THE READING OF THE BLOOD SIGNS
In these progressive times, the duration of proverbial wonderment has
been reduced from nine days to nine hours. The Dukesfield murder case
was mysterious and dramatic, yet, even with these elements of
popularity, it became stale and out of date within the week. The
attention of the masses and the classes was more or less concentrated
on the visit of an Eastern potentate, whose amazing jewels, and still
more amazing barbarisms, appealed to the popular humour. Moxton's
death and the strange circumstances attendant thereon ceased to be
commented upon by the newspapers; they faded out of the public mind,
and continued to be talked about only in the neighbourhood wherein the
tragedy occurred. Yet even in Dukesfield, after a fortnight of
discussion, the interest grew languid.
It was just as well for Mrs. Moxton that circumstances stood thus,
for, in defiance of public opinion, she still continued to inhabit
Myrtle Villa. Her husband's maltreated body was quietly buried in the
Dukesfield cemetery, so quietly, indeed, that, save the necessary
undertaker and his men, not a single person followed the unfortunate
victim to his untimely grave. It is only justice to say that Mrs.
Moxton would have done so but for the earnest advice of Ellis. Knowing
her unpopularity and its cause, he warned her against thrusting
herself forward. Like a wise woman, the widow took the hint, but
passionately resented the reason for which it was given. When the
ceremony was at an end, Ellis came to tell her about it, and she
defended herself to him after the fashion of women, with many words
and much indignation. As soon as he could obtain a hearing, the doctor
assured her that in his case such arguments were needless.
"I am a firm believer in your innocence, Mrs. Moxton," he declared, in
all earnestness, "and you must not trouble about the idle gossip of
the neighbourhood. People will talk, and it is just a chance that they
did not call you a martyr instead of a criminal."
"It is shameful that a friendless woman should be so abused!"
"You are not altogether friendless, Mrs. Moxton. If you will accept me
as your champion, I shall be proud to occupy the position."
The widow looked steadfastly at Ellis, and something--perceptible to a
woman only--which she saw in his eyes caused her to lower her own. She
replied indirectly, with true feminine evasion,--
"I shall always be glad to have you for a friend, doctor. You have
been--you are--very good to me."
But after this speech Mrs. Moxton became reserved and hesitating,
finally silent; so that Ellis, aware that his eyes had revealed too
much, took his leave in a few minutes. By this time he was conscious
that he had fallen in love with the pretty widow, and marvelled that
he should lose his heart after three weeks' acquaintance. In the
opinion of some, love at first sight is a fallacy, and at one time
Ellis had been of these wiseacres. Now his personal experience proved
the truth of the saying. Mrs. Moxton was not a supremely beautiful
woman, but she had a young and comely face, and an extraordinarily
fascinating manner. It was to this last that Ellis succumbed, and he
made scarcely any effort to resist its influence. Yet Mrs. Moxton was
a woman with a humble--if not a doubtful--past, and there was a slur
on her reputation as the widow of a murdered man. Ellis could not help
admitting to himself that she was no wife for a struggling doctor,
yet, in spite of such admission, he was bent upon marrying her, should
the opportunity offer itself. In the meantime he kept his own counsel
and told no one--not even Cass--of this new element in his life.
That same evening Ellis and his friend sat down after supper to
discuss again their domestic affairs and the state of the exchequer.
The outlook was now considerably improved, for Cass had returned with
a good piece of news, which he lost no time in imparting to the
doctor.
"The gods of things-as-they-ought-to-be have awakened to the injustice
of my terrestrial treatment, Bob," he announced gleefully. "I have
been made theatrical critic for the _Early Bird_, and a story of mine
has been accepted by the _Piccadilly Magazine_."
"Good news, old boy; I congratulate you. What is the reason for this
sudden discovery of your merits?"
"Moxton's murder, I think. My editor was pleased with the
blood-and-thunder report I gave of it."
"Hence he sets you to criticise the drama," said Ellis, drily.
"I suppose so. Perhaps he thinks that if I can describe the murder of
a human being I can deal with the slaughter of drama and comedy by
incompetent actors."
"The profession would be flattered by your preconceived ideas of their
capabilities, Harry."
"Nonsense! I am thinking of extreme cases only. But now that I have a
better salary I can help you, Bob. I shall be like the Auvergnat
carrier in Balzac's story, and aid a great physician to reach his
rightful position for the benefit of humanity."
"Thank you, Harry, but I fear I am not sufficiently gifted to deserve
your self-denial. Besides, I have been discovered also."
"What? You have a patient?"
"Yes, a morbid lady with nerves. She saw my name in connection with
the discovery of that poor devil's body, and came to see me about her
own trouble."
"Nerves and murder. I don't see the connection."
"She did, however," said Ellis, with a shrug, "and asked me to save
her life. It is in no danger, as you may guess. She is nothing but an
excitable female with too much money and no employment. I wrote her a
prescription, humoured her hypochondria, and so pleased her that she
departed, pronouncing me to be a charming young man who thoroughly
understood her 'system.' She intends to send all her friends to me."
"That's capital," cried Cass, shaking hands with his friend. "Once you
get the start you will soon roll on to fame and fortune. I'll meet you
on Tom Tiddler's ground, Bob, and we'll pick up the gold and silver in
company. Dr. Robert Ellis, of Harley Street, specialist in eye
diseases, and Henry Cass, the great, the only novelist! But I say,
Bob," added the journalist, "don't degenerate into a humbug, old man."
"My dear fellow, in dealing with women, one must be a humbug more or
less. They like it."
"That is true in every case. Women always prefer the graceful humbugs
of this world to the genuine, honest creatures. That is why I have not
been snapped up by a rich heiress."
Ellis laughed absently, being more taken up with his own thoughts than
with the humour of his friend. "Yes, I believe this patient will send
me others, and that, sooner or later, I shall scrape together a
practice in Dukesfield. In years to come I may even be able to set up
as an eye specialist."
"In Harley Street, Bob, in Harley Street."
"In any street so long as I can make a good income. When I become
known as an authority on diseases of the eye----"
"You are known, Bob," interrupted Cass, vigorously. "That book on the
eye you wrote is well known."
"Stuff! My book fell still-born from the Press. Besides, if it is
known, only my medical brethren have the knowledge. I wish to be
popular with the masses, Harry, to have a name with them, for it is
the public who pay."
"Well, well, that will come. I believe in your future, Bob. You will
have all you wish for--an income, a name, and a wife."
"A wife!" Ellis turned restlessly in the comfortable old arm-chair,
and laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. "A wife!" he repeated
doubtfully.
"Of course; you don't intend to remain single all your days, do you?
You must marry, Bob, for a doctor without a wife, a tactful wife, mind
you, is like a coach without wheels. I hope, however," and here
Harry's tone became serious, "that you will not marry a widow."
"A widow! I don't quite understand."
"Or," continued Cass, inattentive to the interpolation, "or the wife
of a man who has met with a violent death."
"Harry, what makes you think that Mrs. Moxton--" So far Ellis
proceeded violently, then stopped with the conviction that he had
betrayed his secret.
"The cap fits, I see," remarked Cass, pointedly, and shut up in his
turn.
For the next few minutes there was an embarrassed silence, neither man
being willing to speak, lest a word should act like a spark in a
powder magazine. Ellis threw down his pipe, and, as was his fashion
when annoyed, took to rapid walking in the limited space of the
sitting-room. Cass eased his position on the sofa and waited
developments.
"Yes, it is true," said the doctor, in a loud voice, so as to drown
opposition. "I am in love with Mrs. Moxton. Now, what do you say?"
"Only this. It is hard enough for you to make a career without seeking
for a clog which will prevent you rising in your profession."
"How do you know Mrs. Moxton would prove such a clog?"
"I don't know; I surmise only. I am ignorant of the lady's
personality, save from what I have learnt in chance moments. You are
in the like position."
"I know her better than you do."
"Possibly. But do you know her well enough to risk making her your
wife?"
"I didn't say that I intended to ask her to marry me."
Cass laughed. "That is a quibble. With honourable men a declared
passion is always the prelude to marriage."
"But I have not declared my passion," argued Ellis, in vexed tones.
"Not yet, maybe, but you will do so when the time comes."
"After all, Harry, she is a charming woman."
"Charming and pretty, no doubt. But is she the wife for you? Before
you can answer that question, you must know her past and whitewash her
present."
Dr. Ellis sat down aghast. "Good heavens, Cass! Surely you don't think
her guilty?"
"I don't know enough about the case to say," said Cass, meditatively;
"but Mrs. Moxton puzzles me, I confess. For instance, she tells lies."
"Tells lies!" repeated the widow's champion, with great indignation.
"Yes, and in the most unblushing manner. At the inquest she said that
she took her husband's body in her arms and felt the blood flowing
from the wound in his back. Now, it is my impression that she never
touched the body."
"How can you prove that?"
"Very simply. When she came into this room she wore a plain black
dress, with cuffs of white linen. Now, if she had handled the body and
had touched the wound, it is only natural to suppose that those cuffs
would be stained with blood. I noticed, however, that they were not."
"But that is all the stronger proof that she is innocent."
"Of the actual murder, maybe, Bob; but it does not prove that she is
ignorant of who killed the man. She told lies about the handling of
the body, as I said. It seems to me," added Cass, reflectively, "that
Mrs. Moxton is shielding the assassin."
"But why should she shield a murderer?"
"Ah, that you must learn from the woman herself. But if she is
completely in the dark about the matter, why does she tell falsehoods?
Then that cypher, those blood signs on the arm--the dying man wrote
them to indicate to his wife the name of the murderer."
"You can't prove that!" cried Ellis, much excited.
"Only by deduction. Why should the man write in a cypher if his wife
did not know the cypher?"
"The information, whatever it is, might have been intended for someone
else."
"I don't think so. Moxton knew that his wife would be the first to
discover his dead body, and wrote the message in cypher for her
information. It is only reasonable to think so."
"Mrs. Moxton says she does not know what the cypher means."
"Precisely. She is telling lies and shielding the true criminal."
"How do you know that the cypher contains the name of the criminal,
Harry?"
"Because I can read the cypher," was Cass's unexpected reply. "I found
out the key yesterday. Look here, Bob." He jumped up from the sofa
and, crossing to the writing-table, hastily scrawled two diagrams.
"You see," he added, "here is a criss-cross, and a St. Andrew's cross
with two letters in each angle which exhausts the alphabet."
Ellis looked at the diagrams with amazement and shook his head. "I am
as much in the dark as ever. Explain."
"Well, you use the angles and the central criss-cross square for
letters, with an added dot for the second letter. If you wish to write
your name, 'Ellis,' in signs, you take the first letter of the third
angle in the criss-cross, the two second letters of the sixth angle;
the first letter of the square, and the first letter first angle St.
Andrew's cross."
"I see, and 'L' being the second letter of the sixth angle you put a
dot."
"Of course. If I wrote 'K' I should put no dot," replied Harry, and
took a morsel of paper out of his pocket. "Here," said he, "is a copy
of the sign on the dead man's arm. The second letter of ninth angle
criss-cross: the first letter second angle St. Andrew's cross, and the
second letter fourth angle of the same. Do you see? Now take this
pencil, Bob, and use the key to turn them into letters."
Ellis did so, and produced three letters on the paper given to him.
"'R U Z,'" he read slowly. "What does that mean? Is it a word?"
"I don't think so. There is no word spelt 'Ruz' in any language that I
am acquainted with. I believe those three letters are the initials of
the man who killed Moxton. For some reason the dying man did not
desire to give up his murderer to justice, but at the same time he
wished to let his wife know who struck the blow, hence the cypher.
Mrs. Moxton can read the meaning, depend upon it, Bob."
"It seems strange," assented Ellis, surveying the letters
thoughtfully. "Do you think there are three names here, or only two?"
"I can't say. 'R U' may mean Rupert or Rudolph, but I am in the dark
so far. I have discovered the letters, Bob; it is for Mrs. Moxton to
explain them to you."
"What about this other sign?" said the doctor, evading a reply.
"Well, at first I thought it was a serpent, but as it has four feet
and a wriggle of a tail, I conclude it is a lizard. Mere guessing, you
understand."
"What connection can it have with the letters?"
"I don't know. Ask me something easier, or rather," said Cass, with a
peculiar smile, "ask Mrs. Moxton. She knows the truth about letters,
and lizard and murder. But she won't tell it to you."
"Why not?" asked Ellis, angrily.
"Because, my poor fellow, I firmly believe that the murderer of Mr.
Moxton is the lover of Mrs. Moxton."