The Blackmore Case Reviewed
One of the conditions of medical practice is the capability of
transferring one's attention at a moment's notice from one set of
circumstances to another equally important but entirely unrelated. At
each visit on his round, the practitioner finds himself concerned with a
particular, self-contained group of phenomena which he must consider at
the moment with the utmost concentration, but which he must instantly
dismiss from his mind as he moves on to the next case. It is a difficult
habit to acquire; for an important, distressing or obscure case is apt
to take possession of the consciousness and hinder the exercise of
attention that succeeding cases demand; but experience shows the faculty
to be indispensable, and the practitioner learns in time to forget
everything but the patient with whose condition he is occupied at the
moment.
My first morning's work on the Blackmore case showed me that the same
faculty is demanded in legal practice; and it also showed me that I had
yet to acquire it. For, as I looked over the depositions and the copy of
the will, memories of the mysterious house in Kennington Lane
continually intruded into my reflections, and the figure of Mrs.
Schallibaum, white-faced, terrified, expectant, haunted me continually.
In truth, my interest in the Blackmore case was little more than
academic, whereas in the Kennington case I was one of the parties and
was personally concerned. To me, John Blackmore was but a name, Jeffrey
but a shadowy figure to which I could assign no definite personality,
and Stephen himself but a casual stranger. Mr. Graves, on the other
hand, was a real person. I had seen him amidst the tragic circumstances
that had probably heralded his death, and had brought away with me, not
only a lively recollection of him, but a feeling of profound pity and
concern as to his fate. The villain Weiss, too, and the terrible woman
who aided, abetted and, perhaps, even directed him, lived in my memory
as vivid and dreadful realities. Although I had uttered no hint to
Thorndyke, I lamented inwardly that I had not been given some work--if
there was any to do--connected with this case, in which I was so deeply
interested, rather than with the dry, purely legal and utterly
bewildering case of Jeffrey Blackmore's will.
Nevertheless, I stuck loyally to my task. I read through the depositions
and the will--without getting a single glimmer of fresh light on the
case--and I made a careful digest of all the facts. I compared my
digest with Thorndyke's notes--of which I also made a copy--and found
that, brief as they were, they contained several matters that I had
overlooked. I also drew up a brief account of our visit to New Inn, with
a list of the objects that we had observed or collected. And then I
addressed myself to the second part of my task, the statement of my
conclusions from the facts set forth.
It was only when I came to make the attempt that I realized how
completely I was at sea. In spite of Thorndyke's recommendation to study
Marchmont's statement as it was summarized in those notes which I had
copied, and of his hint that I should find in that statement something
highly significant, I was borne irresistibly to one conclusion, and one
only--and the wrong one at that, as I suspected: that Jeffrey
Blackmore's will was a perfectly regular, sound and valid document.
I tried to attack the validity of the will from various directions, and
failed every time. As to its genuineness, that was obviously not in
question. There seemed to me only two conceivable respects in which any
objection could be raised, viz. the competency of Jeffrey to execute a
will and the possibility of undue influence having been brought to bear
on him.
With reference to the first, there was the undoubted fact that Jeffrey
was addicted to the opium habit, and this might, under some
circumstances, interfere with a testator's competency to make a will.
But had any such circumstances existed in this case? Had the drug habit
produced such mental changes in the deceased as would destroy or weaken
his judgment? There was not a particle of evidence in favour of any such
belief. Up to the very end he had managed his own affairs, and, if his
habits of life had undergone a change, they were still the habits of a
perfectly sane and responsible man.
The question of undue influence was more difficult. If it applied to any
person in particular, that person could be none other than John
Blackmore. Now it was an undoubted fact that, of all Jeffrey's
acquaintance, his brother John was the only one who knew that he was in
residence at New Inn. Moreover John had visited him there more than
once. It was therefore possible that influence might have been brought
to bear on the deceased. But there was no evidence that it had. The fact
that the deceased man's only brother should be the one person who knew
where he was living was not a remarkable one, and it had been
satisfactorily explained by the necessity of Jeffrey's finding a
reference on applying for the chambers. And against the theory of undue
influence was the fact that the testator had voluntarily brought his
will to the lodge and executed it in the presence of entirely
disinterested witnesses.
In the end I had to give up the problem in despair, and, abandoning the
documents, turned my attention to the facts elicited by our visit to New
Inn.
What had we learned from our exploration? It was clear that Thorndyke
had picked up some facts that had appeared to him important. But
important in what respect? The only possible issue that could be raised
was the validity or otherwise of Jeffrey Blackmore's will; and since the
validity of that will was supported by positive evidence of the most
incontestable kind, it seemed that nothing that we had observed could
have any real bearing on the case at all.
But this, of course, could not be. Thorndyke was no dreamer nor was he
addicted to wild speculation. If the facts observed by us seemed to him
to be relevant to the case, I was prepared to assume that they were
relevant, although I could not see their connection with it. And, on
this assumption, I proceeded to examine them afresh.
Now, whatever Thorndyke might have observed on his own account, I had
brought away from the dead man's chambers only a single fact; and a very
extraordinary fact it was. The cuneiform inscription was upside down.
That was the sum of the evidence that I had collected; and the question
was, What did it prove? To Thorndyke it conveyed some deep significance.
What could that significance be?
The inverted position was not a mere temporary accident, as it might
have been if the frame had been stood on a shelf or support. It was hung
on the wall, and the plates screwed on the frame showed that its
position was permanent and that it had never hung in any other. That it
could have been hung up by Jeffrey himself was clearly inconceivable.
But allowing that it had been fixed in its present position by some
workman when the new tenant moved in, the fact remained that there it
had hung, presumably for months, and that Jeffrey Blackmore, with his
expert knowledge of the cuneiform character, had never noticed that it
was upside down; or, if he had noticed it, that he had never taken the
trouble to have it altered.
What could this mean? If he had noticed the error but had not troubled
to correct it, that would point to a very singular state of mind, an
inertness and indifference remarkable even in an opium-smoker. But
assuming such a state of mind, I could not see that it had any bearing
on the will, excepting that it was rather inconsistent with the tendency
to make fussy and needless alterations which the testator had actually
shown. On the other hand, if he had not noticed the inverted position of
the photograph he must have been nearly blind or quite idiotic; for the
photograph was over two feet long and the characters large enough to be
read easily by a person of ordinary eyesight at a distance of forty or
fifty feet. Now he obviously was not in a state of dementia, whereas his
eyesight was admittedly bad; and it seemed to me that the only
conclusion deducible from the photograph was that it furnished a measure
of the badness of the deceased man's vision--that it proved him to have
been verging on total blindness.
But there was nothing startling new in this. He had, himself, declared
that he was fast losing his sight. And again, what was the bearing of
his partial blindness on the will? A totally blind man cannot draw up
his will at all. But if he has eyesight sufficient to enable him to
write out and sign a will, mere defective vision will not lead him to
muddle the provisions. Yet something of this kind seemed to be in
Thorndyke's mind, for now I recalled the question that he had put to the
porter: "When you read the will over in Mr. Blackmore's presence, did
you read it aloud?" That question could have but one significance. It
implied a doubt as to whether the testator was fully aware of the exact
nature of the document that he was signing. Yet, if he was able to write
and sign it, surely he was able also to read it through, to say nothing
of the fact that, unless he was demented, he must have remembered what
he had written.
Thus, once more, my reasoning only led me into a blind alley at the end
of which was the will, regular and valid and fulfilling all the
requirements that the law imposed. Once again I had to confess myself
beaten and in full agreement with Mr. Marchmont that "there was no
case"; that "there was nothing in dispute." Nevertheless, I carefully
fixed in the pocket file that Thorndyke had given me the copy that I had
made of his notes, together with the notes on our visit to New Inn, and
the few and unsatisfactory conclusions at which I had arrived; and this
brought me to the end of my first morning in my new capacity.
"And how," Thorndyke asked as we sat at lunch, "has my learned friend
progressed? Does he propose that we advise Mr. Marchmont to enter a
caveat?"
"I've read all the documents and boiled all the evidence down to a stiff
jelly; and I am in a worse fog than ever."
"There seems to be a slight mixture of metaphors in my learned friend's
remarks. But never mind the fog, Jervis. There is a certain virtue in
fog. It serves, like a picture frame, to surround the essential with a
neutral zone that separates it from the irrelevant."
"That is a very profound observation, Thorndyke," I remarked ironically.
"I was just thinking so myself," he rejoined.
"And if you could contrive to explain what it means--"
"Oh, but that is unreasonable. When one throws off a subtly philosophic
obiter dictum one looks to the discerning critic to supply the meaning.
By the way, I am going to introduce you to the gentle art of photography
this afternoon. I am getting the loan of all the cheques that were drawn
by Jeffrey Blackmore during his residence at New Inn--there are only
twenty-three of them, all told--and I am going to photograph them."
"I shouldn't have thought the bank people would have let them go out of
their possession."
"They are not going to. One of the partners, a Mr. Britton, is bringing
them here himself and will be present while the photographs are being
taken; so they will not go out of his custody. But, all the same, it is
a great concession, and I should not have obtained it but for the fact
that I have done a good deal of work for the bank and that Mr. Britton
is more or less a personal friend."
"By the way, how comes it that the cheques are at the bank? Why were
they not returned to Jeffrey with the pass-book in the usual way?"
"I understand from Britton," replied Thorndyke, "that all Jeffrey's
cheques were retained by the bank at his request. When he was travelling
he used to leave his investment securities and other valuable documents
in his bankers' custody, and, as he has never applied to have them
returned, the bankers still have them and are retaining them until the
will is proved, when they will, of course, hand over everything to the
executors."
"What is the object of photographing these cheques?" I asked.
"There are several objects. First, since a good photograph is
practically as good as the original, when we have the photographs we
practically have the cheques for reference. Then, since a photograph can
be duplicated indefinitely, it is possible to perform experiments on it
which involve its destruction; which would, of course, be impossible in
the case of original cheques."
"But the ultimate object, I mean. What are you going to prove?"
"You are incorrigible, Jervis," he exclaimed. "How should I know what I
am going to prove? This is an investigation. If I knew the result
beforehand, I shouldn't want to perform the experiment."
He looked at his watch, and, as we rose from the table, he said:
"If we have finished, we had better go up to the laboratory and see that
the apparatus is ready. Mr. Britton is a busy man, and, as he is doing
us a great service, we mustn't keep him waiting when he comes."
We ascended to the laboratory, where Polton was already busy inspecting
the massively built copying camera which--with the long, steel guides on
which the easel or copy-holder travelled--took up the whole length of
the room on the side opposite to that occupied by the chemical bench. As
I was to be inducted into the photographic art, I looked at it with more
attention than I had ever done before.
"We've made some improvements since you were here last, sir," said
Polton, who was delicately lubricating the steel guides. "We've fitted
these steel runners instead of the blackleaded wooden ones that we used
to have. And we've made two scales instead of one. Hallo! That's the
downstairs bell. Shall I go sir?"
"Perhaps you'd better," said Thorndyke. "It may not be Mr. Britton, and
I don't want to be caught and delayed just now."
However, it was Mr. Britton; a breezy alert-looking middle-aged man, who
came in escorted by Polton and shook our hands cordially, having been
previously warned of my presence. He carried a small but solid hand-bag,
to which he clung tenaciously up to the very moment when its contents
were required for use.
"So that is the camera," said he, running an inquisitive eye over the
instrument. "Very fine one, too; I am a bit of a photographer myself.
What is that graduation on the side-bar?"
"Those are the scales," replied Thorndyke, "that shows the degree of
magnification or reduction. The pointer is fixed to the easel and
travels with it, of course, showing the exact size of the photograph.
When the pointer is opposite 0 the photograph will be identical in size
with the object photographed; when it points to, say, × 6, the
photograph will be six times as long as the object, or magnified
thirty-six times superficially, whereas if the pointer is at ÷ 6, the
photograph will be a sixth of the length of the object, or one
thirty-sixth superficial."
"Why are there two scales?" Mr. Britton asked.
"There is a separate scale for each of the two lenses that we
principally use. For great magnification or reduction a lens of
comparatively short focus must be used, but, as a long-focus lens gives
a more perfect image, we use one of very long focus--thirty-six
inches--for copying the same size or for slight magnification or
reduction."
"Are you going to magnify these cheques?" Mr. Britton asked.
"Not in the first place," replied Thorndyke. "For convenience and speed
I am going to photograph them half-size, so that six cheques will go on
one whole plate. Afterwards we can enlarge from the negatives as much as
we like. But we should probably enlarge only the signatures in any
case."
The precious bag was now opened and the twenty-three cheques brought out
and laid on the bench in a consecutive series in the order of their
dates. They were then fixed by tapes--to avoid making pin-holes in
them--in batches of six to small drawing boards, each batch being so
arranged that the signatures were towards the middle. The first board
was clamped to the easel, the latter was slid along its guides until
the pointer stood at ÷ 2 on the long-focus scale and Thorndyke proceeded
to focus the camera with the aid of a little microscope that Polton had
made for the purpose. When Mr. Britton and I had inspected the
exquisitely sharp image on the focusing-screen through the microscope,
Polton introduced the plate and made the first exposure, carrying the
dark-slide off to develop the plate while the next batch of cheques was
being fixed in position.
In his photographic technique, as in everything else, Polton followed as
closely as he could the methods of his principal and instructor; methods
characterized by that unhurried precision that leads to perfect
accomplishment. When the first negative was brought forth, dripping,
from the dark-room, it was without spot or stain, scratch or pin-hole;
uniform in colour and of exactly the required density. The six cheques
shown on it--ridiculously small in appearance, though only reduced to
half-length--looked as clear and sharp as fine etchings; though, to be
sure, my opportunity for examining them was rather limited, for Polton
was uncommonly careful to keep the wet plate out of reach and so safe
from injury.
"Well," said Mr. Britton, when, at the end of the séance, he returned
his treasures to the bag, "you have now got twenty-three of our cheques,
to all intents and purposes. I hope you are not going to make any
unlawful use of them--must tell our cashiers to keep a bright look-out;
and"--here he lowered his voice impressively and addressed himself to
me and Polton--"you understand that this is a private matter between Dr.
Thorndyke and me. Of course, as Mr. Blackmore is dead, there is no
reason why his cheques should not be photographed for legal purposes;
but we don't want it talked about; nor, I think, does Dr. Thorndyke."
"Certainly not," Thorndyke agreed emphatically; "but you need not be
uneasy, Mr. Britton. We are very uncommunicative people in this
establishment."
As my colleague and I escorted our visitor down the stairs, he returned
to the subject of the cheques.
"I don't understand what you want them for," he remarked. "There is no
question turning on signatures in the case of Blackmore deceased, is
there?"
"I should say not," Thorndyke replied rather evasively.
"I should say very decidedly not," said Mr. Britton, "if I understood
Marchmont aright. And, even if there were, let me tell you, these
signatures that you have got wouldn't help you. I have looked them over
very closely--and I have seen a few signatures in my time, you know.
Marchmont asked me to glance over them as a matter of form, but I don't
believe in matters of form; I examined them very carefully. There is an
appreciable amount of variation; a very appreciable amount. <i>But</i> under
the variation one can trace the personal character (which is what
matters); the subtle, indescribable quality that makes it recognizable
to the expert eye as Jeffrey Blackmore's writing. You understand me.
There is such a quality, which remains when the coarser characteristics
vary; just as a man may grow old, or fat, or bald, or may take to drink,
and become quite changed; and yet, through it all, he preserves a
certain something which makes him recognizable as a member of a
particular family. Well, I find that quality in all those signatures,
and so will you, if you have had enough experience of handwriting. I
thought it best to mention it in case you might be giving yourself
unnecessary trouble."
"It is very good of you," said Thorndyke, "and I need not say that the
information is of great value, coming from such a highly expert source.
As a matter of fact, your hint will be of great value to me."
He shook hands with Mr. Britton, and, as the latter disappeared down the
stairs, he turned into the sitting-room and remarked:
"There is a very weighty and significant observation, Jervis. I advise
you to consider it attentively in all its bearings."
"You mean the fact that these signatures are undoubtedly genuine?"
"I meant, rather, the very interesting general truth that is contained
in Britton's statement; that physiognomy is not a mere matter of facial
character. A man carries his personal trademark, not in his face only,
but in his nervous system and muscles--giving rise to characteristic
movements and gait; in his larynx--producing an individual voice; and
even in his mouth, as shown by individual peculiarities of speech and
accent. And the individual nervous system, by means of these
characteristic movements, transfers its peculiarities to inanimate
objects that are the products of such movements; as we see in pictures,
in carving, in musical execution and in handwriting. No one has ever
painted quite like Reynolds or Romney; no one has ever played exactly
like Liszt or Paganini; the pictures or the sounds produced by them,
were, so to speak, an extension of the physiognomy of the artist. And so
with handwriting. A particular specimen is the product of a particular
set of motor centres in an individual brain."
"These are very interesting considerations, Thorndyke," I remarked; "but
I don't quite see their present application. Do you mean them to bear in
any special way on the Blackmore case?"
"I think they do bear on it very directly. I thought so while Mr.
Britton was making his very illuminating remarks."
"I don't see how. In fact I cannot see why you are going into the
question of the signatures at all. The signature on the will is
admittedly genuine, and that seems to me to dispose of the whole
affair."
"My dear Jervis," said he, "you and Marchmont are allowing yourselves to
be obsessed by a particular fact--a very striking and weighty fact, I
will admit, but still, only an isolated fact. Jeffrey Blackmore executed
his will in a regular manner, complying with all the necessary
formalities and conditions. In the face of that single circumstance you
and Marchmont would 'chuck up the sponge,' as the old pugilists
expressed it. Now that is a great mistake. You should never allow
yourself to be bullied and browbeaten by a single fact."
"But, my dear Thorndyke!" I protested, "this fact seems to be final. It
covers all possibilities---unless you can suggest any other that would
cancel it."
"I could suggest a dozen," he replied. "Let us take an instance.
Supposing Jeffrey executed this will for a wager; that he immediately
revoked it and made a fresh will, that he placed the latter in the
custody of some person and that that person has suppressed it."
"Surely you do not make this suggestion seriously!" I exclaimed.
"Certainly I do not," he replied with a smile. "I merely give it as an
instance to show that your final and absolute fact is really only
conditional on there being no other fact that cancels it."
"Do you think he might have made a third will?"
"It is obviously possible. A man who makes two wills may make three or
more; but I may say that I see no present reason for assuming the
existence of another will. What I want to impress on you is the
necessity of considering all the facts instead of bumping heavily
against the most conspicuous one and forgetting all the rest. By the
way, here is a little problem for you. What was the object of which
these are the parts?"
He pushed across the table a little cardboard box, having first removed
the lid. In it were a number of very small pieces of broken glass, some
of which had been cemented together by their edges.
"These, I suppose," said I, looking with considerable curiosity at the
little collection, "are the pieces of glass that we picked up in poor
Blackmore's bedroom?"
"Yes. You see that Polton has been endeavouring to reconstitute the
object, whatever it was; but he has not been very successful, for the
fragments were too small and irregular and the collection too
incomplete. However, here is a specimen, built up of six small pieces,
which exhibits the general character of the object fairly well."
He picked out the little irregularly shaped object and handed it to me;
and I could not but admire the neatness with which Polton had joined the
tiny fragments together.
I took the little "restoration," and, holding it up before my eyes,
moved it to and fro as I looked through it at the window.
"It was not a lens," I pronounced eventually.
"No," Thorndyke agreed, "it was not a lens."
"And so cannot have been a spectacle-glass. But the surface was
curved--one side convex and the other concave--and the little piece that
remains of the original edge seems to have been ground to fit a bezel or
frame. I should say that these are portions of a watch-glass."
"That is Polton's opinion," said Thorndyke, "and I think you are both
wrong."
"What do you say to the glass of a miniature or locket?"
"That is rather more probable, but it is not my view."
"What do you think it is?" I asked. But Thorndyke was not to be drawn.
"I am submitting the problem for solution by my learned friend," he
replied with an exasperating smile, and then added: "I don't say that
you and Polton are wrong; only that I don't agree with you. Perhaps you
had better make a note of the properties of this object, and consider it
at your leisure when you are ruminating on the other data referring to
the Blackmore case."
"My ruminations," I said, "always lead me back to the same point."
"But you mustn't let them," he replied. "Shuffle your data about. Invent
hypotheses. Never mind if they seem rather wild. Don't put them aside on
that account. Take the first hypothesis that you can invent and test it
thoroughly with your facts. You will probably have to reject it, but you
will be certain to have learned something new. Then try again with a
fresh one. You remember what I told you of my methods when I began this
branch of practice and had plenty of time on my hands?"
"I am not sure that I do."
"Well, I used to occupy my leisure in constructing imaginary cases,
mostly criminal, for the purpose of study and for the acquirement of
experience. For instance, I would devise an ingenious fraud and would
plan it in detail, taking every precaution that I could think of against
failure or detection, considering, and elaborately providing for, every
imaginable contingency. For the time being, my entire attention was
concentrated on it, making it as perfect and secure and undetectable as
I could with the knowledge and ingenuity at my command. I behaved
exactly as if I were proposing actually to carry it out, and my life or
liberty depended on its success--excepting that I made full notes of
every detail of the scheme. Then when my plans were as complete as I
could make them, and I could think of no way in which to improve them, I
changed sides and considered the case from the standpoint of detection.
I analysed the case, I picked out its inherent and unavoidable
weaknesses, and, especially, I noted the respects in which a fraudulent
proceeding of a particular kind differed from the <i>bona fide</i> proceeding
that it simulated. The exercise was invaluable to me. I acquired as much
experience from those imaginary cases as I should from real ones, and in
addition, I learned a method which is the one that I practise to this
day."
"Do you mean that you still invent imaginary cases as mental exercises?"
"No; I mean that, when I have a problem of any intricacy, I invent a
case which fits the facts and the assumed motives of one of the parties.
Then I work at that case until I find whether it leads to elucidation or
to some fundamental disagreement. In the latter case I reject it and
begin the process over again."
"Doesn't that method sometimes involve a good deal of wasted time and
energy?" I asked.
"No; because each time that you fail to establish a given case, you
exclude a particular explanation of the facts and narrow down the field
of inquiry. By repeating the process, you are bound, in the end, to
arrive at an imaginary case which fits all the facts. Then your
imaginary case is the real case and the problem is solved. Let me
recommend you to give the method a trial."
I promised to do so, though with no very lively expectations as to the
result, and with this, the subject was allowed, for the present, to
drop.