have to make a survey of the premises with a view to
having them put in repair.”

“When you do,” said he, “I should like to go with you and look over
the house.”

“But it is all dismantled. Everything has been cleared out. You will
find nothing there but empty rooms and a litter of discarded rubbish.”

“Never mind,” said he. “I have occasionally picked up some quite
useful information from empty rooms and discarded rubbish. Do you know
if the police have examined the house?”

“I believe not. At any rate, nothing has been said to me to that
effect.”

“So much the better,” said he. “Can we fix a time for our visit?”

“It can’t be to-morrow,” said I, “because I must see Barbara and get
the keys if she has them. Would the day after to-morrow do, after
lunch?”

“Perfectly,” he replied. “Come and lunch with me; and, by the way,
Mayfield, it would be best not to mention to any one that I am coming
with you, and I wouldn’t say anything about this parcel.”

I looked at him with sudden suspicion, recalling Wallingford’s
observations on the subject of mare’s nests. “But, my dear Thorndyke!”
I exclaimed, “you don’t surely associate that parcel with any of the
inmates of that house!”

“I don’t associate it with any particular person,” he replied. “I know
only what you know; that it was sent by some one to whom my existence
is, for some reason, undesirable, and whose personality is to some
extent indicated by the peculiarities of the thing itself.”

“What peculiarities do you mean?”

“Well,” he replied, “there is the nature and purpose of the thing. It
is an appliance for killing a human being. That purpose implies either
a very strong motive or a very light estimate of the value of human
life. Then, as we have said, the sender is fairly ingenious but yet
quite unmechanical and apparently unprovided with the common tools
which ordinary men possess and are more or less able to use. You
notice that the combination of ingenuity with non-possession of tools
is a rather unusual one.”

“How do you infer that the sender possessed no tools?”

“From the fact that none were used, and that such materials were
employed as required no tools, though these were not the most suitable
materials. For instance, common twine was used to pull the trigger,
though it is a bad material by reason of its tendency to stretch. But
it can be cut with a knife or a pair of scissors, whereas wire, which
was the really suitable material, requires cutting pliers to divide
it. Again, there were the corks. They were really not very safe, for
their weakness and their resiliency might have led to disaster in the
event of a specially heavy jerk in transit. A man who possessed no
more than a common keyhole saw, or a hand-saw and a chisel or two,
would have roughly shaped up one or two blocks of wood to fit the
pistol and jar, which would have made the thing perfectly secure. If
he had possessed a glue-pot, he would not have used seccotine. But
every one has waste corks, and they can be trimmed to shape with an
ordinary dinner-knife; and seccotine can be bought at any stationer’s.
But, to return to what we were saying. I had no special precautions in
my mind. I suggested that we should keep our own counsel merely on the
general principle that it is always best to keep one’s own counsel.
One may make a confidence to an entirely suitable person; but who can
say that that person may not, in his or her turn, make a confidence?
If we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves we know exactly how we
stand, and that if there has been any leakage, it had been from some
other source. But I need not platitudinize to an experienced and
learned counsel.”

I grinned appreciatively at the neat finish; for “experienced counsel”
as I certainly was not, I was at least able to realize, with secret
approval, how adroitly Thorndyke had eluded my leading question. And
at that I left it, enquiring in my turn:

“I suppose nothing of interest has transpired since I have been away?”

“Very little. There is one item of news, but that can hardly be said
to have ‘transpired’ unless you can associate the process of
transpiration with a suction-pump. Superintendent Miller took my
advice and applied the suctorial method to Wallingford with results of
which he possibly exaggerates the importance. He tells me—this is, of
course, in the strictest confidence—that under pressure, Wallingford
made a clean breast of the cocaine and morphine business. He admitted
that he had obtained those drugs fraudulently by forging an order in
Dimsdale’s name, written on Dimsdale’s headed note-paper, to the
wholesale druggists to deliver to bearer the drugs mentioned. He had
possessed himself of the note-paper at the time when he was working at
the account books in Dimsdale’s surgery.”

“But how was it that Dimsdale did not notice what had happened when
the accounts were sent in?”

“No accounts were ever sent in. The druggists whom Wallingford
patronized were not those with whom Dimsdale had an account. The order
stated, in every case, that bearer would pay cash.”

“Quite an ingenious little plan of Wallingford’s,” I remarked. “It is
more than I should have given him credit for. And you say that Miller
attaches undue importance to this discovery. I am not surprised at
that. But why do you think he exaggerates its importance?”

Thorndyke regarded me with a quizzical smile. “Because,” he answered,
“Miller’s previous experiences have been repeated. There has been
another discovery. It has transpired that Miss Norris also had
dealings with a wholesale druggist. But in her case there was no fraud
or irregularity. The druggist with whom she dealt was the one who used
to supply her father with materia medica and to whom she was well
known.”

“Then, in that case, I suppose she had an account with him?”

“No, she did not. She also paid cash. Her purchases were only
occasional and on quite a small scale; too small to justify an
account.”

“Has she made any statement as to what she wanted the drugs for?”

“She denies that she ever purchased drugs, in the usual sense, that is
substances having medicinal properties. Her purchases were, according
to her statement, confined to such pharmaceutical and chemical
materials as were required for purposes of instruction in her classes.
Which is perfectly plausible, for, as you know, academic cookery is a
rather different thing from the cookery of the kitchen.”

“Yes, I know that she had some materials in her cupboard that I
shouldn’t have associated with cookery and I should accept her
statement without hesitation. In fact, the discovery seems to me to be
of no significance at all.”

“Probably you are right,” said he; “but the point is that, in a legal
sense, it confuses the issues hopelessly. In her case, as in
Wallingford’s, materials have been purchased from a druggist, and, as
no record of those purchases has been kept, it is impossible to say
what those materials were. Probably they were harmless, but it cannot
be proved that they were. The effect is that the evidential value of
Wallingford’s admission is discounted by the fact that there was
another person who is known to have purchased materials some of which
may have been poisons.”

“Yes,” said I, “that is obvious enough. But doesn’t it strike you,
Thorndyke, that all this is just a lot of futile logic-chopping such
as you might hear at a debating club? I can’t take it seriously. You
don’t imagine that either of these two persons murdered Harold
Monkhouse, do you? I certainly don’t; and I can’t believe Miller
does.”

“It doesn’t matter very much what he believes, or, for that matter,
what any of us believe. ‘He discovers who proves.’ Up to the present,
none of us has proved anything, and my impression is that Miller is
becoming a little discouraged. He is a genius in following up clues.
But where there are no clues to follow up, the best of detectives is
rather stranded.”

“By the way,” said I, “did you pick up anything from my diary that
threw any light on the mystery?”

“Very little,” he replied; “in fact nothing that gets us any farther.
I was able to confirm our belief that Monkhouse’s attacks of severe
illness coincided with his wife’s absence from home. But that doesn’t
help us much. It merely indicates, as we had already observed, that
the poisoner was so placed that his or her activities could not be
carried on when the wife was at home. But I must compliment you on
your diary, Mayfield. It is quite a fascinating work; so much so that
I have been tempted to encroach a little on your kindness. The
narrative of the last three years was so interesting that it lured me
on to the antecedents that led up to them. It reads like a novel.”

“How much of it have you read?” I asked, my faint resentment
completely extinguished by his appreciation.

“Six volumes,” he replied, “including the one that I have just
borrowed. I began by reading the last three years for the purposes of
our inquiry, and then I ventured to go back another three years for
the interest of tracing the more remote causation of recent events. I
hope I have not presumed too much on the liberty that you were kind
enough to give me.”

“Not at all,” I replied, heartily. “I am only surprised that a man as
much occupied as you are should have been willing to waste your time
on the reading of what is, after all, but a trivial and diffuse
autobiography.”

“I have not wasted my time, Mayfield,” said he. “If it is true that
‘the proper study of mankind is man,’ how much more true is it of that
variety of mankind that wears the wig and gown and pleads in Court. It
seems to me that to lawyers like ourselves whose professional lives
are largely occupied with the study of motives of human actions and
with the actions themselves viewed in the light of their antecedents
and their consequences, nothing can be more instructive than a full,
consecutive diary in which, over a period of years, events may be
watched growing out of those that went before and in their turn
developing their consequences and elucidating the motives of the
actors. Such a diary is a synopsis of human life.”

I laughed as I rose to depart. “It seems,” said I, “that I wrought
better than I knew; in fact I am disposed, like Pendennis, to regard
myself with respectful astonishment. But perhaps I had better not be
too puffed up. It may be that I am, after all, no more than a sort of
literary Strasburg goose; an unconscious provider of the food of the
gods.”

Thorndyke laughed in his turn and escorted me down the stairs to the
entry where we stood for a few moments looking out into the fog.

“It seems thicker than ever,” said he. “However, you can’t miss your
way. But keep a look-out as you go, in case our friend is still
waiting at the corner. Good night!”

I returned his farewell and plunged into the fog, steering for the
corner of the library, and was so fortunate as to strike the wall
within a few yards of it. From thence I felt my way without difficulty
to the Terrace where I halted for a moment to look about and listen;
and as there was no sign, visible or audible of any loiterer at the
corner, I groped my way into the passage and so home to my chambers
without meeting a single human creature.



Chapter XI

The Rivals

The warmth with which Barbara greeted me when I made my first
appearance at her flat struck me as rather pathetic, and for the first
time I seemed to understand what it was that had induced her to marry
Harold Monkhouse. She was not a solitary woman by nature and she had
never been used to a solitary existence. When Stella’s death had
broken up her home and left her with no intimate friend in the world
but me, I had been too much taken up with my own bereavement to give
much consideration to her. But now, as she stood before me in her
pretty sitting room, holding both my hands and smiling her welcome, it
was suddenly borne in on me that her state was rather forlorn in spite
of her really comfortable means. Indeed, my heart prompted me to some
demonstrations of affection and I was restrained only by the caution
of a confirmed bachelor. For Barbara was now a widow; and even while
my sympathy with my almost life-long friend tempted me to pet her a
little, some faint echoes of Mr. Tony Weller’s counsels bade me
beware.

“You are quite an anchoress here, Barbara,” I said, “though you have a
mighty comfortable cell. I see you have a new maid, too. I should have
thought you would have brought Mabel with you.”

“She wouldn’t come—naturally. She said she preferred to go and live
among strangers and forget what had happened at Hilborough Square.
Poor Mabel! She was very brave and good, but it was a terrible
experience for her.”

“Do you know what has become of her?”

“No. She has disappeared completely. Of course, she has never applied
for a reference.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“My dear Rupert,” she replied a little bitterly, “do you suppose that
she would want to advertise her connection with Mrs. Harold
Monkhouse?”

“No, I suppose she would be likely to exaggerate the publicity of the
affair, as I think you do. And how is Madeline? I rather expected that
you and she would have shared a flat. Why didn’t you?”

Barbara was disposed to be evasive. “I don’t know,” she replied, “that
the plan commended itself to either of us. We have our separate
interests, you know. At any rate, she never made any such suggestion
and neither did I.”

“Do you ever see Wallingford now?” I asked.

“Indeed, I do,” she replied; “in fact I have had to hint to him that
he mustn’t call too frequently. One must consider appearances, and,
until I spoke, he was here nearly every day. But I hated doing it.”

“Still, Barbara, it was very necessary. It would be so in the case of
any young woman; but in your case—er—especially so.”

I broke off awkwardly, not liking to say exactly what was in my mind.
For, of course, in the atmosphere of suspicion which hung about him,
his frequent visits would be a source of real danger. No motive for
the murder had yet been suggested. It would be a disaster if his folly
were to create the false appearance of one. But, as I have said, I
shrank from pointing this out, though I think she understood what was
in my mind, for she discreetly ignored the abrupt finish of my
sentence and continued:

“Poor Tony! He is so very self-centred and he seems so dependent on
me. And really, Rupert, I am a good deal concerned about him.”

“Why?” I asked, rather unsympathetically.

“He is getting so queer. He was always rather odd, as you know, but
this trouble seems to be quite upsetting his balance. I am afraid he
is getting delusions—and yet, in a way, I hope that he is.”

“What do you mean? What sort of delusions?”

“He imagines that he is being followed and watched. It is a perfect
obsession, especially since that superintendent man called on him and
cross-questioned him. But I don’t think I told you about that.”

“No, you did not,” said I, quite truthfully, but with an uncomfortable
feeling that I was indirectly telling a lie.

“Well, it seems that this man, Miller, called at his rooms—so you see
he knew where Tony was living—and, according to Tony’s account,
extracted by all sorts of dreadful threats, a full confession of the
means by which he obtained that cocaine.”

“And how did he obtain it?”

“Oh, he just bought it at a wholesale druggist’s. Rather casual of the
druggist to have supplied him, I think, but still, he needn’t have
made such a secret of it. However, since then he has been possessed by
this obsession. He imagines that he is constantly under observation.
He thinks that some man hangs about near his rooms and watches his
comings and goings and follows him about whenever he goes abroad. I
suppose there can’t be anything in it?”

“Of course not. The police have something better to do than spend
their time shadowing harmless idiots. Why on earth should they shadow
him? If they have any suspicions of him, those suspicions relate to
the past, not to the present.”

“But I don’t think Tony connects these watchers with the police. I
fancy he suspects them of being agents of Dr. Thorndyke. You remember
that he was suspicious and uneasy about Dr. Thorndyke from the first;
and I know that he suspects him of having set the superintendent on
him about the cocaine.”

“The deuce he does!” I exclaimed, a little startled. “Have you any
idea what makes him suspect Thorndyke of that?”

“He says that the superintendent accepted his statement at the time
when the cocaine was found, or at least, did not seem disposed to
press him on the question as to where he obtained it, and that this
inquisition occurred only after you had put the case in Dr.
Thorndyke’s hands.”

I reflected on this statement with some surprise. Of course,
Wallingford was quite right, as I knew from first-hand knowledge. But
how had he arrived at this belief? Was it a mere guess, based on his
evident prejudice against Thorndyke? or had he something to go on? And
was it possible that his other suspicions might be correct? Could it
be that Thorndyke was really keeping him under observation? I could
imagine no object for such a proceeding. But Thorndyke’s methods were
so unlike those of the police or of any one else that it was idle to
speculate on what he might do; and his emphatic advice to Miller
showed that he regarded Wallingford at least with some interest.

“Well, Barbara,” I said, mentally postponing the problem for future
consideration, “let us forget Wallingford and everybody else. What are
we going to do this afternoon? Is there a matinée that we could go to,
or shall we go and hear some music?”

“No, Rupert,” she replied. “I don’t want any theatres or music. I can
have those when you are not here. Let us go and walk about Kensington
Gardens and gossip as we used to in the old days. But we have a little
business to discuss first. Let us get that finished and then we can
put it away and be free. You were going to advise me about the house
in Hilborough Square. My own feeling is that I should like to sell it
and have done with it once for all.”

“I shouldn’t do that, Barbara,” said I. “It is a valuable property,
but just at present its value is depreciated. It would be difficult to
dispose of at anything like a reasonable price until recent events
have been forgotten. The better plan would be to let it at a low rent
for a year or two.”

“But would anybody take it?”

“Undoubtedly, if the rent were low enough. Leave it to Brodribb and me
to manage. You needn’t come into the matter at all beyond signing the
lease. Is the house in fairly good repair?”

“Most of it is, but there are one or two rooms that will need
redecorating, particularly poor Harold’s. That had to be left when the
other rooms were done because he refused to be disturbed. It is in a
very dilapidated state. The paint is dreadfully shabby and the paper
is positively dropping off the walls in places. I daresay you remember
its condition.”

“I do, very well, seeing that I helped Madeline to paste some of the
loose pieces back in their places. But we needn’t go into details now.
I will go and look over the house and see what is absolutely necessary
to make the place presentable. Who has the keys?”

“I have the latch-keys. The other keys are inside the house.”

“And I suppose you don’t wish to inspect the place yourself?”

“No. I do not. I wish never to set eyes upon that house again.”

She unlocked a little bureau, and taking a bunch of latch-keys from
one of the drawers handed it to me. Then she went away to put on her
out-door clothes.

Left alone in the room, I sauntered round and inspected Barbara’s new
abode, noting how, already, it seemed to reflect in some indefinable
way the personality of the tenant. It is this sympathetic quality in
human dwelling-places which gives its special charm and interest to a
room in which some person of character has lived and worked, and
which, conversely, imparts such deadly dulness to the “best room” in
which no one is suffered to distribute the friendly, humanizing
litter, and which is jealously preserved, with all its lifeless
ornamentation—its unenjoyed pictures and its unread books—intact and
undefiled by any traces of human occupation. The furniture of this
room was mostly familiar to me, for it was that of the old boudoir.
There was the little piano, the two cosy armchairs, the open
book-shelves with their array of well-used books, the water-colours on
the walls, and above the chimney-piece, the little portrait of Stella
with the thin plait of golden hair bordering the frame.

I halted before it and gazed at the beloved face which seemed to look
out at me with such friendly recognition, and let my thoughts drift
back into the pleasant old times and stray into those that might have
been if death had mercifully passed by this sweet maid and left me the
one companion that my heart yearned for. Now that time had softened my
passionate grief into a tender regret, I could think of her with a
sort of quiet detachment that was not without its bitter-sweet
pleasure. I could let myself speculate on what my life might have been
if she had lived, and what part she would have played in it; questions
that, strangely enough, had never arisen while she was alive.

I was so immersed in my reverie that I did not hear Barbara come into
the room, and the first intimation that I had of her presence was when
I felt her hand slip quietly into mine. I turned to look at her and
met her eyes, brimming with tears, fixed on me with an expression of
such unutterable sadness that, in a moment, my heart leaped out to
her, borne on a wave of sympathy and pity which swept away all my
caution and reserve. Forgetful of everything but her loneliness and
the grief which we shared, I drew her to me and kissed her. It seemed
the natural thing to do and I felt that she understood, though she
flushed warmly and the tears started from her eyes so that she must
needs wipe them away. Then she looked at me with the faintest, most
pathetic little smile and without a word, we turned together and
walked out of the room.

Barbara was, as I have said, a rather inscrutable and extremely
self-contained woman, but she could be, on occasions, a very
delightful companion. And so I found her to-day. At first a little
pensive and silent, she presently warmed up into a quite unwonted
gaiety and chatted so pleasantly and made so evident her pleasure at
having me back that I yearned no more for the Bar Mess but was able to
forget the horrors and anxieties of the past and give myself up to the
very agreeable present.

I have seldom spent a more enjoyable afternoon. Late autumn as it was,
the day was mild and sunny, the sky of that wonderful tender, misty
blue that is the peculiar glory of London. And the gardens, too,
though they were beginning to take on their winter garb, had not yet
quite lost their autumnal charm. Still, on the noble elms, thin as
their raiment was growing, the golden and russet foliage lingered, and
the leaves that they had already shed remained to clothe the earth
with a many-coloured carpet.

We had crossed the gardens by some of the wider paths and had turned
into one of the pleasant by-paths when Barbara, spying a seat set back
between a couple of elms, suggested that we should rest for a few
minutes before recrossing the gardens to go forth in search of tea.
Accordingly we sat down, sheltered on either side by the great boles
of the elms and warmed by the rays of the late afternoon sun; but we
had been seated hardly a minute when the peace and forgetfulness that
had made our ramble so delightful were dissipated in a moment by an
apparition on the wide path that we had just left.

I was the first to observe it. Glancing back through the interval
between the elm on my left and another at a little distance, I noticed
a man coming toward us. My attention was first drawn to him by his
rather singular behaviour. He seemed to be dividing his attention
between something that was ahead of him and something behind. But I
had taken no special note of him until I saw him step, with a rather
absurd air of secrecy and caution, behind a tree-trunk and peer round
it along the way that he had come. After keeping a look-out in this
fashion for nearly a minute, apparently without result, he backed away
from the tree and came forward at a quick pace, peering eagerly ahead
and on both sides and pausing now and again to cast a quick look back
over his shoulder. I drew Barbara’s attention to him, remarking:

“There is a gentleman who seems to be afflicted with Wallingford’s
disease. He is trying to look all round the compass at once.”

Barbara looked at the man, watching his movements for a time with a
faint smile. But suddenly the smile faded and she exclaimed:

“Why, I believe it _is_ Tony! Yes, I am sure it is.”

And Tony it was. I recognized him almost as soon as she spoke. He came
on now at a quick pace and seemed in a hurry either to escape from
what he supposed to be behind him or to overtake whatever was in
front. He had apparently not seen us, for though we must have been
visible to him—or we could not have seen him—we were rendered
inconspicuous by the two trees between which we sat. Presently he
disappeared as the nearer elm-trunk hid him from our view, and I
waited with half-amused annoyance for him to reappear.

“What a nuisance he is!” said Barbara. “Disturbing our peaceful
tête-à-tête. But he won’t freeze on to us. He would rather forego my
much desired society than put up with yours.” She laughed softly and
added in a thoughtful tone: “I wonder what he is doing here.”

I had been wondering that, myself. Kensington Gardens were quite near
to Barbara’s flat, but they were a long way from Jermyn Street. It was
certainly odd that he should be here and on this day of all days. But
at this point my reflections were interrupted by the appearance of
their subject from behind the big elm-trunk.

He came on us suddenly and was quite close before he saw us. When he
did see us, however, he stopped short within a few paces of us,
regarding us with a wild stare. It was the first time that I had seen
him since the funeral; and certainly his appearance had not improved
in the interval. There was something neglected and dishevelled in his
aspect that was distinctly suggestive of drink or drugs. But what
principally struck me was the expression of furious hate with which he
glared at me. There was no mistaking it. Whatever might be the cause,
there could be no doubt that he regarded me with almost murderous
animosity. He remained in this posture only for a few seconds. Then,
as Barbara had begun to utter a few words of greeting, he raised his
hat and strode away without a word.

Barbara looked at his retreating figure with a vexed smile.

“Silly fellow!” she exclaimed. “He is angry that I have come out to
spend a few hours with my oldest friend, and shows it like a
bad-mannered child. I wish he would behave more like an ordinary
person.”

“You can hardly expect him to behave like what he is not,” I said.
“Besides, a very ordinary man may feel jealous at seeing another man
admitted to terms of intimacy, which are denied to him, with the woman
to whom he is specially attached. For I suppose, Barbara, we may take
it that that is the position?”

“I suppose so,” she admitted. “He is certainly very devoted to me, and
I am afraid he is rather jealous of you.”

As she spoke, I looked at her and could not but feel a faint sympathy
with Wallingford. She was really a very handsome woman; and to-day she
was not only looking her best; she seemed, in some mysterious way to
have grown younger, more girlish. The rather sombre gravity of the
last few years seemed to be quite dissipated since we had left the
flat, and much of the charm of her youth had come back to her.

“He looked more than rather jealous,” said I. “Venomous hatred was
what I read in his face. Do you think he has anything against me other
than my position as his rival in your affections?”

“Yes, I do. He is mortally afraid of you. He believes that you suspect
him of having, at least had a hand in poor Harold’s death and that you
have set Dr. Thorndyke to track him down and bring the crime home to
him. And his terror of Dr. Thorndyke is positively an insane
obsession.”

I was by no means so sure of this, but I said nothing, and she
continued:

“I suppose you don’t know whether Dr. Thorndyke does really look on
him with any suspicion? To me the idea is preposterous. Indeed, I find
it impossible to believe that there was any crime at all. I am
convinced that poor Harold was the victim of some strange accident.”

“I quite agree with you, Barbara. That is exactly my own view. But I
don’t think it is Thorndyke’s. As to whom he suspects—if he suspects
anybody—I have not the faintest idea. He is a most extraordinarily
close and secretive man. No one ever knows what is in his mind until
the very moment when he strikes. And he never does strike until he has
his case so complete that he can take it into court with the certainty
of getting a conviction, or an acquittal, as the case may be.”

“But I suppose there are mysteries that elude even his skill?”

“No doubt there are; and I am not sure that our mystery is not one of
them. Even Thorndyke can’t create evidence, and as he pointed out to
me, the evidence in our case lies in the past and is mostly
irrecoverable.”

“I hope it is not entirely irrecoverable,” said she; “for until some
reasonable solution of the mystery is reached, an atmosphere of
suspicion will continue to hang about all the inmates of that house.
So let us wish Dr. Thorndyke his usual success; and when he has proved
that no one was guilty—which I am convinced is the fact—perhaps poor
Tony will forgive him.”

With this, we dismissed the subject, and, getting up from the seat,
made our way out of the gardens just as the sun was setting behind the
trees, and went in search of a suitable tea-shop. And there we
lingered gossiping until the evening was well advanced and it was time
for me to see Barbara home to her flat and betake myself to Fig Tree
Court and make some pretence of doing an evening’s work.



Chapter XII

Thorndyke Challenges the Evidence

My relations with Thorndyke were rather peculiar and a little
inconsistent. I had commissioned him, somewhat against his
inclination, to investigate the circumstances connected with the death
of Harold Monkhouse. I was, in fact, his employer. And yet, in a
certain subtle sense, I was his antagonist. For I held certain beliefs
which I, half-unconsciously, looked to him to confirm. But apparently
he did not share those beliefs. As his employer, it was clearly my
duty to communicate to him any information which he might think
helpful or significant, even if I considered it irrelevant. He had, in
fact, explicitly pointed this out to me; and he had specially warned
me to refrain from sifting or selecting facts which might become known
to me according to my view of their possible bearing on the case.

But yet this was precisely what I felt myself constantly tempted to
do; and as we sat at lunch in his chambers on the day after my visit
to Barbara, I found myself consciously suppressing certain facts which
had then come to my knowledge. And it was not that those facts
appeared to me insignificant. On the contrary, I found them rather
surprising. Only I had the feeling that they would probably convey to
Thorndyke a significance that would be erroneous and misleading.

There was, for instance, the appearance of Wallingford in Kensington
Gardens. Could it have been sheer chance? If so, it was a most
remarkable coincidence; and one naturally tends to look askance at
remarkable coincidences. In fact, I did not believe it to be a
coincidence at all. I felt little doubt that Wallingford had been
lurking about the neighbourhood of Barbara’s flat and had followed us,
losing sight of us temporarily, when we turned into the by-path. But,
knowing Wallingford as I did, I attached no importance to the
incident. It was merely a freak of an unstable, emotional man impelled
by jealousy to make a fool of himself. Again, there was Wallingford’s
terror of Thorndyke and his ridiculous delusions on the subject of the
“shadowings.” How easy it would be for a person unacquainted with
Wallingford’s personality to read into them a totally misleading
significance! Those were the thoughts that drifted half-consciously
through my mind as I sat opposite my friend at the table. So, not
without some twinges of conscience, I held my peace.

But I had not allowed for Thorndyke’s uncanny capacity for inferring
what was passing in another person’s mind. Very soon it became evident
to me that he was fully alive to the possibility of some reservations
on my part; and when one or two discreet questions had elicited some
fact which I ought to have volunteered, he proceeded to something like
definite cross-examination.

“So the household has broken up and the inmates scattered?” he began,
when I had told him that I had obtained possession of the keys. “And
Mabel Withers seems to have vanished, unless the police have kept her
in view. Did you hear anything about Miss Norris?”

“Not very much. Barbara and she have exchanged visits once or twice,
but they don’t seem to see much of each other.”

“And what about Wallingford? Does he seem to have been much disturbed
by Miller’s descent on him?”

I had to admit that he was in a state bordering on panic.

“And what did Mrs. Monkhouse think of the forged orders on Dimsdale’s
headed paper?”

“He hadn’t disclosed that. She thinks that he bought the cocaine at a
druggist’s in the ordinary way, and I didn’t think it necessary to
undeceive her.”

“No. The least said the soonest mended. Did you gather that she sees
much of Wallingford?”

“Yes, rather too much. He was haunting her flat almost daily until she
gave him a hint not to make his visits too noticeable.”

“Why do you suppose he was haunting her flat? So far as you can judge,
Mayfield—that is in the strictest confidence, you understand—does
there seem to be anything between them beyond ordinary friendliness?”

“Not on her side, certainly, but on his—yes, undoubtedly. His devotion
to her amounts almost to infatuation, and has for a long time past. Of
course, she realizes his condition, and though he is rather a nuisance
to her, she takes a very kindly and indulgent view of his vagaries.”

“Naturally, as any well-disposed woman would. I suppose you didn’t see
anything of him yesterday?”

Of course I had to relate the meeting in Kensington Gardens, and I
could see by the way Thorndyke looked at me that he was wondering why
I had not mentioned the matter before.

“It almost looks,” said he, “as if he had followed you there. Was
there anything in his manner of approach that seemed to support that
idea?”

“I think there was, for I saw him at some distance,” and here I felt
bound to describe Wallingford’s peculiar tactics.

“But,” said Thorndyke, “why was he looking about behind him? He must
have known that you were in front.”

“It seems,” I explained, feebly, “that he has some ridiculous idea
that he is being watched and followed.”

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “Now I wonder who he supposes is watching and
following him.”

“I fancy he suspects you,” I replied. And so the murder was out, with
the additional fact that I had not been very ready with my
information.

Thorndyke, however, made no comment on my reticence beyond a steady
and significant look at me.

“So,” said he, “he suspects me of suspecting him. Well, he is giving
us every chance. But I think, Mayfield, you would do well to put Mrs.
Monkhouse on her guard. If Wallingford makes a public parade of his
feelings towards her, he may put dangerous ideas into the head of Mr.
Superintendent Miller. You must realize that Miller is looking for a
motive for the assumed murder. And if it comes to his knowledge that
Harold Monkhouse’s secretary was in love with Harold Monkhouse’s wife,
he will think that he has found a motive that is good enough.”

“Yes, that had occurred to me; and in fact, I did give her a hint to
that effect, but it was hardly necessary. She had seen it for
herself.”

As we now seemed to have exhausted this topic, I ventured to make a
few enquiries about the rather farcical infernal machine.

“Did your further examination of it,” I asked, “yield any new
information?”

“Very little,” Thorndyke replied, “but that little was rather curious.
There were no finger-prints at all. I examined both the pistol and the
jar most thoroughly, but there was not a trace of a finger-mark, to
say nothing of a print. It is impossible to avoid the conclusion that
the person who sent the machine wore gloves while he was putting it
together.”

“But isn’t that a rather natural precaution in these days?” I asked.

“A perfectly natural precaution, in itself,” he replied, “but not
quite consistent with some other features. For instance, the wadding
with which the pistol-barrel was plugged consisted of a little ball of
knitting-wool of a rather characteristic green. I will show it to you,
and you will see that it would be quite easy to match and therefore
possible to trace. But you see that there are thus shown two contrary
states of mind. The gloves suggest that the sender entertained the
possibility that the machine might fail to explode, whereas the wool
seems to indicate that no such possibility was considered.”

He rose from the table—lunch being now finished—and brought from a
locked cabinet a little ball of wool of a rather peculiar greenish
blue. I took it to the window and examined it carefully, impressed by
the curious inconsistency which he had pointed out.

“Yes,” I agreed, “there could be no difficulty in matching this. But
as to tracing it, that is a different matter. There must have been
thousands of skeins of this sold to, at least, hundreds of different
persons.”

“Very true,” said he. “But I was thinking of it rather as a
corroborating item in a train of circumstantial evidence.”

He put the “corroborating item” back in the cabinet and as, at this
moment a taxi was heard to draw up at our entry, he picked up a large
attaché case and preceded me down the stairs.

During the comparatively short journey I made a few not very
successful efforts to discover what was Thorndyke’s real purpose in
making this visit of inspection to the dismantled house. But his
reticence and mine were not quite similar. He answered all my
questions freely. He gave me a wealth of instances illustrating the
valuable evidence obtained by the inspection of empty houses. But none
of them seemed to throw any light on his present proceedings. And when
I pointed this out, he smilingly replied that I was in precisely the
same position as himself.

“We are not looking for corroborative evidence,” said he. “That
belongs to a later stage of the inquiry. We are looking for some
suggestive fact which may give us a hint where to begin. Naturally we
cannot form any guess as to what kind of fact that might be.”

It was not a very illuminating answer, but I had to accept it,
although I had a strong suspicion that Thorndyke’s purpose was not
quite so vague as he represented it to be, and determined
unobtrusively to keep an eye on his proceedings.

“Can I give you any assistance?” I enquired, craftily, when I had let
him into the hall and shut the outer door.

“Yes,” he replied, “there is one thing that you can do for me which
will be very helpful. I have brought a packet of cards with me”—here
he produced from his pocket a packet of stationer’s post-cards. “If
you will write on each of them the description and particulars of one
room with the name of the occupant in the case of bedrooms, and lay
the card on the mantelpiece of the room which it describes, I shall be
able to reconstitute the house as it was when it was inhabited. Then
we can each go about our respective businesses without hindering one
another.”

I took the cards—and the fairly broad hint—and together we made a
preliminary tour of the house, which, now that the furniture, carpets
and pictures were gone, looked very desolate and forlorn; and as it
had not been cleaned since the removal, it had a depressingly dirty
and squalid appearance. Moreover, in each room, a collection of
rubbish and discarded odds and ends had been roughly swept up on the
hearth, converting each fireplace into a sort of temporary dust-bin.

After a glance around the rooms on the ground floor, I made my way up
to the room in which Harold Monkhouse had died, which was my principal
concern as well as Thorndyke’s.

“Well, Mayfield,” the latter remarked, running a disparaging eye round
the faded, discoloured walls and the blackened ceiling, “you will have
to do something here. It is a shocking spectacle. Would you mind
roughly sketching out the position of the furniture? I see that the
bedstead stood by this wall with the head, I presume, towards the
window, and the bedside table about here, I suppose, at his right
hand. By the way, what was there on that table? Did he keep a supply
of food of any kind for use at night?”

“I think they usually put a little tin of sandwiches on the table when
the night preparations were made.”

“You say ‘they.’ Who put the box there?”

“I can’t say whose duty it was in particular. I imagine Barbara would
see to it when she was at home. In her absence it would be done by
Madeline or Mabel.”

“Not Wallingford?”

“No. I don’t think Wallingford ever troubled himself about any of the
domestic arrangements excepting those that concerned Barbara.”

“Do you know who made the sandwiches?”

“I think Madeline did, as a rule. I know she did sometimes.”

“And as to drink? I suppose he had a water-bottle, at any rate.”

“Yes, that was always there, and a little decanter of whiskey. But he
hardly ever touched that. Very often a small flagon of lemonade was
put on the table with the sandwiches.”

“And who made the lemonade?”

“Madeline. I know that, because it was a very special brand which no
one else could make.”

“And supposing the sandwiches and the lemonade were not consumed, do
you happen to know what became of the remainder?”

“I have no idea. Possibly the servants consumed them, but more
probably they were thrown away. Well-fed servants are not partial to
remainders from a sick-room.”

“You never heard of any attacks of illness among any of the servants?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I shouldn’t be very likely to, you know.”

“No. You notice, Mayfield, that you have mentioned one or two rather
material facts that were not disclosed at the inquest?”

“Yes. I was observing that. And it is just as well that they were not
disclosed. There were enough misleading facts without them.”

Thorndyke smiled indulgently. “You seem to have made up your mind
pretty definitely, on the negative side, at least,” he remarked; and
then, looking round once more at the walls with their faded, loosened
paper, he continued: “I take it that Mr. Monkhouse was not a fresh-air
enthusiast.”

“He was not,” I replied. “He didn’t much care for open windows,
especially at night. But how did you arrive at that fact?”

“I was looking at the wall-paper. This is not a damp house, but yet
the paper on the walls of this room is loosening and peeling off in
all directions. And if you notice the distribution of this tendency
you get the impression that the moisture which loosened the paper
proceeded from the neighbourhood of the bed. The wall which is most
affected is the one against which the bed stood; and the part of that
wall that has suffered most is that which was nearest to the occupant
of the bed, and especially to his head. That large piece, hanging
down, is just where the main stream of his breath would have
impinged.”

“Yes, I see the connection now you mention it; and yet I am surprised
that his breath alone should have made the air of the room so damp.
All through the winter season, when the window would be shut most
closely, the gas was burning; and at night, when the gas was out, he
commonly had his candle-lamp alight. I should have thought that the
gas and the candle together would have kept the air fairly dry.”

“That,” said Thorndyke, “is a common delusion. As a matter of fact
they would have quite the opposite effect. You have only to hold an
inverted tumbler over a burning candle to realize, from the moisture
which immediately condenses on the inside of the tumbler, that the
candle, as it burns, gives off quite a considerable volume of steam.
But of course, the bulk of the moisture which has caused the paper to
peel in this room came from the man’s own breath. However, we didn’t
come here for debating purposes. Let us complete our preliminary tour,
and when we have seen the whole house we can each make such more
detailed inspection as seems necessary for our particular purposes.”

We accordingly resumed our perambulation (but I noticed that Thorndyke
deposited his attaché case in Monkhouse’s room with the evident
intention of returning thither), both of us looking about narrowly:
Thorndyke, no doubt, in search of the mysterious “traces” of which he
had spoken, and I with an inquisitive endeavour to ascertain what kind
of objects or appearances he regarded as “traces.”

We had not gone very far before we encountered an object that even I
was able to recognize as significant. It was in a corner of the long
corridor that we came upon a little heap of rubbish that had been
swept up out of the way; and at the very moment when Thorndyke stopped
short with his eyes fixed on it, I saw the object—a little wisp of
knitting-wool of the well-remembered green colour. Thorndyke picked it
up, and, having exhibited it to me, produced from his letter-case a
little envelope such as seedsmen use, in which he put the treasure
trove, and as he uncapped his fountain pen, he looked up and down the
corridor.

“Which is the nearest room to this spot?” he asked.

“Madeline’s,” I replied. “That is the door of her bedroom, on the
right. But all the principal bedrooms are on this floor and Barbara’s
boudoir as well. This heap of rubbish is probably the sweepings from
all the rooms.”

“That is what it looks like,” he agreed as he wrote the particulars on
the envelope and slipped the latter in his letter-case. “You notice
that there are some other trifles in this heap—some broken glass, for
instance. But I will go through it when we have finished our tour,
though I may as well take this now.”

As he spoke, he stooped and picked up a short piece of rather
irregularly shaped glass rod with a swollen, rounded end.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is a portion of a small glass pestle and it belongs to one of
those little glass mortars such as chemists use in rubbing up powders
into solutions or suspensions. You had better not touch it, though it
has probably been handled pretty freely. But I shall test it on the
chance of discovering what it was last used for.”

He put it away carefully in another seed-envelope and then looked down
thoughtfully at the miniature dust-heap; but he made no further
investigations at the moment and we resumed the perambulation, I
placing the identification card on the mantelpiece of each room while
he looked sharply about him, opening all cupboards and receptacles and
peering into their, usually empty, interiors.

When we had inspected the servants’ bedrooms and the attics—leaving
the indispensable cards—we went down to the basement and visited the
kitchen, the scullery, the servants’ parlour and the cellars; and this
brought our tour to an end.

“Now,” said Thorndyke, “we proceed from the general to the particular.
While you are drawing up your schedule of dilapidations I will just
browse about and see if I can pick up any stray crumbs in which
inference can find nourishment. It isn’t a very hopeful quest, but you
observe that we have already lighted on two objects which may have a
meaning for us.”

“Yes, we have ascertained that some one in this house used a
particular kind of wool and that some one possessed a glass mortar.
Those do not seem to me very weighty facts.”

“They are not,” he agreed; “indeed, they are hardly facts at all. The
actual fact is that we have found the things here. But trifles light
as air sometimes serve to fill up the spaces in a train of
circumstantial evidence. I think I will go and have another look at
that rubbish-heap.”

I was strongly tempted to follow him, but could hardly do so in face
of his plainly expressed wish to make his inspection alone. Moreover,
I had already seen that there was more to be done than I had supposed.
The house was certainly not in bad repair, but neither did it look
very fresh nor attractive. Furniture and especially pictures have a
way of marking indelibly the walls of a room, and the paintwork in
several places showed disfiguring traces of wear. But I was anxious to
let this house, even at a nominal rent, so that, by a few years’
normal occupation its sinister reputation might be forgotten and its
value restored.

As a result, I was committed to a detailed inspection of the whole
house and the making of voluminous notes on the repairs and
re-decorations which would be necessary to tempt even an impecunious
tenant to forget that this was a house in which a murder had been
committed. For that was the current view, erroneous as I believed it
to be. Note-book in hand, I proceeded systematically from room to room
and from floor to floor, and became so engrossed with my own business
that I almost forgot Thorndyke; though I could hear him moving about
the house, and once I met him—on the first floor, with a couple of
empty medicine bottles and a small glass jar in his hands, apparently
making his way to Harold’s room, where, as I have said, he had left
his attaché case.

That room I left to the last, as it was already entered in my list and
I did not wish to appear to spy upon Thorndyke’s proceedings. When, at
length, I entered the room I found that he, like myself, had come to
the end of his task. On the floor his attaché case lay open, crammed
with various objects, several of which appeared to be bottles, wrapped
in oddments of waste paper (including some pieces of wall paper which
he had apparently stripped off _ad hoc_ when the other supplies
failed) and among which I observed a crumpled fly-paper. Respecting
this I remarked: “I don’t see why you are burdening yourself with
this. A fly-paper is in no sense an incriminating object, even though
such things have, at times, been put to unlawful use.”

“Very true,” he replied as he peeled off the rubber gloves which he
had been wearing during the search. “A fly-paper is a perfectly normal
domestic object. But, as you say, it can on occasion be used as a
source of arsenic for criminal purposes; and a paper that has been so
used will be found to have had practically the whole of the arsenic
soaked out of it. As I happened to find this in the servants’ parlour,
it seemed worth while to take it to see whether its charge of arsenic
had or had not been extracted.”

“But,” I objected, “why on earth should the poisoner—if there really
is such a person—have been at the trouble of soaking out fly-papers
when, apparently he was able to command an unlimited supply of
Fowler’s Solution?”

“Quite a pertinent question, Mayfield,” he rejoined. “But may I ask my
learned friend whether he found the evidence relating to the Fowler’s
Solution perfectly satisfactory?”

“But surely!” I exclaimed. “You had the evidence of two expert
witnesses on the point. What more would you require? What is the
difficulty?”

“The difficulty is this. There were several witnesses who testified
that when they saw the bottle of medicine, the Fowler’s Solution had
not yet been added; but there was none who saw the bottle after the
addition had been made.”

“But it must have been added before Mabel gave the patient the last
dose.”

“That is the inference. But Mabel said nothing to that effect. She was
not asked what colour the medicine was when she gave the patient that
dose.”

“But what of the analysts and the post mortem?”

“As to the post mortem, the arsenic which was found in the stomach was
not recognized as being in the form of Fowler’s Solution; and as to
the analysts, they made their examination three days after the man
died.”

“Still, the medicine that they analysed was the medicine that deceased
had taken. You don’t deny that, do you?”

“I neither deny it nor affirm it. I merely say that no evidence was
given that proved the presence of Fowler’s Solution in that bottle
before the man died; and that the bottle which was handed to the
analysts was one that had been exposed for three days in a room which
had been visited by a number of persons, including Mrs. Monkhouse,
Wallingford, Miss Norris, Mabel Withers, Amos Monkhouse, Dr. Dimsdale
and yourself.”

“You mean to suggest that the bottle might have been tampered with or
changed for another? But, my dear Thorndyke, why in the name of God
should any one want to change the bottle?”

“I am not suggesting that the bottle actually was changed. I am merely
pointing out that the evidence of the analysts is material only
subject to the conditions that the bottle which they examined was the
bottle from which the last dose of medicine was given and that its
contents were the same as on that occasion; and that no conclusive
proof exists that it was the same bottle or that the contents were
unchanged.”

“But what reason could there be for supposing that it might have been
changed?”

“There is no need to advance any reason. The burden of proof lies on
those who affirm that it was the same bottle with the same contents.
It is for them to prove that no change was possible. But obviously a
change was possible.”

“But still,” I persisted, “there seems to be no point in this
suggestion. Who could have had any motive for making a change? And
what could the motive have been? It looks to me like mere
logic-chopping and hair-splitting.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were for the defence,” chuckled
Thorndyke. “You would not let a point of first-rate importance pass on
a mere assumption, no matter how probable. And as to a possible
motive, surely a most obvious one is staring us in the face. Supposing
some person in this household had been administering arsenic in the
food. If it could be arranged that a poisonous dose could be
discovered in the medicine, you must see that the issue would be at
once transferred from the food to the medicine, and from those who
controlled the food to those who controlled the medicine. Which is, in
fact, what happened. As soon as the jury heard about the medicine,
their interest in the food became extinct.”

I listened to this exposition with a slightly sceptical smile. It was
all very ingenious but I found it utterly unconvincing.

“You ought to be pleading in court, Thorndyke,” I said, “instead of
grubbing about in empty houses and raking over rubbish-heaps. By the
way, have you found anything that seems likely to yield any
suggestions?”

“It is a little difficult to say,” he replied. “I have taken
possession of a number of bottles and small jars for examination as to
their contents, but I have no great expectation in respect of them. I
also found some fragments of the glass mortar—an eight-ounce mortar it
appears to have been.”

“Where did you find those?” I asked.

“In Miss Norris’s bedroom, in a little pile of rubbish under the
grate. They are only tiny fragments, but the curvature enables one to
reconstruct the vessel pretty accurately.”

It seemed to me a rather futile proceeding, but I made no comment. Nor
did I give utterance to a suspicion which had just flashed into my
mind, that it was the discovery of these ridiculous fragments of glass
that had set my learned friend splitting straws on the subject of the
medicine bottle. I had not much liked his suggestion as to the
possible motive of that hypothetical substitution, and I liked it less
now that he had discovered the remains of the mortar in Madeline’s
room. There was no doubt that Thorndyke had a remarkable constructive
imagination; and, as I followed him down the stairs and out into the
square, I found myself faintly uneasy lest that lively imagination
should carry him into deeper waters than I was prepared to navigate in
his company.



Chapter XIII

Rupert Makes Some Discoveries

By a sort of tacit understanding Thorndyke and I parted in the
vicinity of South Kensington Station, to which he had made a bee line
on leaving the square. As he had made no suggestion that I should go
back with him, I inferred that he had planned a busy evening examining
and testing the odds and ends that he had picked up in the empty
house; while I had suddenly conceived the idea that I might as well
take the opportunity of calling on Madeline, who might feel neglected
if I failed to put in an appearance within a reasonable time after my
return to town. Our researches had taken up most of the afternoon and
it was getting on for the hour at which Madeline usually left the
school; and as the latter was less than half-an-hour’s walk from the
station, I could reach it in good time without hurrying.

As I walked at an easy pace through the busily populated streets, I
turned over the events of the afternoon with rather mixed feelings. In
spite of my great confidence in Thorndyke, I was sensible of a chill
of disappointment in respect alike of his words and his deeds. In this
rather farcical grubbing about in the dismantled house there was a
faint suggestion of charlatanism; of the vulgar, melodramatic sleuth,
nosing out a trail; while, as to his hair-splitting objections to a
piece of straightforward evidence, they seemed to me to be of the kind
at which the usual hard-headed judge would shake his hard head while
grudgingly allowing them as technically admissible.

But whither was Thorndyke drifting? Evidently he had turned a dubious
eye on Wallingford; and that egregious ass seemed to be doing all that
he could to attract further notice. But to-day I had seemed to detect
a note of suspicion in regard to Madeline; and even making allowance
for the fact that he had not my knowledge of her gentle, gracious
personality, I could not but feel a little resentful. Once more,
Wallingford’s remarks concerning a possible mare’s nest and a public
scandal recurred to me, and, not for the first time, I was aware of
faint misgivings as to my wisdom in having set Thorndyke to stir up
these troubled waters. He had, indeed, given me fair warning, and I
was half-inclined to regret that I had not allowed myself to be warned
off. Of course, Thorndyke was much too old a hand to launch a
half-prepared prosecution into the air. But still, I could not but ask
myself uneasily whither his overacute inferences were leading him.

These reflections brought me to the gate of the school, where I
learned from the porter that Madeline had not yet left and accordingly
sent up my card. In less than a minute she appeared, dressed in her
out-of-door clothes and wreathed in smiles, looking, I thought, very
charming.

“How nice of you, Rupert!” she exclaimed, “to come and take me home. I
was wondering how soon you would come to see my little spinster lair.
It is only a few minutes’ walk from here. But I am sorry I didn’t know
you were coming, for I have arranged to make a call—a business
call—and I am due in about ten minutes. Isn’t it a nuisance?”

“How long will you have to stay?”

“Oh, a quarter of an hour, at least. Perhaps a little more.”

“Very well. I will wait outside for you and do sentry-go.”

“No, you won’t. I shall let you into my flat—I should have to pass
it—and you can have a wash and brush-up, and then you can prowl about
and see how you like my little mansion—I haven’t quite settled down in
it yet, but you must overlook that. By the time you have inspected
everything, I shall be back and then we can consider whether we will
have a late tea or an early supper. This is the way.”

She led me into a quiet by-street, one side of which was occupied by a
range of tall, rather forbidding buildings whose barrack-like aspect
was to some extent mitigated by signs of civilized humanity in the
tastefully curtained windows. Madeline’s residence was on the second
floor, and when she had let me in by the diminutive outer door and
switched on the light, she turned back to the staircase with a wave of
her hand.

“I will be back as soon as I can,” she said. “Meanwhile go in and make
yourself at home.”

I stood at the door and watched her trip lightly down the stairs until
she disappeared round the angle, when I shut the door and proceeded to
follow her injunctions to the letter by taking possession of the
bathroom, in which I was gratified to find a constant supply of hot
water. When I had refreshed myself by a wash, I went forth and made a
leisurely survey of the little flat. It was all very characteristic of
Madeline, the professional exponent of Domestic Economy, in its
orderly arrangement and its evidences of considered convenience. The
tiny kitchen reminded one of a chemical laboratory or a doctor’s
dispensary with its labelled jars of the cook’s materials set out in
ordered rows on their shelves, and the two little mortars, one of
Wedgewood ware and the other of glass. I grinned as my eye lighted on
this latter and I thought of the fragments carefully collected by
Thorndyke and solemnly transported to the Temple for examination.
Here, if he could have seen it, was evidence that proved the ownership
of that other mortar and at the same time demolished the significance
of that discovery.

I ventured to inspect the bedroom, and a very trim, pleasant little
room it was; but the feature which principally attracted my attention
was an arrangement for switching the electric light off and on from
the bed—an arrangement suspiciously correlated to a small set of
bookshelves also within easy reach of the bed. What interested me in
it was what Thorndyke would have called its “unmechanical ingenuity”;
for it consisted of no more than a couple of lengths of stout string,
of each of which one end was tied to the light-switch and the other
end led by a pair of screw-eyes to the head of the bed. No doubt the
simple device worked well enough in spite of the friction at each
screw-eye, but a man of less intelligence than Madeline would probably
have used levers or bell-cranks, or at least pulleys to diminish the
friction in changing the direction of the pull.

There was a second bedroom, at present unoccupied and only partially
furnished and serving, apparently, as a receptacle for such of
Madeline’s possessions as had not yet had a permanent place assigned
to them. Here were one or two chairs, some piles of books, a number of
pictures and several polished wood boxes and cases of various sizes;
evidently the residue of the goods and chattels that Madeline had
brought from her home and stored somewhere while she was living at
Hilborough Square. I ran my eye along the range of boxes, which were
set out on the top of a chest of drawers. One was an old-fashioned
tea-caddy, another an obvious folding desk of the same period, while a
third, which I opened, turned out to be a work-box of mid-Victorian
age. Beside it was a little flat rosewood case which looked like a
small case of mathematical instruments. Observing that the key was in
the lock, I turned it and lifted the lid, not with any conscious
curiosity as to what was inside it, but in the mere idleness of a man
who has nothing in particular to do. But the instant that the lid was
up my attention awoke with a bound and I stood with dropped jaw
staring at the interior in utter consternation.

There could be not an instant’s doubt as to what this case was, for
its green-baize-lined interior showed a shaped recess of the exact
form of a pocket pistol; and, if that were not enough, there, in its
own compartment was a little copper powder-flask, and in another
compartment about a dozen globular bullets.

I snapped down the lid and turned the key and walked guiltily out of
the room. My interest in Madeline’s flat was dead. I could think of
nothing but this amazing discovery. And the more I thought, the more
overpowering did it become. The pistol that fitted that case was the
exact counterpart of the pistol that I had seen in Thorndyke’s
laboratory; and the case, itself, corresponded exactly to his
description of the case from which that pistol had probably been
taken. It was astounding; and it was profoundly disturbing. For it
admitted of no explanation that I could bring myself to accept other
than that of a coincidence. And coincidences are unsatisfactory
things; and you can’t do with too many of them at once.

Yet, on reflection, this was the view that I adopted. Indeed, there
was no thinkable alternative. And really, when I came to turn the
matter over, it was not quite so extraordinary as it had seemed at the
first glance. For what, after all, was this pistol with its case? It
was not a unique thing. It was not even a rare thing. Thorndyke had
spoken of these pistols and cases as comparatively common things with
which he expected me to be familiar. Thousands of them must have been
made in their time, and since they were far from perishable, thousands
of them must still exist. The singularity of the coincidence was not
in the facts; it was the product of my own state of mind.

Thus I sought—none too successfully—to rid myself of the effects of
the shock that I had received on raising the lid of the case; and I
was still moodily gazing out of the sitting room window and arguing
away my perturbation when I heard the outer door shut and a moment
later Madeline looked into the room.

“I haven’t been so very long, have I?” she said, cheerily. “Now I will
slip off my cloak and hat and we will consider what sort of meal we
will have; or perhaps you will consider the question while I am gone.”

With this she flitted away; and my thoughts, passing by the problem
submitted, involuntarily reverted to the little rosewood case in the
spare room. But her absence was of a brevity suggesting the
performance of the professional quick-change artist. In a minute or
two I heard her approach and open the door; and I turned—to receive a
real knock-out blow.

I was so astonished and dismayed that I suppose I must have stood
staring like a fool, for she asked in a rather disconcerted tone:

“What is the matter, Rupert? Why are you looking at my jumper like
that? Don’t you like it?”

“Yes,” I stammered, “of course I do. Most certainly. Very charming.
Very—er—becoming. I like it—er—exceedingly.”

“I don’t believe you do,” she said, doubtfully, “you looked so
surprised when I first came in. You don’t think the colour too
startling, do you? Women wear brighter colours than they used to, you
know, and I do think this particular shade of green is rather nice.
And it is rather unusual, too.”

“It is,” I agreed, recovering myself by an effort. “Quite
distinctive.” And then, noting that I had unconsciously adopted
Thorndyke’s own expression, I added, hastily, “And I shouldn’t
describe it as startling, at all. It is in perfectly good taste.”

“I am glad you think that,” she said, “for you certainly did look
rather startled at first, and I had some slight misgivings about it
myself when I had finished it. It looked more brilliant in colour as a
garment than it did in the form of mere skeins.”

“You made it yourself, then?”

“Yes. But I don’t think I would ever knit another. It took me months
to do, and I could have bought one for very little more than the cost
of the wool, though, of course, I shouldn’t have been able to select
the exact tint that I wanted. But what about our meal? Shall we call
it tea or supper?”

She could have called it breakfast for all I cared, so completely had
this final shock extinguished my interest in food. But I had to make
some response to her eager hospitality.

“Let us split the difference or strike an average,” I replied. “We
will call it a ‘swarry’—tea and unusual trimmings.”

“Very well,” said she, “then you shall come to the kitchen and help. I
will show you the raw material of the feast and you shall dictate the
bill of fare.”

We accordingly adjourned to the kitchen where she fell to work on the
preparations with the unhurried quickness that is characteristic of
genuine efficiency, babbling pleasantly and pausing now and then to
ask my advice (which was usually foolish and had to be blandly
rejected) and treating the whole business with a sort of playful
seriousness that was very delightful. And all the time I looked on in
a state of mental chaos and bewilderment for which I can find no
words. There she was, my friend, Madeline, sweet, gentle, feminine—the
very type of gracious womanhood, and the more sweet and gracious by
reason of these homely surroundings. For it is an appalling
reflection, in these days of lady professors and women legislators,
that to masculine eyes a woman never looks so dignified, so
worshipful, so entirely desirable, as when she is occupied in the
traditional activities that millenniums of human experience have
associated with her sex. To me, Madeline, flitting about the
immaculate little kitchen, neat-handed, perfect in the knowledge of
her homely craft; smiling, dainty, fragile, with her gracefully
flowing hair and the little apron that she had slipped on as a sort of
ceremonial garment, was a veritable epitome of feminine charm. And
yet, but a few feet away was a rosewood case that had once held a
pistol; and even now, in Thorndyke’s locked cabinet—but my mind
staggered under the effort of thought and refused the attempt to
combine and collate a set of images so discordant.

“You are very quiet, Rupert,” she said, presently, pausing to look at
me. “What is it? I hope you haven’t any special worries.”

“We all have our little worries, Madeline,” I replied, vaguely.

“Yes, indeed,” said she, still regarding me thoughtfully; and for the
first time I noticed that she seemed to have aged a little since I had
last seen her and that her face, in repose, showed traces of strain
and anxiety. “We all have our troubles and we all try to put them on
you. How did you think Barbara was looking?”

“Extraordinarily well. I was agreeably surprised.”

“Yes. She is wonderful. I am full of admiration of the way she has put
away everything connected with—with that dreadful affair. I couldn’t
have done it if I had been in her place. I couldn’t have let things
rest. I should have wanted to know.”

“I have no doubt that she does. We all want to know. But she can do no
more than the rest of us. Do you ever see Wallingford now?”

“Oh, dear, yes. He was inclined to be rather too attentive at first,
but Barbara gave him a hint that spinsters who live alone don’t want
too many visits from their male friends, so now he usually comes with
her.”

“I must bear Barbara’s words of wisdom in mind,” said I.

“Indeed you won’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rupert. You
know her hint doesn’t apply to you. And I shouldn’t have troubled
about the proprieties in Tony’s case if I had really wanted him. But I
didn’t, though I am awfully sorry for him.”

“Yes, he seems to be in a bad way mentally, poor devil. Of course you
have heard about his delusions?”

“If they really are delusions, but I am not at all sure that they are.
Now help me to carry these things into the sitting room and then I
will do the omelette and bring it in.”

I obediently took up the tray and followed her into the sitting room,
where I completed the arrangement of the table while she returned to
the kitchen to perform the crowning culinary feat. In a minute or two
she came in with the product under a heated cover and we took our
seats at the table.

“You were speaking of Wallingford,” said I. “Apparently you know more
about him than I do. It seemed to me that he was stark mad.”

“He is queer enough, I must admit—don’t let your omelette get cold—but
I think you and Barbara are mistaken about his delusions. I suspect
that somebody is really keeping him under observation; and if that is
so, one can easily understand why his nerves are so upset.”

“Yes, indeed. But when you say you suspect that we are mistaken, what
does that mean? Is it just a pious opinion or have you something to go
upon?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t offer a mere pious opinion to a learned counsel,” she
replied, with a smile. “I have something to go upon, and I will tell
you about it, though I expect you will think I am stark mad, too. The
fact is that I have been under observation, too.”

“Nonsense, Madeline,” I exclaimed. “The thing is absurd. You have let
Wallingford infect you.”

“There!” she retorted. “What did I say? You think I am qualifying for
an asylum now. But I am not. Absurd as the thing seems—and I quite
agree with you on that point—it is an actual fact. I haven’t the
slightest doubt about it.”

“Well,” I said, “I am open to conviction. But let us have your actual
facts. How long do you think it has been going on?”

“That I can’t say; and I don’t think it is going on now at all. At any
rate, I have seen no signs of any watcher for more than a week, and I
keep a pretty sharp lookout. The way I first became aware of it was
this: I happened one day at lunch time to be looking out of this
window through the chink in the curtains when I saw a man pass along
slowly on the other side of the street and glance up, as it seemed, at
this window. I didn’t notice him particularly, but still I did look at
him when he glanced up, and of course, his face was then directly
towards me. Now it happened that, a few minutes afterwards, I looked
out again; and then I saw what looked like the same man pass along
again, at the same slow pace and in the same direction. And again he
looked up at the window, though he couldn’t have seen me because I was
hidden by the curtain. But this time I looked at him very closely and
made careful mental notes of his clothing, his hat and his features,
because, you see, I remembered what Tony had said and I hadn’t
forgotten the way I was treated at the inquest or the way in which
that detective man had turned out my cupboard when he came to search
the house. So I looked this man over very carefully indeed so that I
should recognize him without any doubt if I should see him again.

“Well, before I went out after lunch I had a good look out of the
window, but I couldn’t see anything of him; nor did I see him on my
way to the school, though I stopped once or twice and looked back.
When I got to the school I stopped at the gate and looked along the
street both ways, but still there was no sign of him. Then I ran up to
a class-room window from which I could see up and down the street; and
presently I saw him coming along slowly on the school side and I was
able to check him off point by point, and though he didn’t look up
this time, I could see his face and check that off, too. There was no
doubt whatever that it was the same man.

“When I came out of school that afternoon I looked round but could not
see him, so I walked away quickly in the direction that I usually take
when going home, but suddenly turned a corner and slipped into a shop.
I stayed there a few minutes buying some things, then I came out, and,
seeing no one, slipped round the corner and took my usual way home but
kept carefully behind a man and a woman who were going the same way. I
hadn’t gone very far before I saw my man standing before a shop window
but evidently looking up and down the street. I was quite close to him
before he saw me and of course I did not appear to notice him; but I
hurried home without looking round and ran straight up to this window
to watch for him. And sure enough, in about a couple of minutes I saw
him come down the street and walk slowly past.”

“And did you see him again after that?”

“Yes, I saw him twice more that same day. I went out for a walk in the
evening on purpose to give him a lead. And I saw him from time to time
every day for about ten days. Then I missed him, and I haven’t seen a
sign of him for more than a week. I suppose he found me too monotonous
and gave me up.”

“It is very extraordinary,” I said, convinced against my will by her
very circumstantial description. “What possible object could any one
have in keeping a watch on you?”

“That is what I have wondered,” said she. “But I suppose the police
have to do something for their pay.”

“But this doesn’t quite look like a police proceeding. There is
something rather feeble and amateurish about the affair. With all due
respect to your powers of observation, Madeline, I don’t think a
Scotland Yard man would have let himself be spotted quite so easily.”

“But who else could it be?” she objected; and then, after a pause, she
added with a mischievous smile, “unless it should be your friend, Dr.
Thorndyke. That would really be a quaint situation—if I should, after
all, be indebted to you, Rupert, for these polite attentions.”

I brushed the suggestion aside hastily but with no conviction. And
once more I recalled Wallingford’s observations on mare’s nests.
Obviously this clumsy booby was not a professional detective. And if
not, what could he be but some hired agent of Thorndyke’s. It was one
more perplexity, and added to those with which my mind was already
charged, it reduced me to moody silence which must have made me the
very reverse of an exhilarating companion. Indeed, when Madeline had
rallied me once or twice on my gloomy preoccupation, I felt that the
position was becoming untenable. I wanted to be alone and think things
out; but as it would have been hardly decent to break up our little
party and take my departure, I determined, if possible, to escape from
this oppressive tête-à-tête. Fortunately, I remembered that a famous
pianist was giving a course of recitals at a hall within easy walking
distance and ventured to suggest that we might go and hear him.

“I would rather stay here and gossip with you,” she replied, “but as
you don’t seem to be in a gossiping humour, perhaps the music might be
rather nice. Yes, let us go. I don’t often hear any good music
nowadays.”

Accordingly we went, and on the way to the hall Madeline gave me a few
further details of her experiences with her follower; and I was not a
little impressed by her wariness and the ingenuity with which she had
lured that guileless sleuth into exposed and well-lighted situations.

“By the way,” said I, “what was the fellow like? Give me a few
particulars of his appearance in case I should happen to run across
him.”

“Good Heavens, Rupert!” she exclaimed, laughing mischievously, “you
don’t suppose he will take to haunting you, do you? That would really
be the last straw, especially if he should happen to be employed by
Dr. Thorndyke.”

“It would,” I admitted with a faint grin, “though Thorndyke is
extremely thorough and he plumes himself on keeping an open mind. At
any rate, let us have a few details.”

“There was nothing particularly startling about him. He was a
medium-sized man, rather fair, with a longish, sharp, turned-up nose
and a sandy moustache, rather bigger than men usually have nowadays.
He was dressed in a blue serge suit, without an overcoat and he wore a
brown soft felt hat, a turn-down collar and a dark green necktie with
white spots. He had no gloves but he carried a walking-stick—a
thickish yellow cane with a crooked handle.”

“Not very distinctive,” I remarked, disparagingly.

“Don’t you think so?” said she. “I thought he was rather easy to
recognize with that brown hat and the blue suit and the big moustache
and pointed nose. Of course, if he had worn a scarlet hat and
emerald-green trousers and carried a brass fire-shovel instead of a
walking-stick he would have been still easier to recognize; but you
mustn’t expect too much, even from a detective.”

I looked with dim surprise into her smiling face and was more
bewildered than ever. If she were haunted by any gnawing anxieties,
she had a wonderful way of throwing them off. Nothing could be less
suggestive of a guilty conscience than this quiet gaiety and placid
humour. However, there was no opportunity for moralizing, for her
little retort had brought us to the door of the hall; and we had
barely time to find desirable seats before the principal musician took
his place at the instrument.

It was a delightful entertainment; and if the music did not “sooth my
savage breast” into complete forgetfulness, it occupied my attention
sufficiently to hinder consecutive thought on any other subject.
Indeed, it was not until I had said “good night” to Madeline outside
her flat and turned my face towards the neighbouring station that I
was able to attempt a connected review of the recent startling
discoveries.

What could they possibly mean? The pistol alone could have been argued
away as a curious coincidence, and the same might have been possible
even in the case of the wool. But the two together! The long arm of
coincidence was not long enough for that. The wisp of wool that we had
found in the empty house was certainly—admittedly—Madeline’s. But that
wisp matched identically the ball of wool from the pistol; and here
was a missing pistol which was certainly the exact counterpart of that
which had contained the wool plug. The facts could not be disputed.
Was it possible to escape from the inferences which they yielded?

The infernal machine, feeble as it was, gave evidence of a diabolical
intention—an intention that my mind utterly refused to associate with
Madeline. And yet, even in the moment of rejection, my memory suddenly
recalled the arrangement connected with the electric light switch in
Madeline’s bedroom. Its mechanism was practically identical with that
of the infernal machine, and the materials used—string and
screw-eyes—were actually the same. It seemed impossible to escape from
this proof piled on proof.

But if the machine itself declared an abominable intention, what of
that which lay behind the machine? The sending of that abomination was
not an isolated or independent act. It was related to some antecedent
act, as Thorndyke had implied. Whoever sent it, had a guilty
conscience.

But guilty of what?

As I asked myself this question, and the horrid, inevitable answer
framed itself in my mind, I turned automatically from Middle Temple
Lane and passed into the deep shadow of the arch that gives entrance
to Elm Court.



Chapter XIV

Rupert Confides in Thorndyke

Although few of its buildings (excepting the Halls) are of really
great antiquity, the precinct of the Temples shares with the older
parts of London at least one medieval characteristic: it abounds in
those queer little passages and alleys which, burrowing in all
directions under the dwelling-houses, are a source of endless
confusion and bewilderment to the stranger, though to the accustomed
denizen they offer an equally great convenience. For by their use the
seasoned Templar makes his way from any one part of the precinct to
any other, if not in an actual bee-line, at least in an abbreviated
zig-zag that cuts across the regular thoroughfares as though they were
mere paths traversing an open meadow. Some of these alleys do, indeed,
announce themselves even to unaccustomed eyes, as public passage-ways,
by recognizable entrance arches; but many of them scorn even this
degree of publicity, artfully concealing their existence from the
uninitiated by an ordinary doorway, which they share with a pair of
houses. Whereby the unsuspecting stranger, entering what, in his
innocence, he supposes to be the front doorway of a house, walks along
the hall and is presently astonished to find himself walking out of
another front door into another thoroughfare.

The neighbourhood of Fig Tree Court is peculiarly rich in these
deceptive burrows, indeed, excepting from the Terrace, it has no other
avenue of approach. On the present occasion I had the choice of two,
and was proceeding along the narrow lane of Elm Court to take the
farther one, which led to the entry of my chambers, when I caught
sight of a man approaching hurriedly from the direction of the
Cloisters. At the first glance, I thought I recognized him—though he
was a mere silhouette in the dim light—as the loiterer whom I had seen
on the night of my return. And his behaviour confirmed my suspicion;
for as he came in sight of me, he hesitated for a moment and then,
quickening his pace forward, disappeared suddenly through what
appeared to be a hole in the wall but was, in fact, the passage for
which I was making.

Instantly, I turned back and swiftly crossing the square of Elm Court,
dived into the burrow at its farther corner and came out into the
little square of Fig Tree Court at the very moment when the mysterious
stranger emerged from the burrow at the other side, so that we met
face to face in the full light of the central lamp.

Naturally, I was the better prepared for the encounter and I pursued
my leisurely way towards my chambers with the air of not having
observed him; while he, stopping short for a moment with a wild stare
at me, dashed across the square and plunged into the passage from
which I had just emerged.

I did not follow him. I had seen him and had thereby confirmed a
suspicion that had been growing upon me, and that was enough. For I
need hardly say that the man was Anthony Wallingford. But though I was
prepared for the identification, I was none the less puzzled and
worried by it. Here was yet another perplexity; and I was just
stepping into my entry to reflect upon it at my leisure when I became
aware of hurrying footsteps in the passage through which Wallingford
had come. Quickly drawing back into the deep shadow of the vestibule,
I waited to see who this new-comer might be. In a few seconds he
rushed out of the passage and came to a halt in the middle of the
square, nearly under the lamp, where he stood for a few moments,
looking to right and left and listening intently. And now I realized
the justice of what Madeline had said; for, commonplace as the man
was, I recognized him in an instant. Brown hat, blue serge suit, big,
sandy moustache and concave, pointed nose; they were not sensational
characteristics, but they identified him beyond a moment’s doubt.

Apparently, his ear must have caught the echoes of Wallingford’s
footsteps, for, after a very brief pause, he started off at something
approaching a trot and disappeared into the passage by which I had
come and Wallingford had gone. A sudden, foolish curiosity impelled me
to follow and observe the methods of this singular and artless sleuth.
But I did not follow directly. Instead, I turned and ran up the other
passage, which leads into the narrow part of Elm Court; and as I came
flying out of the farther end of it I ran full tilt into a man who was
running along the court towards the Cloisters. Of course the man was
Wallingford. Who else would be running like a lunatic through the
Temple at night, unless it were his pursuer?

With muttered curses but no word of recognition, he disengaged himself
and pursued his way, disappearing at length round the sharp turn in
the lane which leads towards the Cloisters. I did not follow him, but
drew back into the dark passage and waited. Very soon another figure
became visible, approaching rapidly along the dimly lighted lane. I
drew farther back and presently from my hiding-place I saw the
brown-hatted shadower steal past with a ridiculous air of secrecy and
caution; and when he had passed, I peered out and watched his receding
figure until it disappeared round the angle of the lane.

I felt half-tempted to join the absurd procession and see what
eventually became of these two idiots. But I had really seen enough. I
now knew that Wallingford’s “delusions” were no delusions at all and
that Madeline’s story set forth nothing but the genuine, indisputable
truth. And with these new facts to add to my unwelcome store of data,
I walked slowly back to my chambers, cogitating as I went.

In truth, I had abundant material for reflection. The more I turned
over my discoveries in Madeline’s flat the more did the incriminating
evidence seem to pile up. I recalled Polton’s plainly expressed
suspicion that the sender of the infernal machine was a woman; and I
recalled Thorndyke’s analysis of the peculiarities of the thing with
the inferences which those peculiarities suggested, and read into them
a more definite meaning. I now saw what the machine had conveyed to
him, and what he had been trying to make it convey to me. The
unmechanical outlook combined with evident ingenuity, the
unfamiliarity with ordinary mechanical appliances, the ignorance
concerning the different kinds of gun-powder, the lack of those common
tools which nearly every man, but hardly any woman, possesses and can
use: all these peculiarities of the unknown person were feminine
peculiarities. And finally, there had been the plug of knitting-wool:
a most unlikely material for a man to use for such a purpose, or,
indeed, to possess at all.

So my thoughts went over and over the same ground, and every time
finding escape from the obvious conclusion more and more impossible.
The evidence of Madeline’s complicity—at the very least—in the sending
of the infernal machine appeared overwhelming. I could not reject it.
Nor could I deny what the sending of it implied. It was virtually a
confession of guilt. And yet, even as I admitted this to myself, I was
strangely enough aware that my feelings towards Madeline remained
unaltered. The rational, legal side of me condemned her. But somehow,
in some incomprehensible way, that condemnation had a purely
technical, academic quality. It left my loyalty and affection for her
untouched.

But what of Thorndyke? Had his reasoning travelled along the same
lines? If it had, there would be nothing sentimental in _his_
attitude. He had warned me, and I knew well enough that whenever there
should be evidence enough to put before a court, the law would be set
in motion. What, then, was his present position? And even as I asked
myself the question, there echoed uncomfortably in my mind the
significant suggestion that he had thrown out only a few hours ago
concerning the bottle of medicine. Evidently, he at least entertained
the possibility that the Fowler’s Solution had been put into that
bottle after Monkhouse’s death, and that for the express purpose of
diverting suspicion from the food. The manifest implication was that
he entertained the possibility that the poison had been administered
in the food. But to suspect this was to suspect the person who
prepared the food of being the poisoner. And the person who prepared
the food was Madeline.

The question, therefore, as to Thorndyke’s state of mind was a vital
one. He had expressed no suspicion of Madeline. But then he had
expressed no suspicion of anybody. On the other hand, he had
exonerated nobody. He was frankly observant of every member of that
household. Then there was the undeniable fact that Madeline had been
watched and followed. Somebody suspected her. But who? The watcher was
certainly not a detective. Amateur was writ large all over him. Then
it was not the police who suspected her. Apparently there remained
only Thorndyke, though one would have expected him to employ a more
efficient agent.

But Wallingford was also under observation, and more persistently.
Then he, too, was suspected. But here there was some show of reason.
For what was Wallingford doing in the Temple? Evidently he had been
lurking about, apparently keeping a watch on Thorndyke, though for
what purpose I could not imagine. Still, it was a suspicious
proceeding and justified some watch being kept on him. But the
shadowing of Madeline was incomprehensible.

I paced up and down my sitting room turning these questions over in my
mind and all the time conscious of a curious sense of unreality in the
whole affair; in all this watching and following and dodging which
looked so grotesque and purposeless. I felt myself utterly bewildered.
But I was also profoundly unhappy and, indeed, overshadowed by a
terrible dread. For out of this chaos one fact emerged clearly: there
was a formidable body of evidence implicating Madeline. If Thorndyke
had known what I knew, her position would have been one of the gravest
peril. My conscience told me that it was my duty to tell him; and I
knew that I had no intention of doing anything of the kind. But still
the alarming question haunted me: how much did he really know? How
much did he suspect?

In the course of my perambulations I passed and repassed a smallish
deed box which stood on a lower book-shelf and which was to me what
the Ark of the Covenant was to the ancient Israelites: the repository
of my most sacred possessions. Its lid bore the name “Stella,” painted
on it by me, and its contents were a miscellany of trifles, worthless
intrinsically, but to me precious beyond all price as relics of the
dear friend who had been all in all to me during her short life and
who, though she had been lying in her grave for four long years, was
all in all to me still. Often, in the long, solitary evenings, had I
taken the relics out of their abiding-place and let the sight of them
carry my thoughts back to the golden days of our happy companionship,
filling in the pleasant pictures with the aid of my diary—but that was
unnecessary now, since I knew the entries by heart—and painting other,
more shadowy pictures of a future that might have been. It was a
melancholy pleasure, perhaps, but yet, as the years rolled on, the
bitterness of those memories grew less bitter and still the sweet
remained.

Presently, as for the hundredth time the beloved name met my eye,
there came upon me a yearning to creep back with her into the sunny
past; to forget, if only for a short hour, the hideous anxieties of
the present and in memory to walk with her once more “along the meads
of asphodel.”

Halting before the box, I stood and lifted it tenderly to the table
and having unlocked it, raised the lid and looked thoughtfully into
the interior. Then, one by one, I lifted out my treasures, set them
out in order on the table and sat down to look at them and let them
speak to me their message of peace and consolation.

To a stranger’s eye they were a mere collection of odds and ends. Some
would have been recognizable as relics of the more conventional type.
There were several photographs of the dead girl, some taken by myself,
and a tress of red-gold hair—such hair as I had been told often
glorifies the victims whom consumption had marked for its own. It had
been cut off for me by Barbara when she took her own tress, and tied
up with a blue ribbon. But it was not these orthodox relics that spoke
to me most intimately. I had no need of their aid to call up the
vision of her person. The things that set my memory working were the
records of actions and experiences; the sketch-books, the loose
sketches and the little plaster plaques and medallions that she had
made with my help after she had become bed-ridden and could go no more
abroad to sketch. Every one of these had its story to tell, its vision
to call up.

I turned over the sketches—simple but careful pencil drawings for the
most part, for Stella, like me, had more feeling for form than for
colour—and recalled the making of them; the delightful rambles across
the sunny meadows or through the cool woodlands, the solemn planting
of sketching-stools and earnest consultation on the selection and
composition of the subjects. These were the happiest days, before the
chilly hand of the destroyer had been laid on its chosen victim and
there was still a long and sunny future to be vaguely envisaged.

And then I turned to the little plaques and medallions which she had
modelled and under my supervision and of which I had made the plaster
moulds and casts. These called up sadder memories, but yet they spoke
of an even closer and more loving companionship; for each work was, in
a way, a joint achievement over which we had triumphed and rejoiced
together. So it happened that, although the shadow of sickness, and at
last of death, brooded over them, it was on these relics that I tended
to linger most lovingly.

Here was the slate that I had got for her to stick the clay on and
which she used to hold propped up against her knees as she worked with
never-failing enthusiasm through the long, monotonous days, and even,
when she was well enough, far into the night by the light of the
shaded candle. Here were the simple modelling-tools and the little
sponge and the Camel-hair brush with which she loved to put the final
finish on the damp clay reliefs. Here was Lanterri’s priceless
text-book over which we used to pore together and laud that
incomparable teacher. Here were the plaques, medals and medallions
that we had prised out, with bated breath, from their too-adherent
moulds. And here—the last and saddest relic—was the wax mould from
which no cast had ever been made, the final, crowning work of those
deft, sensitive fingers.

For the thousandth time, I picked it up and let the light fall
obliquely across its hollows. The work was a medal some three inches
across, a portrait of Stella, herself, modelled from a profile
photograph that I had taken for the purpose. It was an excellent
likeness and unquestionably the best piece of modelling that she had
ever done.

Often, I had intended to take the cast from it, but always had been
restrained by a vague reluctance to disturb the mould. Now, as I
looked at the delicate, sunken impression, I had again the feeling
that this, her last work, ought to be finished; and I was still
debating the matter with the mould in my hand when I heard a quick
step upon the stair, followed by a characteristic knock on my door.

My first impulse was to hustle my treasures back into their box before
answering the summons. But this was almost instantly followed by a
revulsion. I recognized the knock as Thorndyke’s; and somehow there
came upon me a desire to share my memories with him. He had shown a
strangely sympathetic insight into my feelings towards Stella. He had
read my diary. He now knew the whole story; and he was the kindest,
the most loyal and most discreet of friends. Gently laying down the
mould I went to the door and threw it open.

“I saw your light burning as I passed just now,” said Thorndyke as he
entered and shook my hand warmly, “so I thought I would take the
opportunity to drop in and return your diary. I hope I am not
disturbing you. If I am, you must treat me as a friend and eject me.”

“Not at all, Thorndyke,” I replied. “On the contrary, you would be
doing me a charity if you would stay and smoke a companionable pipe.”

“Good,” said he, “then I will give myself the pleasure of a quiet
gossip. But what is amiss, Mayfield?” he continued, laying a friendly
hand on my shoulder and looking me over critically. “You look worn,
and worried and depressed. You are not letting your mind dwell too
much, I hope, on the tragedy that has come unbidden into your life?”

“I am afraid I am,” I replied. “The horrible affair haunts me.
Suspicion and mystery are in the very air I breathe. A constant menace
seems to hang over all my friends, so that I am in continual dread of
some new catastrophe. I have just ascertained that Wallingford is
really being watched and shadowed; and not only Wallingford but even
Miss Norris.”

He did not appear surprised or seek for further information. He merely
nodded and looked into my face with grave sympathy.

“Put it away, Mayfield,” said he. “That is my counsel to you. Try to
forget it. You have put the investigation into my hands. Leave it
there and wash your own of it. You did not kill Harold Monkhouse.
Whoever did must pay the penalty if ever the crime should be brought
home to the perpetrator. And if it never can be, it were better that
you and all of us should let it sink into oblivion rather than allow
it to remain to poison the lives of innocent persons. Let us forget it
now. I see you were trying to.”

I had noticed that when he first entered the room, he cast a single,
swift glance at the table which, I was sure, had comprehended every
object on it. Then he had looked away and never again let his eyes
stray in that direction. But now, as he finished speaking, he glanced
once more at the table, and this time with undisguised interest.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I was trying to find in the memories of the past
an antidote for the present. These are the relics of that past. I
daresay you have read of them in the diary and probably have written
me down a mawkish sentimentalist.”

“I pray you, my friend, not to do me that injustice!” he exclaimed.
“Faithful friendship that even survives the grave, is not a thing that
any man can afford to despise. But for the disaster of untimely death,
your faithfulness and hers would have created for two persons the
perfect life. I assure you, Mayfield, that I have been deeply moved by
the story of your delightful friendship and your irreparable loss. But
don’t let us dwell too much on the sad aspects of the story. Show me
your relics. I see some very charming little plaques among them.”

He picked up one with reassuring daintiness of touch and examined it
through a reading-glass that I handed to him.

“It really is a most admirable little work,” said he. “Not in the
least amateurish. She had the makings of a first-class medallist; the
appreciation of the essential qualities of a miniature relief. And she
had a fine feeling for composition and spacing.”

Deeply gratified by his appreciation and a little surprised by his
evident knowledge of the medallist’s art, I presented the little
works, one after another, and we discussed their merits with the
keenest interest. Presently he asked:

“Has it never occurred to you, Mayfield, that these charming little
works ought to be finished?”

“Finished?” I repeated. “But, aren’t they finished?”

“Certainly not. They are only in the plaster. But a plaster cast is an
intermediate form, just a mere working model. It is due to the merits
of these plaques and medals that they should be put into permanent
material—silver or copper or bronze. I’ll tell you what, Mayfield,” he
continued, enthusiastically. “You shall let Polton make replicas of
some of them—he could do it with perfect safety to the originals. Then
we could hand the casts to an electrotyper or a founder—I should
favour the electrotype process for such small works—and have them
executed in whichever metal you preferred. Then you would be able to
see, for the first time, the real quality of the modelling.”

I caught eagerly at the idea, but yet I was a little nervous.

“You think it would be perfectly safe?” I asked.

“Absolutely safe. Polton would make gelatine moulds which couldn’t
possibly injure the originals.”

That decided me. I fell in with the suggestion enthusiastically, and
forthwith we began an anxious consultation as to the most suitable
pieces with which to make a beginning. We had selected half a dozen
casts when my glance fell on the wax mould. That was Stella’s
masterpiece and it certainly ought to be finished; but I was loath to
part with the mould for fear of an accident. Very dubiously, I handed
it to Thorndyke and asked:

“What do you think of this? Could it be cast without any risk of
breaking it?”

He laid the mould on the table before him so that the light fell
obliquely across it and looked down on it reflectively.

“So,” said he, “this is the wax mould. I was reading about it only
yesterday and admiring your resourcefulness and ingenuity. I must read
the entry again with the actual object before me.”

He opened the diary, which he had laid on the table, and when he had
found the entry, read it to himself in an undertone.

“Dropped in to have tea with Stella and found her bubbling with
excitement and triumph. She had just finished the portrait medal and
though her eyes were red and painful from the strain of the close
work, in spite of her new spectacles, she was quite happy and as proud
as a little peacock. And well she might be. I should like Lanterri to
see his unknown pupil’s work. We decided to make the mould of it at
once, but when I got out the plaster tin, I found it empty. Most
unfortunate, for the clay was beginning to dry and I didn’t dare to
damp it. But something had to be done to protect it. Suddenly I had a
brilliant idea. There was nearly a whole candle in Stella’s
candlestick, quite enough for a mould, and good, hard wax that
wouldn’t warp. I took off the reflector and lighted the candle, which
I took out of the candlestick and held almost upside down over the
clay medal and let the wax drip on to it. Soon the medal was covered
by a film of wax which grew thicker and thicker, until, by the time I
had used up practically the whole of the candle, there was a good,
solid crust of wax, quite strong enough to cast from. When I went
home, I took the slate with me with the wax mould sticking to it,
intending to cover it with a plaster shell for extra safety. But my
plaster tin was empty, too, so I put the slate away in a safe place
until I should get some fresh plaster to make the cast; which will not
happen until I get back from Chelmsford.

“Busy evening getting ready for to-morrow; hope I shall feel less
cheap then than I do now.”

As Thorndyke finished reading he looked up and remarked: “That was an
excellent plan of yours. I have seen Polton use the same method. But
how was it that you never made the cast?”

“I was afraid of damaging the mould. As you know, when I came back
from Ipswich, Stella was dead, and as the medal was her last work and
her best, I hardly dared to risk the chance of destroying it.”

“Still,” Thorndyke urged, “it was the medal that was her work. The
mould was your own; and the medal exists only potentially in the
mould. It will come into actual existence only when the cast is made.”

I saw the force of this, but I was still a little uneasy, and said so.

“There is no occasion,” said he. “The mould is amply strong enough to
cast from. It might possibly break in separating the cast, but that
would be of no consequence, as you would then have the cast, which
would be the medal, itself. And it could then be put into bronze or
silver.”

“Very well,” I said, “if you guarantee the safety of the operation, I
am satisfied. I should love to see it in silver; or perhaps it might
look even better in gold.”

Having disposed of the works, themselves, we fell to discussing the
question of suitable settings or frames; and this led us to the
subject of the portraits. Thorndyke glanced over the collection, and
picking up one, which happened to be my own favourite, looked at it
thoughtfully.

“It is a beautiful face,” said he, “and this seems to have been a
singularly happy portrait. In red chalk autotype, it would make a
charming little picture. Did you take it?”

“Yes; and as I have the negative I am inclined to adopt your
suggestion. I am surprised that I never thought of it myself, for red
chalk is exactly the right medium.”

“Then let Polton have the negative. He is quite an expert in autotype
work.”

I accepted the offer gladly and we then came back to the question of
framing. Thorndyke’s suggestion was that the portrait should be
treated as a medallion and enclosed in a frame to match that of the
medal. The idea appealed to me rather strongly, and presently a
further one occurred to me, though it was suggested indirectly by
Thorndyke, who had taken up the tress of Stella’s hair and was looking
at it admiringly as he drew it softly between his fingers.

“Human hair,” he remarked, “and particularly a woman’s hair, is always
a beautiful material, no matter what its colour may be; but this
red-gold variety is one of the most gorgeous of Nature’s productions.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is extremely decorative. Barbara had her tress
made up into a thin plait and worked into the frame of a miniature of
Stella. I liked the idea, but somehow the effect is not so very
pleasing. But it is an oblong frame.”

“I don’t think,” said Thorndyke, “that a plait was quite the best
form. A little cable would look better, especially for a medallion
portrait; indeed I think that if you had a plain square black frame
with a circular opening, a little golden cable, carried round
concentrically with the opening would have a rather fine effect.”

“So it would,” I exclaimed. “I think it would look charming. I had no
idea, Thorndyke, that you were a designer. Do you think Polton could
make the cable?”

“Polton,” he replied, impressively, “can do anything that can be done
with a single pair of human hands. Let him have the hair, and he will
make the cable and the frame, too; and he will see that the glass
cover is an airtight fit—for, of course, the cable would have to be
under the glass.”

To this also I agreed with a readiness that surprised myself. And yet
it was not surprising. Hitherto I had been accustomed secretly and in
solitude to pore over these pathetic little relics of happier days and
lock up my sorrows and my sense of bereavement in my own breast. Now,
for the first time, I had a confidant who shared the knowledge of my
shattered hopes and vanished happiness; and so whole heartedly, with
such delicate sympathy and perfect understanding had Thorndyke entered
into the story of my troubled life that I found in his companionship
not only a relief from my old self-repression but a sort of subdued
happiness. Almost cheerfully I fetched an empty cigar-box and a supply
of cotton wool and tissue paper and helped him tenderly and delicately
to pack my treasures for their first exodus from under my roof. And it
was with only a faint twinge of regret that I saw him, at length,
depart with the box under his arm.

“You needn’t be uneasy, Mayfield,” he said, pausing on the stairs to
look back. “Nothing will be injured; and as soon as the casting is
successfully carried through, I shall drop a note in your letter-box
to set your mind at rest. Good night.”

I watched him as he descended the stairs, and listened to his quick
foot-falls, fading away up the court. Then I went back to my room with
a faint sense of desolation to re-pack the depleted deed-box and
thereafter to betake myself to bed.



Chapter XV

A Pursuit and a Discovery

More than a week had passed since that eventful evening—how eventful I
did not then realize—when I had delivered my simple treasures into
Thorndyke’s hands. But I was not uneasy; for, within twenty-four
hours, I had found in my letter-box the promised note, assuring me
that the preliminary operations had been safely carried through and
that nothing had been damaged. Nor was I impatient. I realized that
Polton had other work than mine on hand and that there was a good deal
to do. Moreover, a little rush of business had kept me employed and
helped me to follow Thorndyke’s counsel and forget, as well as I
could, the shadow of mystery and peril that hung over my friends, and,
by implication, over me.

But on the evening of which I am now speaking I was free. I had
cleared off the last of the day’s work, and, after dining reposefully
at my club, found myself with an hour or two to spare before bed-time;
and it occurred to me to look in on Thorndyke to smoke a friendly pipe
and perchance get a glimpse of the works in progress.

I entered the Temple from the west, and, threading my way through the
familiar labyrinth, crossed Tanfield Court, and passing down the
narrow alley at its eastern side, came out into King’s Bench Walk. I
crossed the Walk at once and was sauntering down the pavement towards
Thorndyke’s house when I noticed a large, closed car drawn up at its
entry, and, standing on the pavement by the car, a tall man whom I
recognized by the lamp light as Mr. Superintendent Miller.

Now I did not much want to meet the superintendent, and in any case it
was pretty clear to me that my visit to Thorndyke was not very
opportune. The presence of Miller suggested business, and the size of
the car suggested other visitors. Accordingly I slowed down and was
about to turn back when my eye caught another phenomenon. In the entry
next to Thorndyke’s a man was standing, well back in the shadow, but
not so far that he could not get a view of the car; on which he was
quite obviously keeping a watchful eye. Indeed, he was so pre-occupied
with his observation of it that he had not noticed my approach, his
back being turned towards me.

Naturally, the watchful attitude and the object of his watchfulness
aroused my suspicions as to his identity. But a movement backward on
his part which brought him within range of the entry lamp, settled the
matter. He was Anthony Wallingford.

I turned and walked quietly back a few paces. What was this idiot
doing here within a few yards of Thorndyke’s threshold? Was he merely
spying fatuously and without purpose? Or was it possible that he might
be up to some kind of mischief? As I framed the question my steps
brought me opposite another entry. The Walk was in darkness save for
the few lamps and the place was practically deserted. After a moment’s
reflection, I stepped into the entry and decided thence to keep a
watch upon the watcher.

I had not long to wait. Hardly had I taken up my rather undignified
position when three men emerged from the house and walked slowly to
the car. By the light of the lamp above Thorndyke’s entry, I could see
them quite plainly and I recognized them all. One was Thorndyke,
himself, another was Dr. Jervis, Thorndyke’s colleague, now in the
employ of the Home Office, and the third was Dr. Barnwell, well-known
to me as the analyst and toxicologist to the Home Office. All three
carried substantial bags and Dr. Barnwell was encumbered with a large
case, like an out-size suit-case, suggestive of chemical apparatus.
While they were depositing themselves and their impedimenta in the
car, Superintendent Miller gave directions to the driver. He spoke in
clear, audible tones, but though (I have to confess) I listened
intently, I caught only the question: “Do you know the way?” The words
which preceded and followed it were just audible but not intelligible
to me. It appeared, however, that they were intelligible to
Wallingford, for, as soon as they were spoken and while the
superintendent still held the open door of the car, he stepped forth
from his lurking-place and walked boldly and rapidly across to the
narrow passage by which I had come.

Realizing instantly what his intention was, I came out of the entry
and started in pursuit. As I reached the entrance to the passage, my
ear caught the already faint sound of his receding footsteps; by which
I learned that he was running swiftly and as silently as he could.
Since I did not intend to lose him, I had no choice but to follow his
example, and I raced across Tanfield Court, past the Cloisters and
round by the church as if the Devil were after me instead of before.
Half-way up Inner Temple Lane he slowed down to a walk—very wisely,
for otherwise the night porter would certainly have stopped him—and
was duly let out into Fleet Street, whither I followed him at a short
interval.

When I stepped out of the gate I saw him some little distance away to
the west, giving directions to the driver of a taxi. I looked round
desperately, and, to my intense relief, perceived an apparently empty
taxi approaching from the east. I walked quickly towards it,
signalling as I went, and the driver at once drew in to the kerb and
stopped. I approached him, and, leaning forward, said in a low
voice—though there was no one within earshot:

“There is a taxi just in front. It will probably follow a big car
which is coming up Middle Temple Lane. I want you to keep that taxi in
sight, wherever it may go. Do you understand?”

The man broke into a cynical grin—the nearest approach to geniality of
which a taxi-driver is capable—and replied that he understood; and as,
at this moment, the nose of the car appeared coming through the arched
entrance gate of Middle Temple Lane, I sprang into the taxi and shut
the door. From the off-side window, but keeping well back out of
sight, I saw the car creep across Fleet Street, turn eastward and then
sweep round into Chancery Lane. Almost immediately, Wallingford’s taxi
moved off and followed; and then, after a short interval, my own
vehicle started, and, crossing directly to Chancery Lane, went ahead
in the wake of the others.

It was an absurd affair. Now that the pursuit was started and its
conduct delegated for the time to the driver, I leaned back in the
shadow and was disposed to grin a little sheepishly at my own
proceedings. I had embarked on them in obedience to a sudden impulse
without reflection—for which, indeed, there had been no time. But was
there anything to justify me in keeping this watch on Wallingford? I
debated the question at some length and finally decided that, although
he was probably only playing the fool, still it was proper that I
should see what he was really up to. Thorndyke was my friend and it
was only right that I should stand between him and any possible
danger. Well as he was able to take care of himself, he could not be
always on his guard. And I could not forget the infernal machine. Some
one at least had the will to do him an injury.

But what about the brown-hatted man? Why had he not joined in this
novel sport? Or had he? I put my head out of the window and looked
along the street in our rear, but there was no sign of any pursuing
taxi. The ridiculous procession was limited to three vehicles; which
was just as well, since we did not want a police cyclist bringing up
the rear.

From my own proceedings my thoughts turned to those of Thorndyke and
his companions, though they were no affair of mine, or of
Wallingford’s either, for that matter. Apparently the three men were
going somewhere to make a post mortem examination. The presence of Dr.
Barnwell suggested an analysis in addition; and the presence of Miller
hinted at a criminal case of some kind. But it was not my case or
Wallingford’s. For both of us the analyst had already done his worst.

While I reflected, I kept an eye on the passing landmarks, checking
our route and idly trying to forecast our destination. From Chancery
Lane we crossed Holborn and entered Gray’s Inn Road, at the bottom of
which we swept round by King’s Cross into Pancras Road. At the end of
this we turned up Great College Street, crossed Camden Road and
presently passed along the Kentish Town Road. So far I had noted our
progress with no more than a languid interest. It did not matter to me
whither we were going. But when, at the Bull and Gate, we swept round
into Highgate Road, my attention awoke; and when the taxi turned
sharply at the Duke of St. Albans and entered Swain’s Lane, I sat up
with a start. In a moment of sudden enlightenment, I realized what our
destination must be; and the realization came upon me with the effect
of a palpable blow. This lane, with its precipitous ascent at the
upper end, was no ordinary thoroughfare. It was little more than an
approach to the great cemetery whose crowded areas extended on either
side of it; its traffic was almost completely limited to the mournful
processions that crept up to the wide gates by the mortuary chapel.
Indeed, on the very last occasion when I had ridden up this lane, my
conveyance had been the mourning carriage which followed poor little
Stella to her last home.

Before I had recovered from the shock of this discovery sufficiently
to consider what it might mean, the taxi came to a sudden halt. I
stepped out, and, looking up the lane, made out the shadowy form of
Wallingford’s vehicle, already backing and manœuvring to turn round.

“Bloke in front has got out,” my driver announced in a hoarse whisper,
and as he spoke, I caught sight of Wallingford—or at least of a human
figure—lurking in the shadow of the trees by the railings on the
right-hand side of the road. I paid off my driver (who, thereupon,
backed on to the footway, turned and retired down the hill) and having
waited for the other taxi to pass down, began slowly to ascend the
lane, keeping in the shadow of the trees. Now that the two taxis were
gone, Wallingford and I had the lane to ourselves, excepting where, in
the distance ahead, the reflected light from the head-lamps of the car
made a dim halo and the shape of the gothic chapel loomed indistinctly
against the murky sky. I could see him quite plainly, and no doubt he
was aware of my presence; at any rate, I did not propose to attempt
any concealment, so far as he was concerned. His movements had ceased
to be of any interest to me. My entire concern was with the party
ahead and with the question at to what Thorndyke was doing at this
time of night in Highgate Cemetery.

The burial ground is divided, as I have said, into two parts, which
lie on either side of the lane; the old cemetery with its great gates
and the large mortuary chapel, on the left or west side and the newer
part on the right. To which of these two parts was Thorndyke bound?
That was the question that I had to settle.

I continued to advance up the lane, keeping in the shadow, though it
was a dark night and the precaution was hardly necessary. Presently I
overtook Wallingford and passed him without either concealment or
recognition on either side. I could now clearly make out the gable and
pinnacles of the chapel and saw the car turn in the wide sweep and
then extinguish its headlights. Presently, from the gate-house there
emerged a party of men of whom some carried lanterns, by the light of
which I could recognize Thorndyke and his three companions; and I
noted that they appeared to have left their cases either in the car or
elsewhere for they now carried nothing. They lingered for a minute or
two at the wicket by the great gates; then, accompanied by a man whom
I took to be the gate-keeper, they crossed the road to the gate of the
eastern cemetery and were at once followed by another party of men,
who trundled two wheel-barrows, loaded with some bulky objects the
nature of which I could not make out. I watched them with growing
anxiety and suspicion as they passed in at the gate; and when they had
all entered and moved away along the main path, I came forth from the
shadow and began to walk quickly up the lane.

The eastern cemetery adjoins Waterlow Park, from which it is separated
by a low wall surmounted by tall railings, and this was my objective.
The park was now, of course, closed for the night, locked up and
deserted. So much the better. Locks and bars were no hindrance to me.
I knew the neighbourhood of old. Every foot of the lane was familiar
to me, though the houses that had grown up at the lower end had
changed its aspect from that which I remembered when as a boy I had
rambled through its leafy shades. On I strode, past the great gates on
the left and the waiting car, within which I could see the driver
dozing, past the white gatehouse on the right, up the steep hill until
I came to the place where a tall oak fence encloses the park from the
lane. Here I halted and took off my overcoat, for the six-foot fence
is guarded at the top by a row of vicious hooks. Laying the folded
overcoat across the top of the fence, I sprang up, sat for a moment
astride and then dropped down into the enclosure.

I now stood in a sort of dry ditch between the fence and a steep bank,
covered with bushes which rose to the level of the park. I had just
taken down my overcoat and was putting it on before climbing the bank
when its place was taken by another overcoat cast over from without.
Then a pair of hands appeared, followed by the clatter of feet against
the fence and the next moment I saw Wallingford astride of the top and
looking down at me.

I still affected to be unaware of him, and, turning away, began to
scramble up the bank, at the summit of which I pushed my way through
the bushes, and, stepping over a three-foot fence, came out upon a
by-path overshadowed by trees. Pausing for a moment to get my bearings
and to mark out a route by which I could cross the park without coming
into the open, where I might be seen by some watchful keeper, I
started off towards a belt of trees just as Wallingford stepped over
the dwarf fence and came out upon the path behind me.

The position was becoming absurd, though I was too agitated to
appreciate its humour. I could not protest against his following me
seeing that I had come in the first place to spy upon him, and was
now, like himself, engaged in spying upon Thorndyke. However, he soon
solved the difficulty by quickening his pace and overtaking me, when
he asked in a quite matter-of-fact tone:

“What is Thorndyke up to, Mayfield?”

“That is what I want to find out,” I replied.

“He is not acting on your instructions, then?”

“No; and the probability is that what he is doing is no concern of
mine or of yours either. But I don’t know; and I have come here to
make sure. Keep in the shadow. We don’t want the keeper to see us
prowling about here.”

He stepped back into the shade and we pursued our way in silence; and
even then, troubled and agitated as I was, I noted that he asked me no
question as to what was in my mind. He was leaving the initiative
entirely to me.

When we had crossed the park in the shelter of the trees and descended
into the hollow by the little lake where we were out of sight of the
gate-house, I led the way towards the boundary between the park and
the cemetery. The two enclosures were separated, as I have said, by a
low wall surmounted by a range of high, massive railings; and the wall
and the cemetery beyond were partially concealed by an irregular hedge
of large bushes. Pushing through the bushes, I moved along the wall
until I came to the place which I intended to watch; and here I halted
in the shade of a tall mass of bushes, and resting my arms on the
broad coping of the wall, took up my post of observation with
Wallingford, silently attentive at my side.

The great burial ground was enveloped in darkness so profound that the
crowded headstones and monuments conveyed to the eye no more than a
confused glimmer of ghostly pallor that was barely distinguishable
from the general obscurity. One monument only could be separately
identified: a solitary stone cross that rose above a half-seen grave
some sixty yards from the wall. But already the mysterious procession
could be seen threading its way in and out by the intricate, winding
paths, the gleam of the lanterns lighting up now a marble figure and
now a staring head-stone or urn or broken column; and as it drew ever
nearer, the glare of the lanterns, the rumble of the barrow-wheels on
the hard paths and the spectral figures of the men grew more and more
distinct. And still Wallingford watched and spoke never a word.

At length, a turn of the path brought the procession into full view,
and as it approached I could make out a man,—evidently by his uniform,
the cemetery keeper,—leading, lantern in hand and showing the way.
Nearer and nearer the procession drew until at last, close by the
stone cross, the leader halted. Then, as Thorndyke and his
companions—now clearly visible—came up, he lifted his lantern and let
its light fall full on the cross. And even at this distance I could
read with ease—though it was unnecessary—the single name STELLA.

As that name—to me so sacred—flashed out of the darkness, Wallingford
gripped my arm. “Great God!” he exclaimed. “It is Stella Keene’s
grave! I came here once with Barbara to plant flowers on it.” He
paused, breathing hard and still clutching my arm. Then, in a hoarse
whisper, he demanded:

“What can that devil be going to do?”

There was little need to ask. Even as he spoke, the labourers began to
unload from the first barrow its lading of picks, shovels and coils of
rope. And when these were laid on the ground, the second barrow
yielded up its cargo; a set of rough canvas screens which the men
began to set up around the grave. And even as the screens were being
erected, another lantern slowly approaching along the path, revealed
two men carrying a long, bedstead-like object—a bier—which they at
length set down upon its stunted legs just outside the screens.

With set teeth I stared incredulously between the railings at these
awful preparations while Wallingford, breathing noisily, held fast to
my arm with a hand that I could feel shaking violently. The lanterns
inside the screens threw a weird, uncertain light on the canvas, and
monstrous, distorted shadows moved to and fro. Presently, amidst these
flitting, spectral shapes, appeared one like an enormous gnome, huge,
hideous and deformed, holding an up-raised pick. The shadowy implement
fell with an audible impact, followed by the ring of a shovel.

At the sight and the sound—so dreadfully conclusive—Wallingford sprang
up with a stifled cry.

“God Almighty! That devil is going to dig her up!”

He stood motionless and rigid for a few moments. Then, turning
suddenly, without another word, he burst through the bushes, and I
heard him racing madly across the park.

I had half a mind to follow him. I had seen enough. I now knew the
shocking truth. Why stay and let my soul be harrowed by the sight of
these ghouls. Every stroke of pick or shovel seemed to knock at my
heart. Why not go and leave them to their work of desecration? But I
could not go. I could not tear myself away. There was the empty bier.
Presently she would be lying on it. I could not go until I had seen
her borne away.

So I stayed there gazing between the railings, watching the elfin
shapes that flitted to and fro on the screen, listening to the thud of
pick and the ring and scrape of shovel and letting my confused
thoughts wander obscurely through a maze of half-realized pain and
anger. I try in vain to recall clearly what was my state of mind. Out
of the confusion and bewilderment little emerges but a dull
indignation and especially a feeling of surprised resentment against
Thorndyke.

The horrible business went on methodically. By degrees a shadowy mound
grew up at the bottom of the screen. And then other movements and
other sounds; a hollow, woody sound that seemed to bring my heart into
my mouth. At last, the screens were opened at the end and then the
coffin was borne out and laid on the bier. By the light of the
lanterns I could see it distinctly. I was even able to recognize it,
shabby and earth-stained as it now was. I saw Thorndyke help the
keeper to spread over it some kind of pall, and then two men stepped
between the handles of the bier, stooped and picked it up; and then
the grim procession re-formed and began slowly to move away.

I watched it until it had passed round a turn of the path and was
hidden from my view. Then I stood up, pushed my way through the bushes
and stole away across the park by the way I had come. In the ditch
inside the fence I stood for a few moments listening, but the silence
was as profound as the darkness. As quietly as I could I climbed over
the fence and dropped down into the lane. There seemed to be not a
soul moving anywhere near; nevertheless, when I had slipped on my
overcoat, instead of retracing my steps down the lane past the
entrance-gates of the cemetery, I turned to the right and toiled up
the steep hill to its termination in South Grove, where I bore away
westward and descending the long slope of West Hill, passed the Duke
of St. Albans and re-entered the Highgate Road.

It did not occur to me to look out for any conveyance. My mind was in
a whirl that seemed to communicate itself to my body and I walked on
and on like one in a dream.

The dreary miles of deserted streets were consumed unreckoned—though
still, without conscious purpose, I followed the direct road home as a
well-constructed automaton might have done. But I saw nothing. Nor,
for a time, could I be said to think coherently. My thoughts seethed
and eddied in such confusion that no product emerged. I was conscious
only of an indignant sense of shocked decency and a loathing of
Thorndyke and all his works.

Presently, however, I grew somewhat more reasonable and my thoughts
began to take more coherent shape. As a lawyer, I could not but
perceive that Thorndyke must have something definite in his mind. He
could not have done what I had seen him do without a formal authority
from the Home Secretary; and before any such authority would have been
given he would have been called upon to show cause why the exhumation
should be carried out. And such licenses are not lightly granted. Nor,
I had to admit, was Thorndyke likely to have made the application
without due consideration. He must have had reasons for this
outrageous proceeding which not only appeared sufficient to him but
which must have appeared sufficient to the Home Secretary.

All this became by degrees clear enough to me. But yet I had not a
moment’s doubt that he had made some monstrous mistake. Probably he
had been misled by something in my diary. That seemed to be the only
possible explanation. Presently he would discover his error—by means
which I shudderingly put aside. But when the error was discovered, the
scandal would remain. It is impossible to maintain secrecy in a case
like this. In twenty-four hours or less, all the world would know that
the body of Mrs. Monkhouse’s step-sister had been exhumed; and no
subsequent explanation would serve to destroy the effect of that
announcement. Wallingford’s dismal prophecy was about to be fulfilled.

Moreover, Thorndyke’s action amounted in effect to an open
accusation—not of Madeline or Wallingford but of Barbara, herself. And
this indignity she would suffer at my hands—at the hands of her oldest
friend! The thought was maddening. But for the outrageous lateness of
the hour, I would have gone to her at once to put her on her guard and
crave her pardon. It was the least that I could do. But it could not
be done to-night, for she would have been in bed hours ago and her
flat locked up for the night. However, I would go in the morning at
the earliest possible hour. I knew that Barbara was an early riser and
it would not be amiss if I arrived at the flat before the maid. She
must be warned at the earliest possible moment and by me, who was the
author of the mischief.

Thus, by the time that I reached my chambers I had decided clearly
what was to be done. At first, I was disposed to reject altogether the
idea of sleep. But presently, more reasonable thoughts prevailing, I
decided at least to lie down and sleep a little if I could. But first
I made a few indispensable preparations for the morning; filled the
kettle and placed it on the gas-ring, set out the materials for a
hasty breakfast, and cleaned my shoes. Then, when I had wound the
alarm clock and set it for five, I partially undressed and crept into
bed.



Chapter XVI

Barbara’s Message

The routine of modern life creates the habit of dividing the day into
a series of definite phases which we feel impelled to recognize even
in circumstances to which they have no real application. Normally, the
day is brought formally to an end by retirement to bed, a process
that—also normally—leads to a lapse into unconsciousness the emergence
from which marks the beginning of another day. So, in mere obedience
to the call of habit, I had gone to bed, though, in spite of bodily
fatigue, there had been no hint of any tendency to sleep. But I might
have saved myself the trouble. True, my tired limbs stretched
themselves out restfully and mere muscular fatigue slowly wore off;
but my brain continued, uselessly and chaotically to pursue its
activities only the more feverishly when the darkness and the silence
closed the avenues of impressions from without.

Hour after hour crept by with incredible slowness, marked at each
quarter by the gentle undertone of the Treasury clock, voicing its
announcement, as it seemed, in polite protest (surely there was never
a clock that hinted so delicately and unobtrusively at the passage of
the irrevocable minutes “that perish for us and are reckoned”). Other
sound there was none to break the weary silence of the night; but by
the soft, mellow chime I was kept informed of the birth of another day
and the progress of its infancy, which crawled so tardily in the wake
of my impatience.

At last, when half-past four had struck, I threw back the bed-clothes,
and, stepping out, switched on the light and put a match to the gas
under the kettle. I had no occasion to hurry, but rather sought to
make my preparations with studied deliberation; in spite of which I
had shaved, washed and dressed and was sitting down to my frugal
breakfast when the alarm clock startled me by blurting out with
preposterous urgency its unnecessary reminder.

It had just turned a quarter past five when I set forth to take my way
on foot towards Kensington. No conveyance was necessary, nor would it
have been acceptable; for though throughout the wearisome hours that I
had spent in bed my thoughts had never ceased to revolve around the
problem that Thorndyke had set, I still seemed to have the whole
matter to debate afresh.

What should I say to Barbara? How should I break to her the news that
my own appointed agent had made an undissembled accusation and was
holding over her an unconcealed menace? I knew well enough what her
attitude would be. She would hold me blameless and she would confront
the threat against her reputation—even against her liberty—calmly and
unafraid. I had no fear for her either of panic or recrimination. But
how could I excuse myself? What could I say in extenuation of
Thorndyke’s secret, hostile manœuvre?

The hands of the church clock were approaching half-past six when I
turned the corner and came in sight of the entrance to her flat. And
at the same moment I was made to realize the imminence and the
actuality of the danger which threatened her. In a narrow street
nearly opposite to the flat, a closed car was drawn up in such a
position that it could move out into the main road either to the right
or left without turning round; and a glance at the alert driver and a
watchful figure inside—both of whom looked at me attentively as I
passed—at once aroused my suspicions. And when, as I crossed to the
flat, I observed a tall man perambulating the pavement, those
suspicions were confirmed. For this was no brown-hatted neophyte. The
hard, athletic figure and the calm, observant face were unmistakable.
I had seen too many plain-clothes policemen to miss the professional
characteristics. And this man also took unobtrusive note of me as my
destination became apparent.

The church clock was chiming half-past six as I pressed the button of
the electric bell by Barbara’s front door. In the silence that still
wrapped the building, I could hear the bell ring noisily, though far
away, and I listened intently for some sounds of movement within. The
maid would not arrive for another half hour, but I knew that Barbara
was usually up at this hour. But I could hear no sign of any one
stirring in the flat. Then I rang again, and yet again; and as there
was still no sound from within, a vague uneasiness began to creep over
me. Could Barbara be away from home? That might be as well in some
respects. It might give time for the discovery of the error and save
some unpleasantness. On the other hand—but at this moment I made a
singular discovery myself. The latch-key was in the door! That was a
most remarkable circumstance. It was so very unlike the methodical,
self-possessed Barbara. But probably it had been left there by the
maid. At any rate, there it was; and as I had now rung four times
without result, I turned the key, pushed open the door and entered.

When I had closed the door behind me, I stood for some seconds in the
dark hall, listening. There was not a sound. I was astonished that the
noise of the bell had not aroused Barbara; indeed, I was surprised
that she was not already up and about. Still vaguely uneasy, I felt
for the light-switch, and when I had turned it on, stole along the
hall and peered into the sitting room. Of course there was no one in
it; nor was there any one in the kitchen, or in the spare bedroom.
Finally, I went to Barbara’s bedroom and knocked loudly, at the same
time calling her by name. But still there was no response or sound of
movement.

At last, after one or two more trials, I turned the handle and opening
the door a few inches, looked in. The room was nearly dark, but the
cold, wan light of the early morning was beginning to show on the
blind; and in that dim twilight I could just make out a figure lying
on the bed. With a sudden thrill of alarm, I stepped into the room and
switched on the light. And then I stood, rooted to the spot, as if I
had been turned into stone.

She was there, lying half-dressed upon the bed and as still as a
bronze effigy upon a tomb. From where I stood I could see that her
right hand, resting on the bed, lightly held a hypodermic syringe, and
that her left sleeve was rolled up nearly to the shoulder. And when,
approaching stealthily on tip-toe, I drew near, I saw upon the bare
arm a plainly visible puncture and close by it a little blister-like
swelling.

The first glance had made plain the dreadful truth. I had realized
instantly that she was dead. Yet still, instinctively, I put my
fingers to her wrist in the forlorn hope of detecting some lingering
trace of life; and then any possible doubt was instantly dispelled;
for the surface was stone-cold and the arm as rigid as that of a
marble statue. Not only was she dead; she had been lying here dead
while I, in my bed in the Temple, had lain listening to the chimes and
waiting for the hour when I could come to her.

For quite a long time I stood by the bed looking down on her in utter
stupefaction. So overwhelming was the catastrophe that for the moment
my faculties seemed to be paralysed, my power of thought suspended. In
a trance of amazement I gazed at her, and, with the idle irrelevancy
of a dreamer, noted how young, how beautiful she looked; how lissom
and graceful was the pose of the figure, how into the waxen face with
its drowsy eyes and parted lips, there had come a something soft and
youthful, almost girlish, that had not been there during life. Dimly
and dreamily I wondered what the difference could be.

Suddenly my glance fell on the syringe that still rested in her hand.
And with that my faculties awoke. She had killed herself! But why?
Even as I asked myself the question, the terrible, the incredible
answer stole into my mind only to be indignantly cast out. But yet—I
lifted my eyes from the calm, pallid face, so familiar and yet so
strange, and cast a scared glance round the room; and then I observed
for the first time a small table near the bed on which beside a flat
candle-stick containing the remains of a burnt-out candle, lay two
unstamped letters. Stepping over to the table, I read their
superscriptions. One was addressed to me, the other to Superintendent
Miller, C.I.D., and both were in Barbara’s handwriting.

With a shaking hand I snatched up the one addressed to me, tore open
the envelope and drew out the letter; and this is what I read:—

                                               “Thursday, 1 a.m.
  My dearest Rupert,

  This letter is to bid you farewell. When you receive it you will
  curse and revile me, but I shall not hear those curses. Now, as I
  write, you are my darling Rupert and I am your dear friend, Barbara.
  With what will be when I am gone, I have no concern. It would be
  futile to hope that any empty words of mine could win your
  forgiveness. I have no such thought and do not even ask for pardon.
  When you think of me in the future it will be with hatred and
  loathing. It cannot be otherwise. But I have no part in the future.
  In the present—which runs out with every word that I write—I love
  you, and you, at least, are fond of me. And so it will be to the
  end, which is now drawing near.

  But though this which I write to you in love will be read by you in
  hatred, yet I have a mind to let you know the whole truth. And that
  truth can be summed up in three words. I love you. I have always
  loved you, even when I was a little girl and you were a boy. My
  desire for you has been the constant, consuming passion of my life,
  and to possess you for my own has been the settled purpose from
  which I have never deviated but once—when I married Harold.

  As I grew up from girlhood to womanhood, my love grew from a girl’s
  to a woman’s passion and my resolution became more fixed. I meant to
  have you for my own. But there was Stella. I could see that you
  worshipped her, and I knew that I should never have you while she
  lived. I was fond of poor Stella. But she stood as an insuperable
  obstacle between you and me. And—I suppose I am not quite as other
  women. I am a woman of a single purpose. Stella stood in the way of
  that purpose. It was a terrible necessity. But it had to be.

  And after all, I seemed to have failed. When Stella was gone, you
  went away and I thought I had lost you for ever. For I could not
  follow you. I knew that you had understood me, at least partly, and
  that you had fled from me.

  Then I was in despair. It seemed that I had dismissed poor Stella to
  no purpose. For once, I lost courage, and, in my loneliness,
  committed myself to a marriage with poor Harold. It was a foolish
  lapse. I ought to have kept my courage and lived in hope, as I
  realized almost as soon as I had married him.

  But when you came back, I could have killed myself. For I could see
  that you were still the same old Rupert and my love flamed up more
  intensely than ever. And once more I resolved that you should be my
  own; and so you would have been in the end but for Dr. Thorndyke.
  That was the fatal error that I fell into; the error of
  under-valuing him. If I had only realized the subtlety of that man,
  I would have made a serious effort to deal with him. He should have
  had something very different from the frivolous make-believe that I
  sent him.

  Well, Rupert, my darling, I have played my hand and I have lost. But
  I have lost only by the merest mischance. As I sit here with the
  ready-filled syringe on the table at my side, I am as confident as
  ever that it was worth while. I regret nothing but the bad luck that
  defeated skilful play, and the fact that you, my dear one, have had
  to pay so large a proportion of my losings.

  I will say no more. You know everything now; and it has been a
  melancholy pleasure to me to have this little talk with you before
  making my exit.

                               Your loving friend,
                                                        Barbara.

  I have just slipped the key into the latch on the chance that you
  may come to me early. From what Tony said and what I know of you, I
  think it just possible. I hope you may. I like to think that we may
  meet, for the last time, alone.”

To say that this astounding letter left me numb and stupefied with
amazement would be to express but feebly its effect on me. The whole
episode presented itself to me as a frightful dream from which I
should presently awaken and come back to understandable and believable
realities. For I know not how long I stood, dazed by the shock, with
my eyes riveted on that calm, comely figure on the bed, trying to
grasp the incredible truth that this dead woman was Barbara, that she
had killed herself and that she had murdered Stella—murdered her
callously, deliberately and with considered intent.

Suddenly, the deathly silence of the flat was broken by the sound of
an opening, and then of a closing door. Then a strong masculine voice
was borne to my ear saying, in a not unkindly tone, “Now, my girl, you
had better run off to the kitchen and shut yourself in.”

On this I roused, and, walking across to the door, which was still
ajar, went out into the hall, where I confronted Superintendent Miller
and Barbara’s maid. Both stared at me in astonishment and the maid
uttered a little cry of alarm as she turned and hurried into the
kitchen. The superintendent looked at me steadily and with obvious
suspicion, and, after a moment or two, asked, gruffly, nodding at the
bedroom door, “Is Mrs. Monkhouse in there?”

“Mrs. Monkhouse is dead,” I answered.

“Dead!” he repeated, incredulously. Then, pushing past me, he strode
into the room, and as I followed, I could hear him cursing furiously
in a not very low undertone. For a few moments he stood looking down
on the corpse, gently touching the bare arm and apparently becoming
aware of its rigidity. Suddenly he turned, and, glaring fiercely at
me, demanded:

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Mayfield?”

“The meaning?” I repeated, looking at him inquiringly.

“Yes. How came you to let her do this—that is, if she did it herself?”

“I found her dead when I arrived here,” I explained.

“And when did you arrive here?”

“About half an hour ago.”

He shook his head and rejoined in an ominously quiet tone:

“That won’t do, Sir. The maid has only just come and the dead woman
couldn’t have let you in.”

I explained that I had found the key in the outer door but he made no
pretence of accepting the explanation.

“That is well enough,” said he, “if you can prove that the key was in
the door. Otherwise it is a mere statement which may or may not be
true. The actual position is that I have found you alone in this flat
with the body of a woman who has died a violent death. You will have
to account satisfactorily for your presence here at this time in the
morning, and for your movements up to the time of your arrival here.”

The very equivocal, not to say perilous, position in which I suddenly
found myself served to steady my wits. I realized instantly how
profoundly suspicious the appearances really were and that if I could
not produce evidence of my recent arrival I should quite probably have
to meet the charge of being an accessory to the suicide. And an
accessory to suicide is an accessory to murder. It was a very serious
position.

“Have you seen your man yet?” I asked. “The men, I mean, who were on
observation duty outside.”

“I have seen them, but I haven’t spoken to them. They are waiting out
on the landing now. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think they saw me come in here.”

“Ah, well, we can see about that presently. Is that letter that you
have in your hand from Mrs. Monkhouse? Because, if it is, I shall want
to see it.”

“I don’t want to show it unless it is necessary; and I don’t think it
will be. There is a letter addressed to you which will probably tell
you all that you need know.”

He snatched up the letter, and, tearing it open, glanced through it
rapidly. Then, without comment, he handed it to me. It was quite short
and ran as follows:—

                                            “Thursday, 1.35 a.m.
  Mr. Superintendent Miller, C.I. D.

  This is to inform you that I alone am responsible for the death of
  my late husband, Harold Monkhouse, and also for that of the late
  Miss Stella Keene. I had no confidants or accomplices and no one was
  aware of what I had done.

  As my own death will occur in about ten minutes (from an injection
  of morphine which I shall administer to myself) this statement may
  be taken as my dying declaration.

  I may add that no one is aware of my intention to take my life.

                                         Yours very truly
                                             Barbara Monkhouse.”

“Well,” said Miller, as I returned the letter to him, “that supports
your statement, and if my men saw you enter the flat, that will
dispose of the matter so far as the suicide is concerned. But there is
another question. It is evident that she knew that a discovery had
been made. Now, who told her? Was it you, Mr. Mayfield?”

“No,” I replied, “it was not. I found her dead when I arrived, as I
have told you.”

“Do you know who did tell her?”

“I do not; and I am not disposed to make any guesses.”

“No, it’s no use guessing. Still, you know, Mr. Mayfield, you knew,
and you came here to tell her; and you know who knew besides yourself.
But there,” he added, as we moved out into the hall, “it is no use
going into that now. I’ve acted like a fool—too punctilious by half. I
oughtn’t to have let her slip through my fingers. I should have acted
at once on Dr. Thorndyke’s hint without waiting for confirmation.”

He was still speaking in an angry, reproachful tone; but suddenly his
manner changed. Looking at me critically but with something of kindly
sympathy, he said: “It has been a trying business for you, Mr.
Mayfield—the whole scandalous affair; and this must have given you a
frightful shock, though I expect you would rather have it as it is
than as it ought to have been. But you don’t look any the better for
it.”

He escorted me politely but definitely to the outer door, and when he
opened it I saw his two subordinates waiting on the landing; to both
of whom collectively Miller addressed the inquiry: “Did you see Mr.
Mayfield enter this flat?”

“Yes, Sir,” was the reply of one, confirmed by the other. “He went up
the stairs at exactly half-past six.”

Miller nodded, and wishing me “good morning,” beckoned to the two
officers; and as I turned to descend the stairs, I saw the three enter
and heard the door shut.

Once more in the outer world, walking the grey, half-lighted streets,
to which the yet unextinguished lamps seemed only to impart an added
chill, my confused thoughts took up the tangled threads at the point
at which the superintendent’s appearance had broken them off. But I
could not get my ideas arranged into any intelligible form. Each
aspect of the complex tragedy conflicted with all the others. The
pitiful figure that I had left lying on the bed made its appeal in
spite of the protest of reason; for the friendship of a lifetime
cannot easily be extinguished in a moment. I knew now that she was a
wretch, a monster; and when I reminded myself of what she had done, I
grudged the easy, painless death by which she had slipped away so
quietly from the wreckage that her incredible wickedness had created.
When I contrasted that death—a more gentle lapsing into oblivion—with
the long, cheerfully endured sufferings of brave, innocent little
Stella, I could have cursed the faithful friendship of Wallingford
which had let her escape from the payment to the uttermost farthing of
her hideous debt. And yet the face that haunted me—the calm, peaceful,
waxen face—was the face of Barbara, my friend, almost my sister, who
had been so much to me, who had loved me with that strange, tenacious,
terrible passion.

It was very confusing. And the same inconsistency pervaded my thoughts
of Thorndyke. Unreasonably, I found myself thinking of him with a
certain repulsion, almost of dislike, as the cause of this
catastrophe. Yet my reason told me that he had acted with the highest
motives of justice; that he had but sought retribution for Stella’s
sufferings and death and those of poor, harmless Harold Monkhouse;
that as a barrister, even as a citizen, he could do no less than
denounce the wrong-doer. But my feelings were too lacerated, my
emotions too excited to allow my reason to deal with the conflicting
elements of this tragedy.

In this confused state of mind, I walked on, hardly conscious of
direction, until I found myself at the entry of my chambers. I went in
and made a futile attempt to do some work. Then I paced the room for
an hour or more, alternately raging against Barbara and recalling the
lonely figure that I had seen in the twilight of that darkened room,
until my unrest drove me forth again to wander through the streets,
away into the squalid east, among the docks and the rookeries from
Whitechapel to Limehouse.

It was evening when, once more, I dragged myself up my stairs, and,
spent with fatigue and exhausted by lack of food—for during the whole
day I had taken but a few cups of tea, hastily snatched in the course
of my wanderings—re-entered my chamber. As I closed the door, I
noticed a letter in the box, and taking it out, listlessly opened the
envelope. It was from Thorndyke; a short note, but very cordially
worded, begging me “like a good fellow” to go round to have a talk
with him.

I flung the note down impatiently on the table, with an immediate
resurgence of my unreasonable sense of resentment. But in a few
minutes I experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. A sense of
profound loneliness came upon me; a yearning for human companionship,
and especially for the companionship of Thorndyke, from whom I had no
secrets, and who knew the whole dreadful story even to its final
culmination.

Once more, foot-sore as I was, I descended my stairs and a couple of
minutes later was ascending the “pair” that led up to Thorndyke’s
chambers.



Chapter XVII

Thorndyke Retraces the Trail

Apparently Thorndyke had seen me from the window as I crossed the
Walk, for, when I reached the landing, I found him standing in the
open doorway of his chambers; and at the sight of him, whatever traces
of unreasonable resentment may have lingered in my mind, melted away
instantly. He grasped my hand with almost affectionate warmth, and
looking at me earnestly and with the most kindly solicitude, said:

“I am glad you have come, Mayfield. I couldn’t bear to think of you
alone in your chambers, haunted by this horrible tragedy.”

“You have heard, then—about Barbara, I mean?”

“Yes. Miller called and told me. Of course, he is righteously angry
that she has escaped, and I sympathize with him. But for us—for you
and me—it is a great deliverance. I was profoundly relieved when I
heard that she was gone; that the axe had fallen once for all.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “it was better than the frightful alternative of a
trial and what would have followed. But still, it was terrible to see
her, lying dead, and to know that it was my hand—the hand of her
oldest and dearest friend—that had struck the blow.”

“It was my hand, Mayfield, not yours that actually struck the blow.
But even if it had been yours instead of your agent’s, what could have
been more just and proper than that retribution should have come
through the hand of the friend and guardian of that poor murdered
girl?”

I assented with a shudder to the truth of what he had said, but still
my mind was too confused to allow me to see things in their true
perspective. Barbara, my friend, was still more real to me than
Barbara the murdress. He nodded sympathetically enough when I
explained this, but rejoined, firmly:

“You must try, my dear fellow, to see things as they really are.
Shocking as this tragedy is, it would have been immeasurably worse if
that terrible woman had not received timely warning. As it is, the
horrible affair has run its course swiftly and is at an end. And do
not forget that if the axe has fallen on the guilty its menace has
been lifted from the innocent. Madeline Norris and Anthony Wallingford
will sleep in peace to-night, free from the spectre of suspicion that
has haunted them ever since Harold Monkhouse died. As to the woman
whose body you found this morning, she was a monster. She could not
have been permitted to live. Her very existence was a menace to the
lives of all who came into contact with her.”

Again, I could not but assent to his stern indictment and his
impartial statement of the facts.

“Very well, Mayfield,” said he. “Then try to put it to yourself that,
for you, the worst has happened and is done with. Try to put it away
as a thing that now belongs to the past and is, in so far as it is
possible, to be forgotten.”

“As far as is possible,” I repeated. “Yes, of course, you are quite
right, Thorndyke. But forgetfulness is not a thing which we can
command at will.”

“Very true,” he replied. “But yet we can control to a large extent the
direction of our thoughts. We can find interests and occupations. And,
speaking of occupations, let me show you some of Polton’s
productions.”

He rose, and putting a small table by the side of my chair, placed on
it one or two small copper plaques and a silver medallion which he had
taken from a drawer. The medallion was the self-portrait of Stella
which had lain dormant in the wax mould through all the years which
had passed since her death, and as I took it in my hand and gazed at
the beloved face, I found it beautiful beyond my expectations.

“It is a most charming little work,” I said, holding it so that the
lamp light fell most favourably on the relic, “I am infinitely obliged
to you, Thorndyke.”

“Don’t thank me,” said he. “The whole credit is due to Polton. Not
that he wants any thanks, for the work has yielded him hours of
perfect happiness. But here he is with the products of another kind of
work.”

As he spoke, Polton entered with a tray and began in his neat,
noiseless way, to lay the table. I don’t know how much he knew, but
when I caught his eye and his smile of greeting, it seemed to me that
friendliness and kindly sympathy exuded from every line of his quaint,
crinkly face. I thanked him for his skilful treatment of my treasures
and then, observing that he was apparently laying the table for
supper, would have excused myself. But Thorndyke would hear of no
excuses.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “you are the very picture of physical
exhaustion. I suspect that you have had practically no food to-day. A
meal will help you to begin to get back to the normal. And, in any
case, you mustn’t disappoint Polton, who has been expecting you to
supper and has probably made a special effort to do credit to the
establishment.”

I could only repeat my acknowledgments of Polton’s goodness (noting
that he certainly must have made a special effort, to judge by the
results which began to make themselves evident) and, conquering my
repugnance to the idea of eating, take my place at the table.

It is perhaps somewhat humiliating to reflect that our emotional
states, which we are apt to consider on a lofty spiritual plane, are
controlled by matters so grossly material as the mere contents of our
stomachs. But such is the degrading truth, as I now realized. For no
sooner had I commenced a reluctant attack on the products of Polton’s
efforts and drunk a glass of Burgundy—delicately warmed by that
versatile artist to the exact optimum temperature—than my mental and
physical unrest began to subside and allow a reasonable, normal
outlook to develop, with a corresponding bodily state. In effect, I
made quite a good meal and found myself listening with lively interest
to Thorndyke’s account of the technical processes involved in
converting my little plaster plaques and the wax mould into their
final states in copper and silver.

Nevertheless, in the intervals of conversation the unforgettable
events of the morning and the preceding night tended to creep back
into my consciousness; and now a question which I had hitherto hardly
considered began to clamour for an answer. Towards the end of the
meal, I put it into words. Apropos of nothing in our previous
conversation, I asked:

“How did you know, Thorndyke?” and as he looked up inquiringly, I
added: “I mean, how were you able to make so confident a guess, for,
of course, you couldn’t actually know?”

“When do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that when you applied for a Home Office authority you must
have had something to go on beyond a mere guess.”

“Certainly I had,” he replied. “It was not a guess at all. It was a
certainty. When I made the application I was able to say that I had
positive knowledge that Stella Keene had been poisoned with arsenic.
The examination of the poor child’s body was not for my information. I
would have avoided it if that had been possible. But it was not. As
soon as my declaration was made, the exhumation became inevitable. The
Crown could not have prosecuted on a charge of poisoning without an
examination of the victim’s body.”

“But, Thorndyke,” I expostulated, “how could you have been certain—I
mean certain in a legal sense? Surely it could have been no more than
a matter of inference.”

“It was not,” he replied. “It was a matter of demonstrated fact. I
could have taken the case into court and proved the fact of arsenical
poisoning. But, of course, the jury would have demanded evidence from
an examination of the body, and quite properly, too. Every possible
corroboration should be obtained in a criminal trial.”

“Certainly,” I agreed. “But still I find your statement
incomprehensible. You speak of demonstrated fact. But what means of
demonstration had you? There was my diary. I take it that that was the
principal source of your information; in fact I can’t think of any
other. But the diary could only have yielded documentary evidence,
which is quite a different thing from demonstrated fact.”

“Quite,” he agreed. “The diary contributed handsomely to the train of
circumstantial evidence that I had constructed. But the
demonstration—the final, positive proof—came from another source. A
very curious and unexpected source.”

“I suppose,” said I, “as the case is finished and dealt with, there
would be no harm in my asking how you arrived at your conclusion?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “The whole investigation is a rather long
story, but I will give you a summary of it if you like.”

“Why a summary?” I objected. “I would rather have it in extenso if it
will not weary you to relate it.”

“It will be more likely to weary you,” he replied. “But if you are
equal to a lengthy exposition, let us take to our easy chairs and
combine bodily comfort with forensic discourse.”

We drew up the two arm-chairs before the hearth, and when Polton had
made up the fire and placed between us a small table furnished with a
decanter and glasses, Thorndyke began his exposition.

“This case is in some respects one of the most curious and interesting
that I have met with in the whole of my experience of medico-legal
practice. At the first glance, as I told you at the time, the problem
that it presented seemed hopelessly beyond solution. All the evidence
appeared to be in the past and utterly irrecoverable. The vital
questions were concerned with events that had passed unrecorded and of
which there seemed to be no possibility that they could ever be
disinterred from the oblivion in which they were buried. Looking back
now on the body of evidence that has gradually accumulated, I am
astonished at the way in which the apparently forgotten past has given
up its secrets, one after another, until it has carried its revelation
from surmise to probability and from probability at last to
incontestible proof.

“The inquiry divides itself into certain definite stages, each of
which added new matter to that which had gone before. We begin,
naturally, with the inquest on Harold Monkhouse, and we may consider
this in three aspects: the ascertained condition of the body; the
evidence of the witnesses; and the state of affairs disclosed by the
proceedings viewed as a whole.

“First, as to the body: there appeared to be no doubt that Monkhouse
died from arsenical poisoning, but there was no clear evidence as to
how the poison had been administered. It was assumed that it had been
taken in food or in medicine—that it had been swallowed—and no
alternative method of administration was suggested or considered. But
on studying the medical witnesses’ evidence, and comparing it with the
descriptions of the patient’s symptoms, I was disposed to doubt
whether the poison had actually been taken by the mouth at all.”

“Why,” I exclaimed, “how else could it have been taken?”

“There are quite a number of different ways in which poisonous doses
of arsenic can be taken. Finely powdered arsenic is readily absorbed
by the skin. There have been several deaths from the use of ‘violet
powder’ contaminated with arsenic, and clothing containing powdered
arsenic would produce poisonous effects. Then there are certain
arsenical gases—notably arsine, or arseniureted hydrogen—which are
intensely poisonous and which possibly account for a part of the
symptoms in poisoning from arsenical wall-papers. There seemed to me
to be some suggestion of arsenical gas in Monkhouse’s case, but it was
obviously not pure gas-poisoning. The impression conveyed to me was
that of a mixed poisoning; that the arsenic had been partly inhaled
and partly applied to the skin, but very little, if any, taken by the
mouth.”

“You are not forgetting that arsenic was actually found in the
stomach?”

“No. But the quantity was very minute; and a minute quantity is of no
significance. One of the many odd and misleading facts about arsenic
poisoning is that, in whatever way the drug is taken, a small quantity
is always found in the stomach and there are always some signs of
gastric irritation. The explanation seems to be that arsenic which has
got into the blood in any way—through the skin, the lungs or
otherwise—tends to be eliminated in part through the stomach. At any
rate, the fact is that the presence of minute quantities of arsenic in
the stomach affords no evidence that the poison was swallowed.”

“But,” I objected, “what of the Fowler’s Solution which was found in
the medicine?”

“Exactly,” said he. “That was the discrepancy that attracted my
attention. The assumption was that deceased had taken in his medicine
a quantity of Fowler’s Solution representing about a grain and a half
of arsenious acid. If that had been so we should have expected to find
a very appreciable quantity in the stomach: much more than was
actually found. The condition of the body did not agree with the dose
that was assumed to have been taken; and when one came to examine the
evidence of the various witnesses there was further room for doubt.
Two of them had noticed the medicine at the time when the Fowler’s
Solution had not been added; but no witness had noticed it after the
alleged change and before the death of deceased. The presence of the
Fowler’s Solution was not observed until several days after his death.
Taking all the facts together, there was a distinct suggestion that
the solution had been added to the medicine at some time after
Monkhouse’s death. But this suggestion tended to confirm my suspicion
that the poison had not been swallowed. For the discovery of the
Fowler’s Solution in the medicine would tend to divert inquiry—and
did, in fact, divert it—from any other method of administering the
poison.

“To finish with the depositions: not only was there a complete lack of
evidence even suggesting any one person as the probable delinquent;
there was not the faintest suggestion of any motive that one could
consider seriously. The paltry pecuniary motive applied to all the
parties and could not be entertained in respect of any of them. The
only person who could have had a motive was Barbara. She was a young,
attractive woman, married to an elderly, unattractive husband. If she
had been attached to another man, she would have had the strongest and
commonest of all motives. But there was nothing in the depositions to
hint at any other man; and since she was absent from home when the
poisoning occurred, she appeared to be outside the area of possible
suspicion.

“And now to look at the evidence as a whole: you remember Miller’s
comment. There was something queer about the case; something very
oddly elusive. At the first glance it seemed to bristle with
suspicious facts. But when those facts were scrutinized they meant
nothing. There were plenty of clues but they led nowhere. There was
Madeline Norris who prepared the victim’s food—an obvious suspect. But
then it appeared that the poison was in the medicine, not in the food.
There was Wallingford who actually had poison in his possession. But
it was the wrong poison. There was the bottle that had undoubtedly
contained arsenic. But it was nobody’s bottle. There was the bottle
that smelled of lavender and had red stains in it and was found in
Miss Norris’s possession; but it contained no arsenic. And so on.

“Now all this was very strange. The strongest suspicion was thrown on
a number of people collectively. But it failed every time to connect
itself with any one individually. I don’t know precisely what Miller
thought of it, but to me it conveyed the strong impression of a
scheme—of something arranged, and arranged with extraordinary skill
and ingenuity. I had the feeling that, behind all these confusing and
inconsistent appearances, was a something quite different, with which
they had no real connection; that all these apparent clues were a sort
of smoke-screen thrown up to conceal the actual mechanism of the
murder.

“What could the mechanism of the murder have been? That was what I
asked myself. And by whom could the arrangements have been made and
carried out? Here the question of motive became paramount. What motive
could be imagined? And who could have been affected by it? That seemed
to be the essential part of the problem, and the only one that offered
the possibility of investigation.

“Now, as I have said, the most obvious motive in cases of this kind is
that of getting rid of a husband or wife to make room for another. And
ignoring moral considerations, it is a perfectly rational motive; for
the murder of the unwanted spouse is the only possible means of
obtaining the desired release. The question was, could such a motive
have existed in the present case; and the answer was that, on
inspection, it appeared to be a possible motive, although there was no
evidence that it actually existed. But, assuming its possibility for
the sake of argument, who could have been affected by it? At once, one
saw that Madeline Norris was excluded. The death of Harold Monkhouse
did not affect her, in this respect, at all. There remained only
Barbara and Wallingford. To take the latter first: He was a young man,
and the wife was a young, attractive woman; he had lived in the same
house with her, appeared to be her social equal and was apparently on
terms of pleasant intimacy with her. If he had any warmer feelings
towards her, her husband’s existence formed an insuperable obstacle to
the realization of his wishes. There was no evidence that he had any
such feelings, but the possibility had to be borne in mind. And there
were the further facts that he evidently had some means of obtaining
poisons and that he had ample opportunities for administering them to
the deceased. All things considered, Wallingford appeared, prima
facie, to be the most likely person to have committed the murder.

“Now to take the case of Barbara. In the first place, there was the
possibility that she might have had some feeling towards Wallingford,
in which case she would probably have been acting in collusion with
him and her absence from home on each occasion when the poisoning took
place would have been part of the arrangement. But, excluding
Wallingford, and supposing her to be concerned with some other man,
did her absence from home absolutely exclude the possibility of her
being the poisoner? There were suggestions of skilful and ingenious
arrangements to create false appearances. Was it possible that those
arrangements included some method by which the poison could be
administered during her absence without the connivance or knowledge of
any other person?

“I pondered this question carefully by the light of all the details
disclosed at the inquest; and the conclusion that I reached was that,
given a certain amount of knowledge, skill and executive ability, the
thing was possible. But as soon as I had admitted the possibility, I
was impressed by the way in which the suggestion fitted in with the
known facts and served to explain them. For all the arranged
appearances pointed to the use of Fowler’s Solution, administered by
the mouth. But this could not possibly have been the method if the
poisoner were a hundred miles away. And as I have said, I was strongly
inclined to infer, from the patient’s symptoms and the condition of
the body, that the poison had not been administered by the mouth.

“But all this, as you will realize, was purely hypothetical. None of
the assumptions was supported by a particle of positive evidence. They
merely represented possibilities which I proposed to bear in mind in
the interpretation of any new evidence that might come into view.

“This brings us to the end of the first stage; the conclusions arrived
at by a careful study of the depositions. But following hard on the
inquest was your visit to me when you gave me the particulars of your
past life and your relations with Barbara and Monkhouse. Now your
little autobiographical sketch was extremely enlightening, and, as it
has turned out, of vital importance. In the first place, it made clear
to me that your relations with Barbara were much more intimate than I
had supposed. You were not merely friends of long standing; you were
virtually in the relation of brother and sister. But with this very
important difference: that you were not brother and sister. An adopted
brother is a possible husband; an adopted sister is a possible wife.
And when I considered your departure to Canada with the intention of
remaining there for life, and your unexpected return, I found that the
bare possibility that Barbara might wish to be released from her
marriage had acquired a certain measure of probability.

“But further; your narrative brought into view another person who had
died. And the death of that person presented a certain analogy with
the death of Monkhouse. For if Barbara had wished to be your wife,
both these persons stood immovably in the way of her wishes. Of course
there was no evidence that she had any such wish, and the death of
Stella was alleged to have been due to natural causes. Nevertheless,
the faint, hypothetical suggestions offered by these new facts were
strikingly similar to those offered by the previous facts.

“The next stage opened when I read your diary, especially the volume
written during the last year of Stella’s life. But now one came out of
the region of mere speculative hypothesis into that of very definite
suspicion. I had not read very far when, from your chance references
to the symptoms of Stella’s illness, I came to the decided conclusion
that, possibly mingled with the symptoms of real disease, were those
of more or less chronic arsenical poisoning. And what was even more
impressive, those symptoms seemed to be closely comparable with
Monkhouse’s symptoms, particularly in the suggestion of a mixed
poisoning partly due to minute doses of arsine. I need not go into
details, but you will remember that you make occasional references to
slight attacks of jaundice (which is very characteristic of arsine
poisoning) and to ‘eye-strain’ which the spectacles failed to relieve.
But redness, smarting and watering of the eyes is an almost constant
symptom of chronic arsenic poisoning. And there were various other
symptoms of a decidedly suspicious character to which you refer and
which I need not go into now.

“Then a careful study of the diary brought into view another very
impressive fact. There were considerable fluctuations in Stella’s
condition. Sometimes she appeared to be so far improving as to lead
you to some hopes of her actual recovery. Then there would be a rather
sudden change for the worse and she would lose more than she had
gained. Now, at this time Barbara had already become connected with
the political movement which periodically called her away from home
for periods varying from one to four weeks; and when I drew up a table
of the dates of her departures and returns, I found that the periods
included between them—that is the periods during which she was absent
from home—coincided most singularly with Stella’s relapses. The
coincidence was so complete that, when I had set the data out in a
pair of diagrams in the form of graphs, the resemblance of the two
diagrams was most striking. I will show you the diagrams presently.

“But there was something else that I was on the lookout for in the
diary, but it was only quite near the end that I found it. Quite
early, I learned that Stella was accustomed to read and work at night
by the light of a candle. But I could not discover what sort of candle
she used; whether it was an ordinary household candle or one of some
special kind. At last I came on the entry in which you describe the
making of the wax mould; and then I had the information that I had
been looking for. In that entry you mention that you began by lifting
the reflector off the candle, by which I learned that the receptacle
used was not an ordinary candlestick. Then you remark that the candle
was of ‘good hard wax’; by which I learned that it was not an ordinary
household candle—these being usually composed of a rather soft
paraffin wax. Apparently, it was a stearine candle such as is made for
use in candle-lamps.”

“But,” I expostulated, “how could it possibly matter what sort of
candle she used? The point seems to be quite irrelevant.”

“The point,” he replied, “was not only relevant; it was of crucial
importance. But I had better explain. When I was considering the
circumstances surrounding the poisoning of Monkhouse, I decided that
the probabilities pointed to Barbara as the poisoner. But she was a
hundred miles away when the poisoning occurred; hence the question
that I asked myself was this: Was there any method that was possible
and practicable in the existing circumstances by which Barbara could
have arranged that the poisoning could be effected during her absence?
And the answer was that there was such a method, but only one. The
food and the medicine were prepared and administered by those who were
on the spot. But the candles were supplied by Barbara and by her put
into the bedside candle-box before she went away. And they would
operate during her absence.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “do I understand you to suggest that it is
possible to administer poison by means of a candle?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “It is quite possible and quite practicable.
If a candle is charged with finely powdered arsenious acid—‘white
arsenic’—when that candle is burnt, the arsenious acid will be partly
vaporized and partly converted into arsine, or arseniureted hydrogen.
Most of the arsine will be burnt in the flame and reconverted into
arsenious acid, which will float in the air, as it condenses, in the
form of an almost invisible white cloud. The actual result will be
that the air in the neighbourhood of the candle will contain small
traces of arsine—which is an intensely poisonous gas—and considerable
quantities of arsenious acid, floating about in the form of infinitely
minute crystals. This impalpable dust will be breathed into the lungs
of any person near the candle and will settle on the skin, from which
it will be readily absorbed into the blood and produce all the
poisonous effects of arsenic.

“Now, in the case of Harold Monkhouse, not only was there a special
kind of candle, supplied by the suspected person, but, as I have told
you, the symptoms during life and the appearances of the dead body,
all seemed to me to point to some method of poisoning through the
lungs and skin rather than by way of the stomach, and also suggested a
mixed poisoning in which arsine played some part. So that the candle
was not only a possible medium of the poisoning; it was by far the
most probable.

“Hence, when I came to consider Stella’s illness and noted the strong
suggestion of arsenic poisoning; and when I noted the parallelism of
her illness with that of Monkhouse; I naturally kept a watchful eye
for a possible parallelism in the method of administering the poison.
And not only did I find that parallelism; but in that very entry, I
found strong confirmation of my suspicion that the candle was
poisoned. You will remember that you mention the circumstance that on
the night following the making of the wax mould you were quite
seriously unwell. Apparently you were suffering from a slight attack
of acute arsenical poisoning, due to your having inhaled some of the
fumes from the burning candle.”

“Yes, I remember that,” said I. “But what is puzzling me is how the
candles could have been obtained. Surely it is not possible to buy
arsenical candles?”

“No,” he replied, “it is not. But it is possible to buy a
candle-mould, with which it is quite easy to make them. Remember that,
not so very long ago, most country people used to make their own
candles, and the hinged moulds that they used are still by no means
rare. You will find specimens in most local museums and in curio shops
in country towns and you can often pick them up in farm-house sales.
And if you have a candle-mould, the making of arsenical candles is
quite a simple affair. Barbara, as we know, used to buy a particular
German brand of stearine candles. All that she had to do was to melt
the candles, put the separated wicks into the mould, stir some
finely-powdered white arsenic into the melted wax and pour it into the
mould. When the wax was cool, the mould would be opened and the
candles taken out—these hinged moulds usually made about six candles
at a time. Then it would be necessary to scrape off the seam left by
the mould and smooth the candles to make them look like those sold in
the shops.”

“It was a most diabolically ingenious scheme,” said I.

“It was,” he agreed. “The whole villainous plan was very completely
conceived and most efficiently carried out. But to return to our
argument. The discovery that Stella had used a special form of candle
left me in very little doubt that Barbara was the poisoner and that
poisoned candles had been the medium used in both crimes. For we were
now out of the region of mere hypothesis. We were dealing with genuine
circumstantial evidence. But that evidence was still much too largely
inferential to serve as the material for a prosecution. We still
needed some facts of a definite and tangible kind; and as soon as you
came back from your travels on the South-Eastern Circuit, fresh facts
began to accumulate. Passing over the proceedings of Wallingford and
his follower and the infernal machine—all of which were encouraging,
as offering corroboration, but of no immediate assistance—the first
really important accretion of evidence occurred in connection with our
visit to the empty house in Hilborough Square.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Then you did find something significant, in spite
of your pessimistic tone at the time? I may say, Thorndyke, that I had
a feeling that you went to that house with the definite expectation of
finding some specific thing. Was I wrong?”

“No. You were quite right. I went there with the expectation of
finding one thing and a faint hope of finding another; and both the
expectation and the hope were justified by the event. My main purpose
in that expedition was to obtain samples of the wall-paper from
Monkhouse’s room, but I thought it just possible that the soot from
the bedroom chimneys might yield some information. And it did.

“To begin with the wall-paper: the condition of the room made it easy
to secure specimens. I tore off about a dozen pieces and wrote a
number on each, to correspond with numbers that I marked on a rough
sketch-plan of the room which I drew first. My expectation was that
if—as I believed—arsenical candles had been burnt in that room,
arsenic would have been deposited on all the walls, but in varying
amounts, proportionate to the distance of the wall from the candle.
The loose piece of paper on the wall by the bed was, of course, the
real touchstone of the case, for if there were no arsenic in it, the
theory of the arsenical candle would hardly be tenable. I therefore
took the extra precaution of writing a full description of its
position on the back of the piece and deposited it for greater safety
in my letter-case.

“As soon as I reached home that day I spread out the torn fragment on
the wide stage of a culture microscope and examined its outer surface
with a strong top light. And the very first glance settled the
question. The whole surface was spangled over with minute crystals,
many of them hardly a ten-thousandth of an inch in diameter, sparkling
in the strong light like diamonds and perfectly unmistakable; the
characteristic octahedral crystals of arsenious acid.

“But distinctive as they were, I took nothing for granted. Snipping
off a good-sized piece of the paper, I submitted it to the
Marsh-Berzelius test and got a very pronounced ‘arsenical mirror,’
which put the matter beyond any possible doubt or question. I may add
that I tested all the other pieces and got an arsenic reaction from
them all, varying, roughly, according to their distance from the table
on which the candle stood.

“Thus the existence of the arsenical candle was no longer a matter of
hypothesis or even of mere probability; it was virtually a
demonstrated fact. The next question was, who put the arsenic into the
candle? All the evidence, such as it was, pointed to Barbara. But
there was not enough of it. No single fact connected her quite
definitely with the candles, and it had to be admitted that they had
passed through other hands than hers and that the candle-box was
accessible to several people, especially during her absence. Clear
evidence, then, was required to associate her—or some one else—with
those poisoned candles, and I had just a faint hope that such evidence
might be forthcoming. This was how I reasoned:

“Here was a case of poisoning in which the poison was
self-administered and the actual poisoner was absent. Consequently it
was impossible to give a calculated dose on a given occasion, nor was
it possible to estimate in advance the amount that would be necessary
to produce the desired result. Since the poison was to be left within
reach of the victim, to be taken from time to time, it would be
necessary to leave a quantity considerably in excess of the amount
actually required to produce death on any one occasion. It is probable
that all the candles in the box were poisoned. In any case, most of
them must have been; and as the box was filled to last for the whole
intended time of Barbara’s absence, there would be a remainder of
poisoned candles in the box when Monkhouse died. But the incident of
the ‘faked’ medicine showed that the poisoner was fully alive to the
possibility of an examination of the room. It was not likely that so
cautious a criminal would leave such damning evidence as the arsenical
candles in full view. For if, by chance, one of them had been lighted
and the bearer had developed symptoms of poisoning, the murder would
almost certainly have been out. In any case, we could assume that the
poisoner would remove them and destroy them after putting ordinary
candles in their place.

“But a candle is not a very easy thing to destroy. You can’t throw it
down a sink, or smash it up and cast it into the rubbish-bin. It must
be burnt; and owing to its inflammability, it must be burnt carefully
and rather slowly; and if it contains a big charge of arsenic, the
operator must take considerable precautions. And finally, these
particular candles had to be burnt secretly.

“Having regard to these considerations, I decided that the only safe
and practicable way to get rid of them was to burn them in a fireplace
with the window wide open. This would have to be done at night when
all the household was asleep, so as to be safe from interruption and
discovery; and a screen would have to be put before the fireplace to
prevent the glare from being visible through the open window. If there
were a fire in the grate, so much the better. The candles could be cut
up into small pieces and thrown into the fire one at a time.

“Of course the whole matter was speculative. There might have been no
surplus candles, or if there were, they might have been taken out of
the house and disposed of in some other way. But one could only act on
the obvious probabilities and examine the chimneys, remembering that
whereas a negative result would prove nothing for or against any
particular person, a positive result would furnish very weighty
evidence. Accordingly I collected samples of soot from the various
bedroom chimneys and from that of Barbara’s boudoir, labelling each of
them with the aid of the cards which you had left in the respective
rooms.

“The results were, I think, quite conclusive. When I submitted the
samples to analysis I found them all practically free from
arsenic—disregarding the minute traces that one expects to find in
ordinary soot—with one exception. The soot from Barbara’s bedroom
chimney yielded, not mere traces, but an easily measurable
quantity—much too large to have been attributable to the coal burnt in
the grate.

“Thus, you see, so far as the murder of Monkhouse was concerned, there
was a fairly conclusive case against Barbara. It left not a shadow of
doubt in my mind that she was the guilty person. But you will also see
that it was not a satisfactory case to take into court. The whole of
the evidence was scientific and might have appeared rather
unconvincing to the ordinary juryman, though it would have been
convincing enough to the judge. I debated with myself whether I should
communicate my discoveries to the police and leave them to decide for
or against a prosecution, or whether I should keep silence and seek
for further evidence. And finally I decided, for the present, to keep
my own counsel. You will understand why.”

“Yes,” said I. “You suspected that Stella, too, had been poisoned.”

“Exactly. I had very little doubt of it. And you notice that in this
case there was available evidence of a kind that would be quite
convincing to a jury—evidence obtainable from an examination of the
victim’s body. But here again I was disposed to adopt a waiting policy
for three reasons. First, I should have liked to avoid the exhumation
if possible. Second, if the exhumation were unavoidable, I was
unwilling to apply for it until I was certain that arsenic would be
found in the body; and third, although the proof that Stella had been
poisoned would have strengthened the case enormously against Barbara,
it would yet have added nothing to the evidence that a poisoned candle
had been used.

“But the proof of the poisoned candle was the kernel of the case
against Barbara. If I could prove that Stella had been poisoned by
means of a candle, that would render the evidence absolutely
irresistible. This I was not at present able to do. But I had some
slight hopes that the deficiency might be made up; that some new facts
might come into view if I waited. And, as there was nothing that
called for immediate action, I decided to wait, and in due course, the
deficiency was made up and the new facts did come into view.”

As he paused, I picked up Stella’s medallion and looked at it with a
new and sombre interest. Holding it up before him, I said:

“I am assuming, Thorndyke, that the new facts were in some way
connected with this. Am I right?”

“Yes,” he replied, “you are entirely right. The connection between
that charming little work and the evidence that sent that monster of
wickedness to her death is one of the strangest and most impressive
circumstances that has become known to me in the whole of my
experience. It is no exaggeration to say that when you and Stella were
working on that medallion, you were forging the last link in the chain
of evidence that could have dragged the murdress to the gallows.”

He paused, and, having replenished my glass, took the medallion in his
hand and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he knocked out and refilled
his pipe and I waited expectantly for the completion of this singular
story.



Chapter XVIII

The Final Proof

“We now,” Thorndyke resumed, “enter the final stage of the inquiry.
Hitherto we have dealt with purely scientific evidence which would
have had to be communicated to the jury and which they would have had
to take on trust with no convincing help from their own eyes. We had
evidence, conclusive to ourselves, that Monkhouse had been murdered by
means of a poisoned candle. But we could not produce the candle or any
part of it. We had nothing visible or tangible to show to the jury to
give them the feeling of confidence and firm conviction which they
rightly demand when they have to decide an issue involving the life or
death of the accused. It was this something that could be seen and
handled that I sought, and sought in vain until that momentous evening
when I called at your chambers to return your diary.

“I remember that as I entered the room and cast my eyes over the
things that were spread out on the table, I received quite a shock.
For the first glance showed me that, amongst those things were two
objects that exactly fulfilled the conditions of the final test. There
was the wax mould—a part, and the greater part, of one of the
suspected candles; and there was the tress of hair—a portion of the
body of the person suspected to have been poisoned. With these two
objects it was possible to determine with absolute certainty whether
that person had or had not been poisoned with arsenic, and if she had,
whether the candle had or had not been the medium by which the poison
was administered.”

“But,” I said, “you knew from the diary of the existence of the wax
mould.”

“I knew that it _had_ existed. But I naturally supposed that the cast
had been taken and the mould destroyed years ago, though I had
intended to ask you about it. However, here it was, miraculously
preserved, against all probabilities, still awaiting completion. Of
course, I recognized it instantly, and began to cast about in my mind
for some means of making the necessary examination without disclosing
my suspicions. For you will realize that I was unwilling to say
anything to you about Stella’s death until the question was settled
one way or the other. If the examination had shown no arsenic either
in the candle or in the hair, it would not have been necessary to say
anything to you at all.

“But while I was debating the matter, the problem solved itself. As
soon as I came to look at Stella’s unfinished works, I saw that they
cried aloud to be completed and that Polton was the proper person to
carry out the work. I made the suggestion, which I should have made in
any case, and when you adopted it, I decided to say nothing but to
apply the tests when the opportunity offered.”

“I am glad,” said I, “to hear you say that you would have made the
suggestion in any case. It looked at first like a rather cold-blooded
pretext to get possession of the things. But you were speaking of the
hair. Can you depend on finding recognizable traces of arsenic in the
hair of a person who has been poisoned?”

“Certainly, you can,” he replied. “The position is this: When arsenic
is taken it becomes diffused throughout the whole body, including the
blood, the bones and the skin. But as soon as a dose of arsenic is
taken, the poison begins to be eliminated from the body, and, if no
further dose is taken, the whole of the poison is thrown off in a
comparatively short time until none remains in the tissues—with one
exception. That exception is the epidermis, or outer skin, with its
appendages—the finger and toe nails and the hair. These structures
differ from all others in that, instead of growing interstitially and
being alive throughout, they grow at a certain growing-point and then
become practically dead structures. Thus a hair grows at the
growing-point where the bulb joins the true skin. Each day a new piece
of hair is produced at the living root, but when once it has come into
being it grows no more, but is simply pushed up from below by the next
portion. Thenceforward it undergoes no change, excepting that it
gradually moves upwards as new portions are added at the root. It is
virtually a dead, unchanging structure.

“Now suppose a person to take a considerable dose of arsenic. That
arsenic becomes diffused throughout all the living tissues and is for
a time deposited in them. The growing point of the hair is a living
tissue and of course the arsenic becomes deposited in it. Then the
process of elimination begins and the arsenic is gradually removed
from the living tissues. But in twenty-four hours, what was the
growing-point of the hair has been pushed up about the fiftieth of an
inch and is no longer a growing structure. It is losing its vitality.
And as it ceases to be a living tissue it ceases to be affected by the
process of elimination. Hence the arsenic which was deposited in it
when it was a living tissue is never removed. It remains as a
permanent constituent of that part of the hair, slowly moving up as
the hair grows from below, until at last it is snipped off by the
barber; or, if the owner is a long-haired woman, it continues to creep
along until the hair is full-grown and drops out.”

“Then the arsenic remains always in the same spot?”

“Yes. It is a local deposit at a particular point in the hair. And
this, Mayfield, is a most important fact, as you will see presently.
For observe what follows. Hair grows at a uniform rate—roughly, a
fiftieth of an inch in twenty-four hours. It is consequently possible,
by measurement, to fix nearly exactly, the age of any given point on a
hair. Thus if we have a complete hair and we find at any point in it a
deposit of arsenic, by measuring from that point to the root we can
fix, within quite narrow limits, the date on which that dose of
arsenic was taken.”

“But is it possible to do this?” I asked.

“Not in the case of a single hair,” he replied. “But in the case of a
tress, in which all the hairs are of the same age, it is perfectly
possible. You will see the important bearing of this presently.

“To return now to my investigation. I had the bulk of a candle and a
tress of Stella’s hair. The questions to be settled were, 1. Was there
arsenic in the candle? and 2. Had Stella been poisoned with arsenic? I
began by trimming the wax mould in readiness for casting and then I
made an analysis of the trimmings. The result was the discovery of
considerable quantities of arsenic in the wax.

“That answered the first question. Next, as the tress of hair was
larger than was required for your purpose, I ventured to sacrifice a
portion of it for a preliminary test. That test also gave a positive
result. The quantity of arsenic was, of course, very minute, but still
it was measurable by the delicate methods that are possible in dealing
with arsenic; and the amount that I found pointed either to one large
dose or to repeated smaller ones.

“The two questions were now answered definitely. It was certain—and
the certainty could be demonstrated to a jury—that Stella had been
poisoned by arsenic, and that the arsenic had been administered by
means of poisoned candles. The complete proof in this case lent added
weight to the less complete proof in the case of Monkhouse; and the
two cases served to corroborate one another in pointing to Barbara as
the poisoner. For she was the common factor in the two cases. The
other persons—Wallingford, Madeline and the others—who appeared in the
Monkhouse case, made no appearance in the case of Stella; and the
persons who were associated with Stella were not associated with
Monkhouse. But Barbara was associated with both. And her absence from
home was no answer to the charge if death was caused by the candles
which she had admittedly supplied.

“But complete as the proof was, I wished, if possible, to make it yet
more complete: to associate Barbara still more definitely with the
crime. In the case of Monkhouse, it was clear that the poisoning
always occurred when she was absent from home. But this was not so
clear in the case of Stella. Your diary showed that Stella’s relapses
coincided pretty regularly with Barbara’s absences; but it was not
certain (though obviously probable) that the relapses coincided with
the periods of poisoning. If it could be proved that they did
coincide, that proof would furnish corroboration of the greatest
possible weight. It would show that the two cases were parallel in all
respects.

“But could it be proved? If the tress of Stella’s hair had been at my
disposal, I had no doubt that I could have decided the question. But
the tress was yours, and it had to be preserved. Whatever was to be
done must be done without destroying or injuring the hair, and I set
myself the task of finding some practicable method. Eventually, I
decided, without much hope of success, to try the X-rays. As arsenic
is a fairly dense metal and the quantity of it in the deposits quite
considerable, it seemed to me possible that it might increase the
density of the hairs at those points sufficiently to affect the X-ray
shadow. At any rate, I decided to give the method a trial.

“Accordingly, Polton and I set to work at it. First, in order to get
the densest shadow possible, we made the tress up into a close
cylinder, carefully arranging it so that all the cut ends were in
exactly the same plane. Then we made a number of graduated exposures
on ‘process’ plates, developing and intensifying with the object of
getting the greatest possible degree of contrast. The result was
unexpectedly successful. In the best negative, the shape of the tress
was faintly visible and was soon to be crossed by a number of
perfectly distinct pale bands. Those bands were the shadows of the
deposits of arsenic. There could be no doubt on the subject. For,
apart from the fact that there was nothing else that they could be,
their appearance agreed exactly with what one would have expected.
Each band presented a sharp, distinct edge towards the tips of the
hairs and faded away imperceptibly towards the roots. The sharp edge
corresponded to the sudden appearance of arsenic in the blood when the
poisoning began. The gradual fading away corresponded to the period of
elimination when the poisoning had ceased and the quantity of arsenic
in the blood was becoming less and less from day to day.

“Now, since hair grows at a known, uniform rate, it was possible to
convert the distances between these arsenical bands into periods of
time; not with perfect exactness, because the rate of growth varies
slightly in different persons, but with sufficient exactness for our
present purpose. As soon as I looked at those bands, I saw that they
told the whole story. But let us follow the method of proof.

“Assuming the rate of growth to be one fiftieth of an inch in
twenty-four hours—which was probably correct for a person of Stella’s
age—I measured off on the photograph seven inches and a quarter from
the cut ends as representing the last year of her life. Of course, I
did not know how close to the head the hair had been cut, but, judging
by the bands, I assumed that it had been cut quite close to the
skin—within a quarter of an inch.”

“I happen to know that you were quite right,” said I, “but I can’t
imagine how you arrived at your conclusion.”

“It was quite a simple inference,” he replied, “as you will see,
presently. But to return to the photograph. Of the measured space of
seven inches and a quarter I took a tracing on sheet celluloid,
marking the sharp edges of the bands, the points at which the fading
began and the points at which the band ceased to be visible. This
tracing I transferred to paper ruled in tenths of an inch—a tenth of
an inch representing five days—and I joined the points where the
fading began and ended by a sloping line. I now had a diagram, or
chart, which showed, with something approaching to accuracy, the
duration of each administration of arsenic and the time which elapsed
between the successive poisonings. This is the chart. The sloping
lines show the fading of the bands.”

He handed me a paper which he had just taken from a drawer and I
looked at it curiously but with no great interest. As I returned it
after a brief inspection I remarked:

“It is quite clear and intelligible, but I don’t quite see why you
took the considerable trouble of making it. Does it show anything that
could not be stated in a few words?”

“Not by itself,” he replied. “But you remember that I mentioned having
made two other charts, one showing the fluctuations in Stella’s
illness and the other showing Barbara’s absences from home during the
same period. Here are those other two charts; and now, if you put the
three together, your eye can take in at a glance a fact of fundamental
importance; which is that the relapses, the absences and the
poisonings all coincided in time. The periodicity is strikingly
irregular; but it is identical in all three charts. I made these to
hand to the jury, and I think they would have been quite convincing,
since any juryman could check them by the dates given in evidence, and
by inspection of the radiograph of the hair.”

  [Illustration: Three charts, labelled “A,” “B,” and “C,” each marked
  horizontally with the names of months. Charts A and B
  are line graphs, while Chart C marks off certain periods of time
  with solid blocks. Each chart shows five peaks occurring at the same
  points in time.]

  Explanation of the Charts

  Chart A shows the fluctuations in the illness of Stella Keene during
  the year preceding her death in October. Divided into intervals of
  five days.

  Chart B shows the distribution of the arsenical bands in Stella
  Keene’s hair. The steep sides of the curves, towards the tips of the
  hairs, show the sudden appearance of the deposit, and the sloping
  sides, towards the roots of the hairs, represent its more gradual
  fading. Each of the narrow divisions represents five days’ growth.

  Chart C shows the periods during which Barbara was absent from home,
  each absence being represented by a black column. Divided into
  intervals of five days.

I gazed at the three charts and was profoundly impressed by the
convincing way in which they demonstrated the connection between
Barbara’s movements and the results of her diabolical activities. But
what impressed me still more was the amazing ingenuity with which
Thorndyke had contrived to build up a case of the most deadly
precision and completeness out of what seemed, even to my trained
intelligence, no more than a few chance facts, apparently quite
trivial and irrelevant.

“It seems,” I said, “that, so far as you were concerned, the
exhumation was really unnecessary.”

“Quite,” he replied. “It proved nothing that was not already certain.
Still, the Commissioner was quite right. For the purposes of a trial,
evidence obtained from the actual body of the victim is of
immeasurably more weight than indirect scientific evidence, no matter
how complete. An ordinary juryman might have difficulty in realizing
that the hair is part of the body and that proof of arsenical deposit
in the hair is proof of arsenic in the body. But the mistake that he
made, as events turned out, was in refusing to make the arrest until
my statements had been confirmed by the autopsy and the analysis. That
delay allowed the criminal to escape. Not that I complain. To me,
personally, her suicide came as a blessed release from an almost
intolerable position. But if I had been in his place, I would have
taken no chances. She would have gone to trial and to the gallows.”

“Yes,” I admitted; “that was what justice demanded. But I cannot be
thankful enough for the delay that let her escape. Fiend as she was,
it would have been a frightful thing to have had to give the evidence
that would have hanged her.”

“It would,” he agreed; “and the thought of it was a nightmare to me.
However, we have escaped that; and after all, justice has been done.”

We were silent for a few minutes, during which Thorndyke smoked his
pipe with a certain air of attention as if he expected me to put some
further questions. And, in fact, there were one or two questions that
I wanted to have answered. I began with the simplest.

“I am still a little puzzled by some of the circumstances in this
case. The infernal machine I happen to know to have been sent by
Barbara, though I don’t understand why she sent it. But Wallingford’s
proceedings are a complete mystery to me. What do you suppose induced
him to keep a watch on you in that extraordinary fashion? And who was
the man who shadowed him? There certainly was such a man, for I saw
him, myself. And the same man had been shadowing Miss Norris. What do
you make of it all?”

“One can only reason from past experiences,” he replied. “It seems to
be a rule that a person who has committed a crime cannot remain quiet
and let things take their course. There appears to be an irresistible
impulse to lay down false clues and create misleading appearances. It
is always a mistake, unless the false clues are laid down in advance,
and even then it is apt to fail and unexpectedly furnish a real clue.

“Now Barbara, with all her astonishing cleverness, made that mistake.
She laid down a false clue in advance by her absences from home, and
the trick certainly worked successfully at the inquest. But it was
precisely those absences that put me on the track of the candle, which
otherwise might have passed unsuspected. The faked medicine was
another false clue which attracted my attention and added to my
suspicion concerning the candle. Then, after the event came these
other endeavours to mislead. They did neither harm nor good, as it
happened, since I had already marked her down as the principal
suspect. But if I had been in doubt, I should have followed up those
clues and found her at the end of them.

“As to Wallingford, I imagine that she led him to believe that I was
employed by you to fix the crime on him and that he was advised to
watch me and be ready to anticipate any move on my part; her actual
object being to cause him to behave in such a manner as to attract
suspicious attention. The function of the private detective—for that
is what he must have been—would be to keep Wallingford’s nerves—and
Miss Norris’s, too—in such a state that they would appear anxious and
terrified and tend to attract attention. The infernal machine was
primarily intended, I think, to cast suspicion on one or both of them.
That was what I inferred from the total absence of finger-prints and
the flagrantly identifiable character of the pistol and the wool.

“But the greatest, the most fatal mistake that Barbara made was the
one that is absolutely characteristic of the criminal. She repeated
the procedure of a previous crime that had been successful. It was
that repetition that was her undoing. Either crime, separately, might
have been difficult to fix on her. As it was, each crime was proof of
the other.”

Once more we fell silent; and still Thorndyke had the air of expecting
some further question from me. I looked at him nervously; for there
was something that I wanted to ask and yet I hardly dared to put it
into words. For, as I had looked at those charts, a horrid suspicion
had taken hold of me. I feared to have it confirmed, and yet I could
not let it rest. At last, I summoned courage enough to put the
question.

“Thorndyke,” I said, “I want you to tell me something. I expect you
know what it is.”

He looked up and nodded gravely.

“You mean about Stella?” said he.

“Yes. How long would she have lived if she had not been poisoned?”

He looked away for a few moments, and, impassive as his face was, I
could see that he was deeply moved. At length he replied:

“I was afraid you were going to ask me that. But since you have, I can
only answer you honestly. So far as I can judge, but for that accursed
ghoul, the poor girl might have been alive and well at this moment.”

I stared at him in amazement. “Do you mean,” I demanded, “that she was
not really suffering from consumption at all?”

“That is what it amounts to,” he replied. “There were signs of old
tubercular trouble, but there was nothing recent. Evidently she had
good powers of resistance, and the disease had not only become
stationary, but was practically extinct. The old lesions had undergone
complete repair, and there is no reason to suppose that any recurrence
would have taken place under ordinary conditions.”

“But,” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe that the disaster had been
so overwhelmingly complete, “what about the cough? I know that she
always had a more or less troublesome cough.”

“So had Monkhouse,” he replied; “and so would any one have had whose
lungs were periodically irritated by inhaling particles of arsenious
acid. But the tubercular mischief was quite limited and recovery must
have commenced early. And Barbara, watching eagerly the symptoms of
the disease which was to rid her of her rival, must have noted with
despair the signs of commencing recovery and at last resolved to do
for herself what nature was failing to do. Doubtless, the special
method of poisoning was devised to imitate the symptoms of the
disease; which it did well enough to deceive those whose minds were
prepared by the antecedent illness to receive the suggestion. It was a
horribly, fiendishly ingenious crime; calmly, callously devised and
carried out to its appalling end with the most hideous efficiency.”

After he had finished speaking, I remained gazing at him dumbly,
stupefied, stunned by the realization of the enormity of this
frightful thing that had befallen. He, too, seemed quite overcome, for
he sat silently, grasping his extinct pipe and looking sternly and
fixedly into the fire. At length he spoke, but without removing his
gaze from the bright embers.

“I am trying, Mayfield,” he said, gently, “to think of something to
say to you. But there is nothing to say. The disaster is too complete,
too irretrievable. This terrible woman has, so far, wrecked your life,
and I recognize that you will carry the burden of your loss so long as
you live. It would be a mere impertinence to utter futile and banal
condolences. You know what I, your friend, am feeling and I need say
no more of that; and I have too much confidence in your wisdom and
courage to think of exhortations.

“But, though you have been robbed of the future that might have been,
there is still a future that may be. It remains to you now only to
shoulder your fardel and begin your pilgrimage anew; and if the road
shall seem at first a dreary one, you need not travel it alone. You
have friends; and one of them will think it a privilege to bear you
company and try to hearten you by the way.”

He held out his hand and I grasped it silently and with a full heart.
And the closer friendship that was inaugurated in that hand-clasp has
endured through the passing years, ever more precious and more
helpful.

                              The End



Transcriber’s Note

This transcription follows the text of the first edition published by
Dodd, Mead & Company in 1928. However, the following alterations have
been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:

  * Three occurrences of mismatched quotation marks have been fixed.
  * “plainsclothes” has been changed to “plainclothes” (Chapter III).
  * “numbers of others” has been changed to “number of others”
    (Chapter VIII).
  * “attracts” has been changed to “attract” (Chapter X).
  * “less that” has been changed to “less than” (Chapter XVI).
  * “thier” has been changed to “their” (Chapter XI).
  * “quote practicable” has been changed to “quite practicable”
    (Chapter XVII).
  * “the prisoner” has been changed to “the poisoner” (Chapter XVII).




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