THE IDENTITY OF THE FINAL VICTIM
I soon fell into the habit of going to see Professor Quarles. As an
excuse I talked over cases with him, but he seldom volunteered an
opinion, often was obviously uninterested. Truth to tell, I was not
there for his opinion, but to see his granddaughter. A detective in
love sounds something like an absurdity, but such was my case, and,
since Zena's manner did not suggest that she was particularly
interested in me, my love affair seemed rather a hopeless one.
My association with Christopher Quarles has, however, led to the
solution of some strange mysteries, and, since my own achievements are
sufficiently well known, I may confine myself to those cases which,
single-handed, I should have failed to solve. I know that in many of
them I was credited with having unraveled the mystery, but this was
only because Professor Quarles persisted in remaining in the
background. If I did the spade work, the deductions were his.
They were all cases with peculiar features in them, and it was never
as a detective that Quarles approached them. He was often as
astonished at my acumen in following a clew as I was at his marvelous
theories, which seemed so absurd to begin with yet proved correct in
the end.
Perhaps his curious power was never more noticeable than in the case
of the Withan murder.
A farmer returning from Medworth, the neighboring market town, one
night in January, was within a quarter of a mile of Withan village
when his horse suddenly shied and turned into the ditch.
During the afternoon there had been a fall of snow, sufficient to
cover the ground to a depth of an inch or so, and in places it had
drifted to a depth of two feet or more. By evening the clouds had
gone, the moon sailed in a clear sky, and, looking round to find the
cause of his horse's unusual behavior, the farmer saw a man lying on a
heap of snow under the opposite hedge.
He was dead--more, he was headless.
It was not until some days later that the case came into my hands, and
in the interval the local authorities had not been idle. It was noted
that the man was poorly dressed, that his hands proved he was used to
manual labor, but there was no mark either on his body or on his
clothing, nor any papers in his pockets to lead to his identification.
So far as could be ascertained, nobody was missing in Withan or
Medworth. It seemed probable that the murderer had come upon his
victim secretly, that the foul deed had been committed with horrible
expedition, otherwise the victim, although not a strong man, would
have made some struggle for his life, and apparently no struggle had
taken place.
Footprints, nearly obliterated, were traceable to a wood on the
opposite side of the road, but no one seemed to have left the wood in
any direction. From this fact it was argued that the murder had been
committed early in the afternoon, soon after the storm began, and that
snow had hidden the murderer's tracks from the wood. That snow had
drifted on to the dead body seemed to establish this theory.
Why had the murderer taken the head with him? There were many
fantastic answers to the question. Some of the country folk, easily
superstitious, suggested that it must be the work of the devil, others
put it down to an escaped lunatic, while others again thought it might
be the work of some doctor who wanted to study the brain.
The authorities believed that it had been removed to prevent
identification, and would be found buried in the wood. It was not
found, however, and the countryside was in a state bordering on panic.
For a few days the Withan murder seemed unique in atrocities, and then
came a communication from the French police. Some two years ago an
almost identical murder had been committed outside a village in
Normandy. In this case also the head was missing, and nothing had been
found upon the body to identify the victim. He was well dressed, and a
man who would be likely to carry papers with him, but nothing was
found, and the murder had remained a mystery.
These were the points known and conjectured when the case came into my
hands, and my investigations added little to them.
One point, however, impressed me. I felt convinced that the man's
clothes, which were shown to me, had not been made in England. They
were poor, worn almost threadbare, but they had once been fairly good,
and the cut was not English. That it was French I could not possibly
affirm, but it might be, and so I fashioned a fragile link with the
Normandy crime.
On this occasion I went to Quarles with the object of interesting him
in the Withan case, and he forestalled me by beginning to talk about
it the moment I entered the room.
Here I may mention a fact which I had not discovered at first.
Whenever he was interested in a case I was always taken into his empty
room; at other times we were in the dining-room or the drawing-room.
It was the empty room on this occasion, and Zena remained with us.
I went carefully through the case point by point, and he made no
comment until I had finished.
"The foreign cut of the clothes may be of importance," he said. "I am
not sure. Is this wood you mention of any great extent?"
"No, it runs beside the road for two or three hundred yards."
"Toward Withan?"
"No; it was near the Withan end of it that the dead man was found."
"Any traces that the head was carried to the wood?"
"The local authorities say, 'Yes,' and not a trace afterward. The
ground in the wood was searched at the time, and I have been over it
carefully since. Through one part of the wood there runs a ditch,
which is continued as a division between two fields which form part of
the farm land behind the wood. By walking along this the murderer
might have left the wood without leaving tracks behind him."
"A good point, Wigan. And where would that ditch lead him?"
"Eventually to the high road, which runs almost at right angles to the
Withan road."
"Much water in the ditch?" asked Quarles.
"Half a foot when I went there. It may have been less at the time of
the murder. The early part of January was dry, you will remember."
"There was a moon that night, wasn't there?"
"Full, or near it," I returned.
"And how soon was the alarm raised along the countryside?"
"That night. It was about eight o'clock when the body was found, and
after going to the village the farmer returned to Medworth for the
police."
"A man who had walked a considerable distance in a ditch would be wet
and muddy," said Zena, "and if he were met on the road carrying a bag
he would arrest attention."
"Why carrying a bag?" asked Quarles.
"With the head in it," she answered.
"That's another good point, Wigan," chuckled Quarles.
"Of course, the head may be buried in the wood," said Zena.
Quarles looked at me inquiringly.
"I searched the wood with that idea in my mind," I said. "One or two
doubtful places I had dug up. I think the murderer must have taken the
head with him."
"To bury somewhere else?" asked Quarles.
"Perhaps not," I answered.
"A mad doctor bent on brain experiments--is that your theory, Wigan?"
"Not necessarily a doctor, but some homicidal maniac who is also
responsible for the Normandy murder. The likeness between the two
crimes can hardly be a coincidence."
"What was the date of the French murder?"
"January the seventeenth."
"Nearly the same date as the English one," said Zena.
"Two years intervening," I returned.
"Wigan, it would be interesting to know if a similar murder occurred
anywhere in the intervening year at that date," said Quarles.
"You have a theory, professor?"
"An outlandish one which would make you laugh. No, no; I do not like
being laughed at. I never mention my theories until I have some facts
to support them. I am interested in this case. Perhaps I shall go to
Withan."
There was nothing more to be got out of the professor just then, and I
departed.
I took the trouble to make inquiry whether any similar crime had
happened in England in the January of the preceding year, and had the
same inquiry made in France. There was no record of any murder bearing
the slightest resemblance to the Withan tragedy.
A few days later Quarles telegraphed me to meet him at Kings Cross,
and we traveled North together.
"Wait," he said when I began to question him. "I am not sure yet. My
theory seems absurd. We are going to find out if it is."
We took rooms at a hotel in Medworth, Quarles explaining that our
investigations might take some days.
Next morning, instead of going to Withan as I had expected, he took me
to the police court, and seemed to find much amusement in listening to
some commonplace cases, and was not very complimentary in his remarks
about the bench of magistrates. The next afternoon he arranged a
drive. I thought we were going to Withan, but we turned away from the
village, and presently Quarles stopped the carriage.
"How far are we from Withan?" he asked the driver.
"Five or six miles. The road winds a lot. It's a deal nearer as the
crow flies."
"You need not wait for us, driver. My friend and I are going to walk
back."
The coachman pocketed his money and drove away.
"Couldn't keep him waiting all night, as we may have to do," said
Quarles. "Mind you, Wigan, I'm very doubtful about my theory; at
least, I am not certain that I shall find the facts I want. A few
hours will settle it one way or the other."
After walking along the road for about a mile Quarles scrambled
through a hedge into a wood by the roadside.
"We're trespassers, but we must take our chance. Should we meet
anyone, blame me. Say I am a doddering old fool who would walk under
the trees and you were obliged to come to see that I didn't get into
any mischief. Do you go armed?"
"Always," I answered.
"I do sometimes," he said, tapping his pocket. "We might come up
against danger if my theory is correct. If I tell you to shoot--shoot,
and quickly. Your life is likely to depend upon it. And keep your ears
open to make sure no one is following us."
He had become keen, like a dog on the trail, and, old as he was,
seemed incapable of fatigue. Whether he had studied the topography of
the neighborhood I cannot say, but he did not hesitate in his
direction until he reached a high knoll which was clear of the wood
and commanded a considerable view.
We were trespassers in a private park. To our right was a large house,
only partially seen through its screen of trees, but it was evidently
mellow with age. To our left, toward what was evidently the extremity
of the park, was hilly ground, which had been allowed to run wild.
To this Quarles pointed.
"That is our way," he said. "We'll use what cover we can."
We plunged into the wood again, and were soon in the wilderness,
forcing our way, sometimes with considerable difficulty, through the
undergrowth. Once or twice the professor gave me a warning gesture,
but he did not speak. He had evidently some definite goal, and I was
conscious of excitement as I followed him.
For an hour or more he turned this way and that, exploring every
little ravine he could discover, grunting his disappointment each time
he failed to find what he was looking for.
"I said I wasn't certain," he whispered when our path had led us into
a damp hollow which looked as if it had not been visited by man for
centuries. "My theory seems--and yet this is such a likely place.
There must be a way."
He was going forward again. The hollow was surrounded by perpendicular
walls of sand and chalk; it was a pit, in fact, which Nature had
filled with vegetation. The way we had come seemed the only way into
it.
"Ah! this looks promising," Quarles said suddenly.
In a corner of the wall, or, to be more precise, filling up a rent in
it, was a shed, roughly built, but with a door secured by a very
business-like lock.
"I think the shed is climbable," said Quarles. "Let's get on the roof.
I am not so young as I was, so help me up."
It was not much help he wanted. In a few moments we were on the roof.
"As I thought," he said. "Do you see?"
The shed, with its slanting roof, served to block a narrow, overgrown
path between two precipitous chalk walls.
"We'll go carefully," said Quarles. "There may be worse than poachers'
traps here."
Without help from me he dropped from the roof, and I followed him.
The natural passage was winding, and about fifty yards long, and
opened into another pit of some size. A pit I call it, but it was as
much a cave as a pit, part of it running deeply into the earth, and
only about a third of it being open to the sky. The cave part had a
rough, sandy floor, and here was a long shed of peculiar construction.
It was raised on piles, about eight feet high; the front part formed a
kind of open veranda, the back part being closed in. The roof was
thatched with bark and dried bracken, and against one end of the
veranda was a notched tree trunk, serving as a ladder.
"As I expected," said Quarles, with some excitement. "We must get onto
the veranda for a moment. I think we are alone here, but keep your
ears open."
The shed was evidently used sometimes. There was a stone slab which
had served as a fireplace, and from a beam above hung a short chain,
on which a pot could easily be fixed.
"We'll get away quickly," said Quarles. "Patience, Wigan. I believe we
are going to witness a wonderful thing."
"When?"
"In about thirty hours' time."
The professor's sense of direction was marvelous. Having reclimbed the
shed which blocked the entrance to this concealed pit, he made
practically a straight line for the place at which we had entered the
wood from the road.
"I daresay one would be allowed to see over the house, but perhaps it
is as well not to ask," he said. "We can do that later. I'm tired,
Wigan; but it was safer not to keep the carriage."
Try as I would, I could get no explanation out of him either that
night or next day. He was always as secret as the grave until he had
proved his theory, and then he seemed anxious to forget the whole
affair, and shrank from publicity. That is how it came about that I
obtained credit which I did not deserve.
"We go there again this evening," he said after lunch next day; "so a
restful afternoon will suit us."
It was getting dark when we set out, and again Quarles's unerring
sense of locality astonished me. He led the way without hesitation.
This time he took more precaution not to make a sound when climbing
over the shed into the narrow path.
"I think we are first, but great care is necessary," he whispered.
We crept forward and concealed ourselves among the scrub vegetation
which grew in that part of the pit which was open to the sky. It was
dark, the long shed barely discernible, but the professor was
particular about our position.
"We may have to creep a little nearer presently," he whispered. "From
here we can do so. Silence, Wigan, and don't be astonished at
anything."
The waiting seemed long. Moonlight was presently above us, throwing
the cave part of the pit into greater shadow than ever.
I cannot attempt to say how long we had waited in utter silence when
Quarles touched my arm. Someone was coming, and with no particular
stealth. Whoever it was seemed quite satisfied that the night was
empty of danger. I heard footsteps on the raised floor of the shed--a
man's step, and only one man's. I heard him moving about for some
time. I think he came down the ladder once and went up again. Then
there was a light and sudden tiny flames. In the dark he had evidently
got fuel, and had started a fire on the stone slab.
As the flames brightened I watched his restless figure. He was not a
young man. I caught a glimpse of white hair, but he took no position
in which I could see his face clearly. He was short, thick-set, and
quick in his movements.
From somewhere at the back of the shed he pushed forward a block of
wood, and, standing on this, he fixed something to the short chain I
had noted yesterday. When he got down again I saw that a bundle was
suspended over the fire, not a pot, and it was too high for the flames
or much of the heat to reach it, only the smoke curled about it.
Then the man moved the wooden block to the side of the fire and sat
down facing us, the flickering flames throwing a red glow over him.
"Wigan, do you see?" whispered Quarles.
"Not clearly."
"We'll go nearer. Carefully."
From our new point of view I looked again. The man's face was
familiar, but just then I could not remember who he was. It was the
bundle hanging over the fire which fascinated me.
Tied together, and secured in a network of string, were five or six
human heads, blackened, shriveled faces, which seemed to grin horribly
as they swung deeply from side to side, lit up by the flicker of the
flames.
"Do you see, Wigan?" Quarles asked again.
"Yes."
"And the man?"
"Who is he?"
"On the bench yesterday. Sir Henry Buckingham. Don't you remember?"
For an hour--two, three, I don't know how long--that horrible bundle
swung over the fire, and the man sat on his block of wood, staring
straight before him. I had a great desire to rush from my hiding-place
and seize him, and I waited, expecting some further revelation,
listening for other footsteps. None came. The fire flickered lower and
went out. The moon had set, and the cold of the early morning got into
my bones.
In the darkness before the dawn the man moved about the shed again,
and presently I heard him go.
"Patience!" whispered Quarles, as I started up to go after him. "He
will not run away."
His calmness almost exasperated me, but he would answer no questions
until we had returned to our hotel and had breakfast.
"My dear Wigan," he said, when at last he condescended to talk, "it
was Zena who first set me on the right road, when she remarked that a
man who had walked in a ditch carrying a bag would arrest attention.
Two points were suggested--first, that the man might not have far to
go to reach a place of safety; secondly, that he had come prepared to
take a head away with him. A mere speculation, you may say, but it set
me putting questions to myself. Why should a head be required? What
kind of man would be likely to want a head? A theory took shape in my
brain, and I hunted up the history of the well-to-do people who lived
in the neighborhood of Withan. My theory required a man who had
traveled, who was elderly, who could be connected with the case in
France two years ago. I found such a man in Sir Henry Buckingham. I
told you I was not certain of my theory. I was doubtful about it after
I had watched Sir Henry for a whole morning on the bench. I sought for
some peculiarity in his manner, and found none. Yet his history
coincided with my theory. You know nothing about him, I suppose?"
"Nothing."
"Rather an interesting career, but with an hereditary taint in it,"
Quarles went on. "His mother was eccentric. Her husband was rich
enough to have her looked after at home; had she been a poorer person
she would have died in a madhouse. Religious mania hers was, and her
son has inherited it in a curious fashion. In the year intervening
between the Normandy crime and this one Sir Henry was in Rome, where
he was very ill, delirious, and not expected to live, so there was no
similar crime that year. But he was in Normandy at the time of the
murder there, motoring, and usually alone."
"How have you learnt all this?"
"He is important enough to have some of his doings chronicled, and he
wrote some interesting articles for a country gentlemen's newspaper
about his Normandy tour--nature studies, and such like. Another point,
both these murders happened at the time of the full moon. I am not
absolutely sure, but I think you will find that for the last
half-dozen years Sir Henry has not been in England in January."
"You think----"
"I think there would have been other heads missing if he had been,"
Quarles answered. "He was sane enough to be somewhere where he was not
known when this time of the year came round. At the full moon he is
always queer--witness last night; but he is only dangerous in
January--dangerous, I mean, without provocation. To preserve his
secret, I have little doubt he would go to any length; that is why I
warned you to be ready to shoot when we went upon our journey of
discovery. Now this year he was in England; illness had kept him to
his house yonder, but he was well enough to get out at the fatal time,
and the insane desire proved irresistible. He was cunning too. He must
know everybody in the neighborhood, yet the man he killed was unknown.
We shall find presently, I have no doubt, that the victim was some
wanderer returning unexpectedly to friends in Withan. That would
account for the foreign cut of his clothes. Sir Henry, waiting in the
wood, perhaps for hours, may have allowed others to pass before this
man came. He realized that he was a stranger, and attacked him."
"But the head?"
"Was among those hanging over the fire. Sir Henry was for many years
in Borneo, Wigan, and for a large part of the time was up-country
helping to put down the head-hunting which still existed there, and
still does exist, according to all accounts, when the natives think
they can escape detection. The horrible custom proved too much for his
diseased brain, and fascinated him. You see how my theory grew. Then I
looked for the actual proof, which we found last night. The long shed
in that pit is built exactly as the Dyaks of Borneo build theirs--a
whole village living on communal terms under one roof. The stone slab
for the fire is the same, and over it the Dyaks hang the treasured
heads, just as we saw them last night. Now you had better go and see
the police, Wigan. Don't drag me into it. I am going back to London by
the midday train."
* * * * *
The arrest of Sir Henry Buckingham caused an enormous sensation.
He was subsequently put into a lunatic asylum, where he died not many
months afterward. Fortunately he had no children to run the risk of
madness in their turn, and neither his wife nor any of the servants
knew anything of the concealed pit where he went to revel in his
insane delight.
Hidden under the long shed the heads were found--six of them, five so
hideously shriveled that identification was altogether impossible.
The sixth was less shriveled, was the only English one, and, perhaps,
had we shown it in Withan, some old person might have recognized a
lost son believed to be still wandering the world.
It was thought better not to do so, and the identity of Sir Henry's
last victim remains a mystery.