A COUNCIL OF WAR
I awoke somewhat late on the following morning; indeed, I was but
half awake when there came a somewhat masterful and peremptory tap at
my bedroom door, followed by the appearance in the room of a rather
tall gentleman of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed
him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed, proprietary manner of
entering, but he left me no time for guessing as to his identity.
“Good-morning, Jardine,” he said briskly, jingling the keys and small
change in his trousers’ pockets, “my name is Jervis. Second violin in
the Thorndyke orchestra. I’m in charge here _pro tem_. How are you
feeling?”
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just going to get up. You needn’t trouble
about the practice. I’m quite fit.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jervis, “but you’d better keep quiet all
the same. My orders are explicit, and I know my place too well to
disobey. Thorndyke’s instructions were that you are not to make any
visits or go abroad until after the inquest.”
“Inquest?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He’s coming here at four o’clock to hold an inquiry into the
circumstances that led to your being locked up in a cellar, and until
then I’m to look after the practice and keep an eye on you. What time
do you expect the offspring of the flittermouse?”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Batson. He’s coming back to-day, isn’t he?”
“Yes. About six o’clock to-night.”
“Then you’ll be able to clear out. So much the better. The
neighbourhood doesn’t seem very wholesome for you.”
“I suppose I can do the surgery work,” said I.
“You’d better not. Better follow Thorndyke’s instructions literally.
But you can tell me about the patients and help me to dispense. And
that reminds me that a person named Samway called just now, a rather
fine-looking woman--reminded me of a big, sleek tabby cat. She
wouldn’t say what she wanted. Do you know anything about her?”
“I expect she came about her account. But she’ll have to see Batson. I
told her so, only a night or two ago.”
“Very well,” said Jervis, “then I’ll be off now, and you take things
easy and just think over what happened last night, so as to be ready
for Thorndyke.”
With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and breakfast at my
leisure.
His advice to me to think over the events of the previous night was
rather superfluous. The experience was not one that I was likely to
forget. To have escaped from death by the very slenderest chance was
in itself a matter to occupy one’s thoughts pretty completely, apart
from the horrible circumstances, and then there was the mystery in
which the whole affair was enveloped, a mystery which utterly baffled
any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over as I would--and it was
hardly out of my thoughts for a minute at a time all day--no glimmer
of light could I perceive, no faintest clue to any explanation of that
hideous and incomprehensible crime.
At four o’clock punctually to the minute, Dr. Thorndyke arrived, and,
having quickly looked me over to see that I was none the worse for my
adventure, proceeded to business.
“Have you finished the visits, Jervis?” he asked.
“Yes; and sent off all the medicine. There’s nothing more to do until
six.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we might have a cup of tea in the
consulting-room and talk this affair over. I am rather taking
possession of you, Jardine,” he added, “but I think we ought to see
where we are quite clearly, even if we decide finally to hand the case
over to the police. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Certainly,” I agreed, highly flattered by the interest he was taking
in my affairs; “naturally, I should like to get to the bottom of the
mystery.”
“So should I,” said he, “and to that end, I propose that you give us a
completely circumstantial account of the whole affair. I have had a
talk with your very intelligent little maid, Maggie, and now I want to
hear what happened after she left you.”
“I don’t think I have much to tell that you don’t know,” said I;
“however, I will take up the story where Maggie left off,” and I
proceeded to describe the events in detail, much as I have related
them to the reader.
Thorndyke listened to my story with profound attention, making an
occasional memorandum but not uttering a word until I had finished.
Then, after a rapid glance through his memoranda, he said:
“You spoke of a note that was handed in to you. Have you got that
note?”
“I left it on the writing-table, and it is probably there still. Yes,
here it is.” I brought it over to the little table on which our tea
was laid and handed it to him; and as he took it from me with the
dainty carefulness of a photographer handling a wet plate, I noted
mentally that the habit of delicate manipulation contracted in the
laboratory makes itself evident in the most trifling of everyday
actions.
“I see,” he remarked, turning the envelope over and scrutinizing it
minutely, “that this is addressed to ‘Dr. H. Jardine.’ It appears,
then, that he knows your Christian name. Can you account for that?”
“No, I can’t. The only letter I have had here was addressed ‘Dr.
Jardine,’ and I have signed no certificates or other documents.”
He made a note of my answer, and, drawing the missive from its
envelope, read it through.
“The handwriting,” he remarked, “looks disguised rather than
illiterate, and the diction is inconsistent. The blatantly incorrect
adverb at the end does not agree with the rest of the phraseology and
the correct punctuation. As to the signature, we may neglect that,
unless you are acquainted with anyone in these parts of the name of
Parker.”
“I am not,” said I.
“Very well. Then if you will allow me to keep this note, I will file
it for future reference. And now I will ask you a few questions about
this adventure of yours, which is really a most astonishing and
mysterious affair; even more mysterious, I may add, than it looks at
the first glance. But we shall come to that presently. At the moment
we are concerned with the crime itself--with a manifest attempt to
murder you--and the circumstances that led up to it; and there are
certain obvious questions that suggest themselves. The first is: Can
you give any explanation of this attempt on your life?”
“No, I can’t,” I replied. “It is a complete mystery to me. I can only
suppose that the fellow was a homicidal lunatic.”
“A homicidal lunatic,” said Thorndyke, “is the baffled investigator’s
last resource. But we had better not begin supposing at this stage.
Let us keep strictly to facts. You do not know of anything that would
explain this attack on you?”
“No.”
“Then the next question is: Had you any property of value on your
person?”
“No. Five pounds would cover the value of everything I had about me,
including the instruments.”
“Then that seems to exclude robbery as a motive. The next question is:
Does any person stand to benefit considerably by your death? Have you
any considerable expectations in the way of bequests, reversions or
succession to landed property or titles?”
“No,” I replied with a faint grin. “I shall come in for a thousand or
two when my uncle dies, but I believe the London Hospital is the
alternative legatee, and I suppose we would hardly suspect the
hospital governors of this little affair. Otherwise, the only person
who would benefit by my death would be the undertaker who got the
contract to plant me.”
Thorndyke nodded and made a note of my answer.
“That,” said he, “disposes of the principal motives for premeditated
murder. There remains the question of personal enmity--not a common
motive in this country. Have you, as far as you know, an enemy or
enemies who might conceivably try to kill you?”
“As far as I know, I have not an enemy in the world, or anyone, even,
who would wish to do me a bad turn.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to dispose of all the ordinary
motives for murder; and I may say that I have only put these questions
as a matter of routine precaution--_ex abundantiâ cautelae_, as
Jervis says, when he is in a forensic mood--because certain other
facts which I have learned seem to exclude any of these motives
except, perhaps, robbery from the person.”
“You haven’t been long picking up those other facts,” remarked Jervis.
“Why the affair only happened last night.”
“I have only made a few simple enquiries,” replied Thorndyke. “This
morning I called on Mr. Highfield, whose name, as solicitor and agent
to the landlords, I copied from the notice on the gate at the works
last night. He knows me slightly so I was able to get from him the
information that I wanted. It amounts to this.
“About four months ago, a Mr. Gill wrote to him and offered a lump sum
for the use of the mineral water works for six months. Highfield
accepted the offer and drew up an agreement, as desired, granting Gill
immediate possession of the premises and the small stock and plant, of
which the residue was to be taken back at a valuation by the landlords
at the expiration of the term.
“I noted Gill’s address, as it appeared on the agreement, and sent my
man, Polton, to make enquiries. The address is that of a West
Kensington lodging house at which Gill was staying when he signed the
agreement. He had been there only three weeks, he left two days after
the date of the agreement and the landlady does not know where he went
or anything about him.”
“Sounds a bit fishy,” Jervis remarked. “Did he tell Highfield what he
wanted the premises for?”
“I understand that something was said about some assay work in
connection with certain--or rather uncertain--mineral concessions. But
of course that was no affair of Highfield’s. His business was to get
the rent, and, having got it, his interest in Mr. Gill lapsed. But you
see the bearing of these facts. Gill’s connection with these works
does, as Jervis says, look a little queer, especially after what has
happened. But, seeing that he made his arrangements four months ago,
at a time when Jardine had no thought of coming into this
neighbourhood, it is clear that those arrangements could have no
connection with this particular attempt. Gill obviously did not take
those works with the intention of murdering Jardine. He took them for
some other purpose; quite possibly the purpose that he stated. And we
must not assume that Gill was the perpetrator of this outrage at all.
Could you identify the man who let you in?”
“No,” I replied. “Certainly not. I hardly saw him at all. The place
was pitch dark, and whenever he struck a match he was either behind me
or in front with his back to me. The only thing I could make out about
him was that he had some sort of coarse wash-leather gloves on.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Then we were right, Jervis.”
I looked in surprise from one to the other of my friends, and was on
the point of asking Thorndyke what he meant, when he continued.
“That closes another track. If you couldn’t identify the man, a
description of Gill, if we could obtain it, would not help us. We must
begin at some other point.”
“It seems to me,” said Jervis, “that we haven’t much to go upon at
all.”
“We haven’t much,” agreed Thorndyke, “but still we have something. We
find that the motive of this attempt was apparently not robbery, nor
the diversion of inheritable property, nor personal enmity. It must
have been premeditated, but yet it could not have been planned more
than a week in advance, for Jardine has only been in this
neighbourhood for that time, and his coming was unexpected. The
appearances very strongly suggest that the motive, whatever it was,
has been generated recently and probably locally. So we had better
make a start from that assumption.”
“Is it possible,” Jervis suggested, “that this man Gill may be some
sort of anarchist crank? Or a sort of thug? It is actually conceivable
that he may have taken these premises for the express purpose of
having a secure place where he could perpetrate murders and conceal
the bodies.”
“It is quite conceivable,” said Thorndyke, “and when we go and look
over the works--which I propose we do presently--we may as well bear
the possibility in mind. But it is merely a speculative suggestion. To
return to your affairs, Jardine, has your stay here been quite
uneventful?”
“Perfectly,” I replied.
“No unusual or obscure cases? No injuries?”
“No, nothing out of the common,” I replied.
“No deaths?”
“One. But the man died before I took over.”
“Nothing unusual about that? Everything quite regular?”
“Oh, perfectly,” I answered; and then with a sudden qualm, as I
recalled Batson’s uncertainty as to the actual cause of death, I
added, “At least I hope so.”
“You hope so?” queried Thorndyke.
“Yes. Because it’s too late to go into the question now. The man was
cremated.”
At this a singular silence fell. Both my friends seemed to stiffen in
their chairs, and both looked at me silently but very attentively.
Then Thorndyke asked, “Did you have anything to do with that case?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I went with Batson to examine the body.”
“And are you perfectly satisfied that everything was as it should be?”
I was on the point of saying “yes.” And then suddenly there arose
before my eyes the vision of Mrs. Samway looking at me over Batson’s
shoulder with that strange, inscrutable expression. And again, I
recalled her unexplained anger and then her sudden change of mood. It
had impressed me uncomfortably at the time, and it impressed me
uncomfortably now.
“I don’t know that I am, now that I come to think it over,” I replied.
“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well,” I said, a little hesitatingly, “to begin with, I don’t think
the cause of death was quite clear. Batson couldn’t find anything
definite when he attended the man, and I know that the patient’s death
came as quite a surprise.”
“But surely,” exclaimed Thorndyke, “he took some measures to find out
the cause of death!”
“He didn’t. He assumed that it was a case of fatty heart and certified
it as ‘Morbus cordis’; and a man named O’Connor confirmed his
certificate after examining the body.”
“After merely inspecting the exterior?”
“Yes.”
My two friends looked at one another significantly, and Thorndyke
remarked, with a disapproving shake of the head:
“And this is what all the elaborate precautions amount to in practice.
A case which might have been one of the crudest and baldest poisoning
gets passed with hardly a pretence of scrutiny. And so it will always
be. Routine precautions against the unsuspected are no precautions at
all. That is the danger of cremation. It restores to the poisoner the
security that he enjoyed in the old days when there were no such
sciences as toxicology and organic chemistry, when it was impossible
for him to be tripped up by an exhumation and an analysis.”
“You don’t think it likely that this was a case of poisoning, do you?”
I asked.
“I know nothing about the case,” he replied, “excepting that there was
gross neglect in issuing the certificates. What do you think about it
yourself? Looking back at the case, is there anything besides the
uncertainty that strikes you as unsatisfactory?”
I hesitated, and again the figure of Mrs. Samway rose before me with
that strange, baleful look in her eyes. Finally I described the
incident to my colleagues.
“Mrs. Samway!” exclaimed Jervis. “Is that the handsome Lucrezia Borgia
lady with the mongoose eyes who called here this morning? By Jove!
Jardine, you are giving me the creeps.”
“I understand,” said Thorndyke, “that you were making as if to feel
the dead man’s pulse?”
“Yes.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose, that he really was dead?”
“None whatever. He was as cold as a fish, and, besides there was quite
distinct _rigor mortis_.”
“That seems conclusive enough,” said Thorndyke, but he continued to
gaze at his open note-book with a profoundly speculative and
thoughtful expression.
“It certainly looks,” said Jervis, “as if Jardine had either seen
something or had been about to see something that he was not wanted to
see; and the question is what that something could have been.”
“Yes,” I agreed, gloomily; “that is what I have just been asking
myself. There might have been a wound or injury of some kind, or there
might have been the marks of a hypodermic needle on the wrist. I wish
I knew what she meant by looking at me in that way.”
“Well,” said Jervis, “we shall never know now. The grave gives up its
secrets now and again, but the crematorium furnace never. Whether he
died naturally or was murdered, Mr. Maddock is now a little heap of
ashes with no message for anyone this side of the Day of Judgment.”
Thorndyke looked up. “That seems to be so,” said he, “and really, we
have no substantial reasons for thinking that there was anything
wrong. So we come back to your own affairs, Jardine, and the question
is, What would you prefer to do?”
“In what respect?” I asked.
“In regard to this attempt on your life. You have told us that you
have not an enemy in the world. But it appears as if you had; and a
very dangerous one, too. Now would you like to put the case into the
hands of the police, or would you rather that we kept our own counsel
and looked into it ourselves?”
“I should like you to decide that,” said I.
“The reason that I ask,” said Thorndyke, “is this: the machinery of
the police is adjusted to professional crime--burglary, coining,
forgery, and so forth--and their methods are mostly based on
‘information received.’ The professional ‘crook’ is generally well
known to the police, and, when wanted for any particular ‘job,’ can be
found without much difficulty and the information necessary for his
conviction obtained from the usual sources. But in cases of obscure,
non-professional crime the police are at a disadvantage. The criminal
is unknown to them; there are no confederates from whom to get
information; consequently they have no starting-point for their
enquiries. They can’t create clues; and they, very naturally, will not
devote time, labour and money to cases in which they have nothing to
go on.
“Now this affair of yours does not look like a professional crime. No
motive is evident and you can give no information that would help the
police. I doubt if they would do much more than give you some rather
disagreeable publicity, and they might even suspect you of some kind
of imposture.”
“Gad!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what they would do. It’s what they
did last time, and this affair would write me down in their eyes a
confirmed mystery-monger.”
“Last time?” queried Thorndyke. “What last time is that? Have there
been any other attempts?”
“Not on me,” I replied. “But I had an adventure one night about six or
seven weeks ago that has made the Hampstead police look on me, I
think, with some suspicion”; and here I gave my two friends a
description of my encounter with the dead (or insensible) cleric in
Millfield Lane, and my discoveries on the following morning.
“But my dear Jardine!” Thorndyke exclaimed when I had finished, “what
an extraordinary man you are! It seems as if you could hardly show
your nose out of doors without becoming involved in some dark and
dreadful mystery.”
“Well,” said I, “I hope I have now exhausted my gifts in that respect.
I am not thirsting for more experiences. But what do you think about
that Hampstead affair? Do you think I could possibly have been
mistaken? Could the man have been merely insensible, after all, as the
police suggested?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “I don’t think,” he replied, “that it is
possible to take that view. You see the man had disappeared. Now he
could not have got away unassisted, in fact he could not have walked
at all. One would have to assume that some persons appeared directly
after you left and carried him away; and that they appeared and
retired so quickly as not to be overtaken by you on your return a few
minutes later with the police. That is assuming too much. And then
there are the traces which you discovered on the following day, which
seem to suggest strongly that a body had been carried away to Ken
Wood. It is a thousand pities that you encountered that keeper, if you
could have followed the tracks while they were fresh you might have
been able to ascertain whither it had been carried. But now, to return
to your latest experience, what shall we do? Shall we communicate with
the police, or shall we make a few investigations on our own account?”
“As far as I am concerned,” I replied eagerly, “a private
investigation would be greatly preferable. But wouldn’t it take up
rather a lot of your time?”
“Now, Jardine, you needn’t apologize,” said Jervis. “Unless I am much
mistaken, my respected senior has ‘struck soundings,’ as the nautical
phrase has it. He has a theory of your case, and he would like to see
it through. Isn’t that so, Thorndyke?”
“Well,” Thorndyke admitted, “I will confess that the case piques my
curiosity somewhat. It is an unusual affair and suggests some curious
hypotheses which might be worth testing. So, if you agree, Jardine,
that we make at least a few preliminary investigations, I suggest
that, as soon as Batson returns, we three go over to what the
newspapers would call ‘the scene of the tragedy’ and reconstitute the
affair on the spot.”
“And what about Batson?” I asked. “Shall we tell him anything?”
“I think we must,” said Thorndyke, “if only to put him on his guard;
for your unknown enemy may be his enemy, too.”
At this moment the street door banged loudly, a quick step danced
along the hall, and Batson himself burst into the room.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, halting abruptly at the door and gazing in
dismay at our little council. “What’s the matter? Anything happened?”
Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his quondam pupil.
“Come, come, Batson,” said he, “don’t make me out such a bird of
ill-omen.”
“I was afraid something awkward might have occurred, police job or
inquest or something of that sort.”
“You weren’t so very far wrong,” said Thorndyke. “When you are at
liberty I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’m at liberty now,” said Batson, dropping into a chair and glaring
at Thorndyke through his spectacles. “No scandal, I hope.”
Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave him a brief account of
my adventure and our proposed visit to the works; to which he listened
with occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief.
“By Gum!” he exclaimed, “what a mercy you got there in time. If you
hadn’t there’d have been an inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should
never have heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried me
into a lunatic asylum. Oh, and about those works. I wouldn’t go there
if I were you.”
“Why not?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, you may have to answer some awkward questions, and we don’t
want this affair to get about, you know. No use raising a dust. Rumpus
of any kind plays the deuce with a medical practice.”
Thorndyke smiled at my principal’s frank egoism. “Jervis and I went
over last night,” said he, “and had a hasty look round and we found
the place quite deserted. Probably it is so still.”
“Then you won’t be able to get in. How jer get in last night?”
“I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my pocket,” Thorndyke
replied impassively.
“Ha!” said Batson. “Wire, eh? Picklock in fact. I wouldn’t, if I were
you. Devil of a bobbery if anyone sees you. Hallo! There goes the
bell. Patient. Let him wait. ’Tisn’t six yet, is it?”
“Two minutes past,” replied Thorndyke, rising and looking at his
watch. “Perhaps we had better be starting as it’s now dark, and the
business at the works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.”
“Hang the works!” exclaimed Batson. “I wouldn’t go nosing about there.
What’s the good? Jardine’s alright and the chappie isn’t likely to be
on view. You’ll only raise a stink for nothing and bring in a crowd of
beastly reporters humming about the place. There’s that damn bell
again. Well, if you won’t stay, perhaps you’ll look me up some other
time. Always d’lighted to see you. Jervis too. You’re not going,
Jardine. I’ve got to settle up with you and hear your report.”
“I’ll look in later,” said I; “when you’ve finished the evening’s
work.”
“Right you are,” said Batson, opening the door and adroitly edging us
out. “Sorry you can’t stay. Good-night! Good-night!”
He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly down the hall, with a
skill born of long practice with garrulous patients, and, having
exchanged us on the doorstep for a stout woman with two children,
returned into the house with his prey and was lost to sight.