The Cuneiform Inscription
The surprise which Thorndyke's proceedings usually occasioned,
especially to lawyers, was principally due, I think, to my friend's
habit of viewing occurrences from an unusual standpoint. He did not look
at things quite as other men looked at them. He had no prejudices and he
knew no conventions. When other men were cocksure, Thorndyke was
doubtful. When other men despaired, he entertained hopes; and thus it
happened that he would often undertake cases that had been rejected
contemptuously by experienced lawyers, and, what is more, would bring
them to a successful issue.
Thus it had been in the only other case in which I had been personally
associated with him--the so-called "Red Thumb Mark" case. There he was
presented with an apparent impossibility; but he had given it careful
consideration. Then, from the category of the impossible he had brought
it to that of the possible; from the merely possible to the actually
probable; from the probable to the certain; and in the end had won the
case triumphantly.
Was it conceivable that he could make anything of the present case? He
had not declined it. He had certainly entertained it and was probably
thinking it over at this moment. Yet could anything be more impossible?
Here was the case of a man making his own will, probably writing it out
himself, bringing it voluntarily to a certain place and executing it in
the presence of competent witnesses. There was no suggestion of any
compulsion or even influence or persuasion. The testator was admittedly
sane and responsible; and if the will did not give effect to his
wishes--which, however, could not be proved--that was due to his own
carelessness in drafting the will and not to any unusual circumstances.
And the problem--which Thorndyke seemed to be considering--was how to
set aside that will.
I reviewed the statements that I had heard, but turn them about as I
would, I could get nothing out of them but confirmation of Mr.
Marchmont's estimate of the case. One fact that I had noted with some
curiosity I again considered; that was Thorndyke's evident desire to
inspect Jeffrey Blackmore's chambers. He had, it is true, shown no
eagerness, but I had seen at the time that the questions which he put to
Stephen were put, not with any expectation of eliciting information but
for the purpose of getting an opportunity to look over the rooms
himself.
I was still cogitating on the subject when my colleague returned,
followed by the watchful Polton with the tea-tray, and I attacked him
forthwith.
"Well, Thorndyke," I said, "I have been thinking about this Blackmore
case while you have been gadding about."
"And may I take it that the problem is solved?"
"No, I'm hanged if you may. I can make nothing of it."
"Then you are in much the same position as I am."
"But, if you can make nothing of it, why did you undertake it?"
"I only undertook to think about it," said Thorndyke. "I never reject a
case off-hand unless it is obviously fishy. It is surprising how
difficulties, and even impossibilities, dwindle if you look at them
attentively. My experience has taught me that the most unlikely case is,
at least, worth thinking over."
"By the way, why do you want to look over Jeffrey's chambers? What do
you expect to find there?"
"I have no expectations at all. I am simply looking for stray facts."
"And all those questions that you asked Stephen Blackmore; had you
nothing in your mind--no definite purpose?"
"No purpose beyond getting to know as much about the case as I can."
"But," I exclaimed, "do you mean that you are going to examine those
rooms without any definite object at all?"
"I wouldn't say that," replied Thorndyke. "This is a legal case. Let me
put an analogous medical case as being more within your present sphere.
Supposing that a man should consult you, say, about a progressive loss
of weight. He can give no explanation. He has no pain, no discomfort, no
symptoms of any kind; in short, he feels perfectly well in every
respect; <i>but</i> he is losing weight continuously. What would you do?"
"I should overhaul him thoroughly," I answered.
"Why? What would you expect to find?"
"I don't know that I should start by expecting to find anything in
particular. But I should overhaul him organ by organ and function by
function, and if I could find nothing abnormal I should have to give it
up."
"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "And that is just my position and my line of
action. Here is a case which is perfectly regular and straightforward
excepting in one respect. It has a single abnormal feature. And for that
abnormality there is nothing to account.
"Jeffrey Blackmore made a will. It was a well-drawn will and it
apparently gave full effect to his intentions. Then he revoked that will
and made another. No change had occurred in his circumstances or in his
intentions. The provisions of the new will were believed by him to be
identical with those of the old one. The new will differed from the old
one only in having a defect in the drafting from which the first will
was free, and of which he must have been unaware. Now why did he revoke
the first will and replace it with another which he believed to be
identical in its provisions? There is no answer to that question. It is
an abnormal feature in the case. There must be some explanation of that
abnormality and it is my business to discover it. But the facts in my
possession yield no such explanation. Therefore it is my purpose to
search for new facts which may give me a starting-point for an
investigation."
This exposition of Thorndyke's proposed conduct of the case, reasonable
as it was, did not impress me as very convincing. I found myself coming
back to Marchmont's position, that there was really nothing in dispute.
But other matters claimed our attention at the moment, and it was not
until after dinner that my colleague reverted to the subject.
"How should you like to take a turn round to New Inn this evening?" he
asked.
"I should have thought," said I, "that it would be better to go by
daylight. Those old chambers are not usually very well illuminated."
"That is well thought of," said Thorndyke. "We had better take a lamp
with us. Let us go up to the laboratory and get one from Polton."
"There is no need to do that," said I. "The pocket-lamp that you lent me
is in my overcoat pocket. I put it there to return it to you."
"Did you have occasion to use it?" he asked.
"Yes. I paid another visit to the mysterious house and carried out your
plan. I must tell you about it later."
"Do. I shall be keenly interested to hear all about your adventures. Is
there plenty of candle left in the lamp?"
"Oh yes. I only used it for about an hour."
"Then let us be off," said Thorndyke; and we accordingly set forth on
our quest; and, as we went, I reflected once more on the apparent
vagueness of our proceedings. Presently I reopened the subject with
Thorndyke.
"I can't imagine," said I, "that you have absolutely nothing in view.
That you are going to this place with no defined purpose whatever."
"I did not say exactly that," replied Thorndyke. "I said that I was not
going to look for any particular thing or fact. I am going in the hope
that I may observe something that may start a new train of speculation.
But that is not all. You know that an investigation follows a certain
logical course. It begins with the observation of the conspicuous facts.
We have done that. The facts were supplied by Marchmont. The next stage
is to propose to oneself one or more provisional explanations or
hypotheses. We have done that, too--or, at least I have, and I suppose
you have."
"I haven't," said I. "There is Jeffrey's will, but why he should have
made the change I cannot form the foggiest idea. But I should like to
hear your provisional theories on the subject."
"You won't hear them at present. They are mere wild conjectures. But to
resume: what do we do next?"
"Go to New Inn and rake over the deceased gentleman's apartments."
Thorndyke smilingly ignored my answer and continued--
"We examine each explanation in turn and see what follows from it;
whether it agrees with all the facts and leads to the discovery of new
ones, or, on the other hand, disagrees with some facts or leads us to an
absurdity. Let us take a simple example.
"Suppose we find scattered over a field a number of largish masses of
stone, which are entirely different in character from the rocks found in
the neighbourhood. The question arises, how did those stones get into
that field? Three explanations are proposed. One: that they are the
products of former volcanic action; two: that they were brought from a
distance by human agency; three: that they were carried thither from
some distant country by icebergs. Now each of those explanations
involves certain consequences. If the stones are volcanic, then they
were once in a state of fusion. But we find that they are unaltered
limestone and contain fossils. Then they are not volcanic. If they were
borne by icebergs, then they were once part of a glacier and some of
them will probably show the flat surfaces with parallel scratches which
are found on glacier-borne stones. We examine them and find the
characteristic scratched surfaces. Then they have probably been brought
to this place by icebergs. But this does not exclude human agency, for
they might have been brought by men to this place from some other where
the icebergs had deposited them. A further comparison with other facts
would be needed.
"So we proceed in cases like this present one. Of the facts that are
known to us we invent certain explanations. From each of those
explanations we deduce consequences; and if those consequences agree
with new facts, they confirm the explanation, whereas if they disagree
they tend to disprove it. But here we are at our destination."
We turned out of Wych Street into the arched passage leading into New
Inn, and, halting at the half-door of the lodge, perceived a stout,
purple-faced man crouching over the fire, coughing violently. He held up
his hand to intimate that he was fully occupied for the moment, and we
accordingly waited for his paroxysm to subside. At length he turned
towards us, wiping his eyes, and inquired our business.
"Mr. Stephen Blackmore," said Thorndyke, "has given me permission to
look over his chambers. He said that he would mention the matter to
you."
"So he has, sir," said the porter; "but he has just taken the key
himself to go to the chambers. If you walk across the Inn you'll find
him there; it's on the farther side; number thirty-one, second floor."
We made our way across to the house indicated, the ground floor of which
was occupied by a solicitor's offices and was distinguished by a
good-sized brass plate. Although it had now been dark some time there
was no light on the lower stairs, but we encountered on the first-floor
landing a man who had just lit the lamp there. Thorndyke halted to
address him.
"Can you tell me who occupies the chambers on the third floor?"
"The third floor has been empty about three months," was the reply.
"We are going up to look at the chambers on the second floor," said
Thorndyke. "Are they pretty quiet?"
"Quiet!" exclaimed the man. "Lord bless you the place is like a cemetery
for the deaf and dumb. There's the solicitors on the ground floor and
the architects on the first floor. They both clear out about six, and
when they're gone the house is as empty as a blown hegg. I don't wonder
poor Mr. Blackmore made away with his-self. Livin' up there all alone,
it must have been like Robinson Crusoe without no man Friday and not
even a blooming goat to talk to. Quiet! It's quiet enough, if that's
what you want. Wouldn't be no good to <i>me</i>."
With a contemptuous shake of the head, he turned and retired down the
next flight, and, as the echoes of his footsteps died away we resumed
our ascent.
"So it would appear," Thorndyke commented, "that when Jeffrey Blackmore
came home that last evening, the house was empty."
Arrived on the second-floor landing, we were confronted by a
solid-looking door on the lintel of which the deceased man's name was
painted in white lettering which still looked new and fresh. Thorndyke
knocked at the door, which was at once opened by Stephen Blackmore.
"I haven't wasted any time before taking advantage of your permission,
you see," my colleague said as we entered.
"No, indeed," said Stephen; "you are very prompt. I have been rather
wondering what kind of information you expect to gather from an
inspection of these rooms."
Thorndyke smiled genially, amused, no doubt, by the similarity of
Stephen's remarks to those of mine which he had so recently criticized.
"A man of science, Mr. Blackmore," he said, "expects nothing. He
collects facts and keeps an open mind. As to me, I am a mere legal
Autolycus, a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles of evidence. When I have
accumulated a few facts, I arrange them, compare them and think about
them. Sometimes the comparison yields new matter and sometimes it
doesn't; but in any case, believe me, it is a capital error to decide
beforehand what data are to be sought for."
"Yes, I suppose that is so," said Stephen; "though, to me, it almost
looks as if Mr. Marchmont was right; that there is nothing to
investigate."
"You should have thought of that before you consulted me," laughed
Thorndyke. "As it is, I am engaged to look into the case and I shall do
so; and, as I have said, I shall keep an open mind until I have all the
facts in my possession."
He glanced round the sitting-room, which we had now entered, and
continued:
"These are fine, dignified old rooms. It seems a sin to have covered up
all this oak panelling and that carved cornice and mantel with paint.
Think what it must have been like when the beautiful figured wood was
exposed."
"It would be very dark," Stephen observed.
"Yes," Thorndyke agreed, "and I suppose we care more for light and less
for beauty than our ancestors did. But now, tell me; looking round these
rooms, do they convey to you a similar impression to that which the old
rooms did? Have they the same general character?"
"Not quite, I think. Of course the rooms in Jermyn Street were in a
different kind of house, but beyond that, I seem to feel a certain
difference; which is rather odd, seeing that the furniture is the same.
But the old rooms were more cosy, more homelike. I find something rather
bare and cheerless, I was almost going to say squalid, in the look of
these chambers."
"That is rather what I should have expected," said Thorndyke. "The opium
habit alters a man's character profoundly; and, somehow, apart from the
mere furnishing, a room reflects in some subtle way, but very
distinctly, the personality of its occupant, especially when that
occupant lives a solitary life. Do you see any evidences of the
activities that used to occupy your uncle?"
"Not very much," replied Stephen. "But the place may not be quite as he
left it. I found one or two of his books on the table and put them back
in the shelves, but I found no manuscript or notes such as he used to
make. I noticed, too, that his ink-slab which he used to keep so
scrupulously clean is covered with dry smears and that the stick of ink
is all cracked at the end, as if he had not used it for months. It seems
to point to a great change in his habits."
"What used he to do with Chinese ink?" Thorndyke asked.
"He corresponded with some of his native friends in Japan, and he used
to write in the Japanese character even if they understood English. That
was what he chiefly used the Chinese ink for. But he also used to copy
the inscriptions from these things." Here Stephen lifted from the
mantelpiece what looked like a fossil Bath bun, but was actually a clay
tablet covered with minute indented writing.
"Your uncle could read the cuneiform character, then?"
"Yes; he was something of an expert. These tablets are, I believe,
leases and other legal documents from Eridu and other Babylonian cities.
He used to copy the inscriptions in the cuneiform writing and then
translate them into English. But I mustn't stay here any longer as I
have an engagement for this evening. I just dropped in to get these two
volumes--<i>Thornton's History of Babylonia</i>, which he once advised me to
read. Shall I give you the key? You'd better have it and leave it with
the porter as you go out."
He shook hands with us and we walked out with him to the landing and
stood watching him as he ran down the stairs. Glancing at Thorndyke by
the light of the gas lamp on the landing, I thought I detected in his
impassive face that almost imperceptible change of expression to which I
have already alluded as indicating pleasure or satisfaction.
"You are looking quite pleased with yourself," I remarked.
"I am not displeased," he replied calmly. "Autolycus has picked up a few
crumbs; very small ones, but still crumbs. No doubt his learned junior
has picked up a few likewise?"
I shook my head--and inwardly suspected it of being rather a thick head.
"I did not perceive anything in the least degree significant in what
Stephen was telling you," said I. "It was all very interesting, but it
did not seem to have any bearing on his uncle's will."
"I was not referring only to what Stephen has told us, although that
was, as you say, very interesting. While he was talking I was looking
about the room, and I have seen a very strange thing. Let me show it to
you."
He linked his arm in mine and, walking me back into the room, halted
opposite the fire-place.
"There," said he, "look at that. It is a most remarkable object."
[Illustration: THE INVERTED INSCRIPTION.]
I followed the direction of his gaze and saw an oblong frame enclosing a
large photograph of an inscription in the weird and cabalistic
arrow-head character. I looked at it in silence for some seconds and
then, somewhat disappointed, remarked:
"I don't see anything very remarkable in it, under the circumstances. In
any ordinary room it would be, I admit; but Stephen has just told us
that his uncle was something of an expert in cuneiform writing."
"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "That is my point. That is what makes it so
remarkable."
"I don't follow you at all," said I. "That a man should hang upon his
wall an inscription that is legible to him does not seem to me at all
out of the way. It would be much more singular if he should hang up an
inscription that he could <i>not</i> read."
"No doubt," replied Thorndyke. "But you will agree with me that it would
be still more singular if a man should hang upon his wall an inscription
that he <i>could</i> read--and hang it upside down."
I stared at Thorndyke in amazement.
"Do you mean to tell me," I exclaimed, "that that photograph is really
upside down?"
"I do indeed," he replied.
"But how do you know? Have we here yet another Oriental scholar?"
Thorndyke chuckled. "Some fool," he replied, "has said that 'a little
knowledge is a dangerous thing.' Compared with much knowledge, it may
be; but it is a vast deal better than no knowledge. Here is a case in
point. I have read with very keen interest the wonderful history of the
decipherment of the cuneiform writing, and I happen to recollect one or
two of the main facts that seemed to me to be worth remembering. This
particular inscription is in the Persian cuneiform, a much more simple
and open form of the script than the Babylonian or Assyrian; in fact, I
suspect that this is the famous inscription from the gateway at
Persepolis--the first to be deciphered; which would account for its
presence here in a frame. Now this script consists, as you see, of two
kinds of characters; the small, solid, acutely pointed characters which
are known as wedges, and the larger, more obtuse characters, somewhat
like our government broad arrows, and called arrow-heads. The names are
rather unfortunate, as both forms are wedge-like and both resemble
arrow-heads. The script reads from left to right, like our own writing,
and unlike that of the Semitic peoples and the primitive Greeks; and the
rule for the placing of the characters is that all the 'wedges' point to
the right or downwards and the arrow-head forms are open towards the
right. But if you look at this photograph you will see that all the
wedges point upwards to the left and that the arrow-head characters are
open towards the left. Obviously the photograph is upside down."
"But," I exclaimed, "this is really most mysterious. What do you suppose
can be the explanation?"
"I think," replied Thorndyke, "that we may perhaps get a suggestion from
the back of the frame. Let us see."
He disengaged the frame from the two nails on which it hung, and,
turning it round, glanced at the back; which he then presented for my
inspection. A label on the backing paper bore the words, "J. Budge,
Frame-maker and Gilder, 16, Gt. Anne Street, W.C."
"Well?" I said, when I had read the label without gathering from it
anything fresh.
"The label, you observe, is the right way up as it hangs on the wall."
"So it is," I rejoined hastily, a little annoyed that I had not been
quicker to observe so obvious a fact. "I see your point. You mean that
the frame-maker hung the thing upside down and Jeffrey never noticed the
mistake?"
"That is a perfectly sound explanation," said Thorndyke. "But I think
there is something more. You will notice that the label is an old one;
it must have been on some years, to judge by its dingy appearance,
whereas the two mirror-plates look to me comparatively new. But we can
soon put that matter to the test, for the label was evidently stuck on
when the frame was new, and if the plates were screwed on at the same
time, the wood that they cover will be clean and new-looking."
He drew from his pocket a "combination" knife containing, among other
implements, a screw-driver, with which he carefully extracted the screws
from one of the little brass plates by which the frame had been
suspended from the nails.
"You see," he said, when he had removed the plate and carried the
photograph over to the gasjet, "the wood covered by the plate is as
dirty and time-stained as the rest of the frame. The plates have been
put on recently."
"And what are we to infer from that?"
"Well, since there are no other marks of plates or rings upon the
frame, we may safely infer that the photograph was never hung up until
it came to these rooms."
"Yes, I suppose we may. But what then? What inference does that lead
to?"
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments and I continued:
"It is evident that this photograph suggests more to you than it does to
me. I should like to hear your exposition of its bearing on the case, if
it has any."
"Whether or no it has any real bearing on the case," Thorndyke answered,
"it is impossible for me to say at this stage. I told you that I had
proposed to myself one or two hypotheses to account for and explain
Jeffrey Blackmore's will, and I may say that the curious misplacement of
this photograph fits more than one of them. I won't say more than that,
because I think it would be profitable to you to work at this case
independently. You have all the facts that I have and you shall have a
copy of my notes of Marchmont's statement of the case. With this
material you ought to be able to reach some conclusion. Of course
neither of us may be able to make anything of the case--it doesn't look
very hopeful at present--but whatever happens, we can compare notes
after the event and you will be the richer by so much experience of
actual investigation. But I will start you off with one hint, which is
this: that neither you nor Marchmont seem to appreciate in the least the
very extraordinary nature of the facts that he communicated to us."
"I thought Marchmont seemed pretty much alive to the fact that it was a
very queer will."
"So he did," agreed Thorndyke. "But that is not quite what I mean. The
whole set of circumstances, taken together and in relation to one
another, impressed me as most remarkable; and that is why I am giving so
much attention to what looks at first sight like such a very unpromising
case. Copy out my notes, Jervis, and examine the facts critically. I
think you will see what I mean. And now let us proceed."
He replaced the brass plate and having reinserted the screws, hung up
the frame, and proceeded to browse slowly round the room, stopping now
and again to inspect the Japanese colour-prints and framed photographs
of buildings and other objects of archaeological interest that formed
the only attempts at wall-decoration. To one of the former he drew my
attention.
"These things are of some value," he remarked. "Here is one by
Utamaro--that little circle with the mark over it is his signature--and
you notice that the paper is becoming spotted in places with mildew. The
fact is worth noting in more than one connection."
I accordingly made a mental note and the perambulation continued.
"You observe that Jeffrey used a gas-stove, instead of a coal fire, no
doubt to economize work, but perhaps for other reasons. Presumably he
cooked by gas, too; let us see."
We wandered into the little cupboard-like kitchen and glanced round. A
ring-burner on a shelf, a kettle, a frying-pan and a few pieces of
crockery were its sole appointments. Apparently the porter was correct
in his statement as to Jeffrey's habits.
Returning to the sitting-room, Thorndyke resumed his inspection, pulling
out the table drawers, peering inquisitively into cupboards and
bestowing a passing glance on each of the comparatively few objects that
the comfortless room contained.
"I have never seen a more characterless apartment," was his final
comment. "There is nothing that seems to suggest any kind of habitual
activity on the part of the occupant. Let us look at the bedroom."
We passed through into the chamber of tragic memories, and, when
Thorndyke had lit the gas, we stood awhile looking about us in silence.
It was a bare, comfortless room, dirty, neglected and squalid. The bed
appeared not to have been remade since the catastrophe, for an
indentation still marked the place where the corpse had lain, and even a
slight powdering of ash could still be seen on the shabby counterpane.
It looked to me a typical opium-smoker's bedroom.
"Well," Thorndyke remarked at length, "there is character enough
here--of a kind. Jeffrey Blackmore would seem to have been a man of few
needs. One could hardly imagine a bedroom in which less attention seemed
to have been given to the comfort of the occupant."
He looked about him keenly and continued: "The syringe and the rest of
the lethal appliances and material have been taken away, I see.
Probably the analyst did not return them. But there are the opium-pipe
and the jar and the ash-bowl, and I presume those are the clothes that
the undertakers removed from the body. Shall we look them over?"
He took up the clothes which lay, roughly folded, on a chair and held
them up, garment by garment.
"These are evidently the trousers," he remarked, spreading them out on
the bed. "Here is a little white spot on the middle of the thigh which
looks like a patch of small crystals from a drop of the solution. Just
light the lamp, Jervis, and let us examine it with a lens."
I lit the lamp, and when we had examined the spot minutely and
identified it as a mass of minute crystals, Thorndyke asked:
"What do you make of those creases? You see there is one on each leg."
"It looks as if the trousers had been turned up. But if they have been
they must have been turned up about seven inches. Poor Jeffrey couldn't
have had much regard for appearances, for they would have been right
above his socks. But perhaps the creases were made in undressing the
body."
"That is possible," said Thorndyke: "though I don't quite see how it
would have happened. I notice that his pockets seem to have been
emptied--no, wait; here is something in the waistcoat pocket."
He drew out a shabby, pigskin card-case and a stump of lead pencil, at
which latter he looked with what seemed to me much more interest than
was deserved by so commonplace an object.
"The cards, you observe," said he, "are printed from type, not from a
plate. I would note that fact. And tell me what you make of that."
He handed me the pencil, which I examined with concentrated attention,
helping myself even with the lamp and my pocket lens. But even with
these aids I failed to discover anything unusual in its appearance.
Thorndyke watched me with a mischievous smile, and, when I had finished,
inquired:
"Well; what is it?"
"Confound you!" I exclaimed. "It's a pencil. Any fool can see that, and
this particular fool can't see any more. It's a wretched stump of a
pencil, villainously cut to an abominably bad point. It is coloured dark
red on the outside and was stamped with some name that began with
C--O--Co-operative Stores, perhaps."
"Now, my dear Jervis," Thorndyke protested, "don't begin by confusing
speculation with fact. The letters which remain are C--O. Note that fact
and find out what pencils there are which have inscriptions beginning
with those letters. I am not going to help you, because you can easily
do this for yourself. And it will be good discipline even if the fact
turns out to mean nothing."
At this moment he stepped back suddenly, and, looking down at the floor,
said:
"Give me the lamp, Jervis, I've trodden on something that felt like
glass."
I brought the lamp to the place where he had been standing, close by
the bed, and we both knelt on the floor, throwing the light of the lamp
on the bare and dusty boards. Under the bed, just within reach of the
foot of a person standing close by, was a little patch of fragments of
glass. Thorndyke produced a piece of paper from his pocket and
delicately swept the little fragments on to it, remarking:
"By the look of things, I am not the first person who has trodden on
that object, whatever it is. Do you mind holding the lamp while I
inspect the remains?"
I took the lamp and held it over the paper while he examined the little
heap of glass through his lens.
"Well," I asked. "What have you found?"
"That is what I am asking myself," he replied. "As far as I can judge by
the appearance of these fragments, they appear to be portions of a small
watch-glass. I wish there were some larger pieces."
"Perhaps there are," said I. "Let us look about the floor under the
bed."
We resumed our groping about the dirty floor, throwing the light of the
lamp on one spot after another. Presently, as we moved the lamp about,
its light fell on a small glass bead, which I instantly picked up and
exhibited to Thorndyke.
"Is this of any interest to you?" I asked.
Thorndyke took the bead and examined it curiously.
"It is certainly," he said, "a very odd thing to find in the bedroom of
an old bachelor like Jeffrey, especially as we know that he employed no
woman to look after his rooms. Of course, it may be a relic of the last
tenant. Let us see if there are any more."
We renewed our search, crawling under the bed and throwing the light of
the lamp in all directions over the floor. The result was the discovery
of three more beads, one entire bugle and the crushed remains of
another, which had apparently been trodden on. All of these, including
the fragments of the bugle that had been crushed, Thorndyke placed
carefully on the paper, which he laid on the dressing-table the more
conveniently to examine our find.
"I am sorry," said he, "that there are no more fragments of the
watch-glass, or whatever it was. The broken pieces were evidently picked
up, with the exception of the one that I trod on, which was an isolated
fragment that had been overlooked. As to the beads, judging by their
number and the position in which we found some of them--that crushed
bugle, for instance--they must have been dropped during Jeffrey's
tenancy and probably quite recently."
"What sort of garment do you suppose they came from?" I asked.
"They may have been part of a beaded veil or the trimming of a dress,
but the grouping rather suggests to me a tag of bead fringe. The colour
is rather unusual."
"I thought they looked like black beads."
"So they do by this light, but I think that by daylight we shall find
them to be a dark, reddish-brown. You can see the colour now if you look
at the smaller fragments of the one that is crushed."
He handed me his lens, and, when I had verified his statement, he
produced from his pocket a small tin box with a closely-fitting lid in
which he deposited the paper, having first folded it up into a small
parcel.
"We will put the pencil in too," said he; and, as he returned the box to
his pocket he added: "you had better get one of these little boxes from
Polton. It is often useful to have a safe receptacle for small and
fragile articles."
He folded up and replaced the dead man's clothes as we had found them.
Then, observing a pair of shoes standing by the wall, he picked them up
and looked them over thoughtfully, paying special attention to the backs
of the soles and the fronts of the heels.
"I suppose we may take it," said he, "that these are the shoes that poor
Jeffrey wore on the night of his death. At any rate there seem to be no
others. He seems to have been a fairly clean walker. The streets were
shockingly dirty that day, as I remember most distinctly. Do you see any
slippers? I haven't noticed any."
He opened and peeped into a cupboard in which an overcoat surmounted by
a felt hat hung from a peg like an attenuated suicide; he looked in all
the corners and into the sitting-room, but no slippers were to be seen.
"Our friend seems to have had surprisingly little regard for comfort,"
Thorndyke remarked. "Think of spending the winter evenings in damp boots
by a gas fire!"
"Perhaps the opium-pipe compensated," said I; "or he may have gone to
bed early."
"But he did not. The night porter used to see the light in his rooms at
one o'clock in the morning. In the sitting-room, too, you remember. But
he seems to have been in the habit of reading in bed--or perhaps
smoking--for here is a candlestick with the remains of a whole dynasty
of candles in it. As there is gas in the room, he couldn't have wanted
the candle to undress by. He used stearine candles, too; not the common
paraffin variety. I wonder why he went to that expense."
"Perhaps the smell of the paraffin candle spoiled the aroma of the
opium," I suggested; to which Thorndyke made no reply but continued his
inspection of the room, pulling out the drawer of the washstand--which
contained a single, worn-out nail-brush--and even picking up and
examining the dry and cracked cake of soap in the dish.
"He seems to have had a fair amount of clothing," said Thorndyke, who
was now going through the chest of drawers, "though, by the look of it,
he didn't change very often, and the shirts have a rather yellow and
faded appearance. I wonder how he managed about his washing. Why, here
are a couple of pairs of boots in the drawer with his clothes! And here
is his stock of candles. Quite a large box--though nearly empty now--of
stearine candles, six to the pound."
He closed the drawer and cast another inquiring look round the room.
"I think we have seen all now, Jervis," he said, "unless there is
anything more that you would like to look into?"
"No," I replied. "I have seen all that I wanted to see and more than I
am able to attach any meaning to. So we may as well go."
I blew out the lamp and put it in my overcoat pocket, and, when we had
turned out the gas in both rooms, we took our departure.
As we approached the lodge, we found our stout friend in the act of
retiring in favour of the night porter. Thorndyke handed him the key of
the chambers, and, after a few sympathetic inquiries, about his
health--which was obviously very indifferent--said:
"Let me see; you were one of the witnesses to Mr. Blackmore's will, I
think?"
"I was, sir," replied the porter.
"And I believe you read the document through before you witnessed the
signature?"
"I did, sir."
"Did you read it aloud?"
"Aloud, sir! Lor' bless you, no, sir! Why should I? The other witness
read it, and, of course, Mr. Blackmore knew what was in it, seeing that
it was in his own handwriting. What should I want to read it aloud for?"
"No, of course you wouldn't want to. By the way, I have been wondering
how Mr. Blackmore managed about his washing."
The porter evidently regarded this question with some disfavour, for he
replied only with an interrogative grunt. It was, in fact, rather an odd
question.
"Did you get it done for him," Thorndyke pursued.
"No, certainly not, sir. He got it done for himself. The laundry people
used to deliver the basket here at the lodge, and Mr. Blackmore used to
take it in with him when he happened to be passing."
"It was not delivered at his chambers, then?"
"No, sir. Mr. Blackmore was a very studious gentleman and he didn't like
to be disturbed. A studious gentleman would naturally not like to be
disturbed."
Thorndyke cordially agreed with these very proper sentiments and finally
wished the porter "good night." We passed out through the gateway into
Wych Street, and, turning our faces eastward towards the Temple, set
forth in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. What Thorndyke's were
I cannot tell, though I have no doubt that he was busily engaged in
piecing together all that he had seen and heard and considering its
possible application to the case in hand.
As to me, my mind was in a whirl of confusion. All this searching and
examining seemed to be the mere flogging of a dead horse. The will was
obviously a perfectly valid and regular will and there was an end of the
matter. At least, so it seemed to me. But clearly that was not
Thorndyke's view. His investigations were certainly not purposeless;
and, as I walked by his side trying to conceive some purpose in his
actions, I only became more and more mystified as I recalled them one
by one, and perhaps most of all by the cryptic questions that I had just
heard him address to the equally mystified porter.