JOHN THORNDYKE
That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress is
a fact familiar to the least observant. That the observation is equally
applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally true. Do
not the members of fighting professions, even to this day, deck
themselves in feathers, in gaudy colors and gilded ornaments, after the
manner of the African war-chief or the Redskin "brave," and thereby
indicate the place of war in modern civilization? Does not the Church of
Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments that were fashionable
before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her immovable
conservatism? And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on in the wake of
progress, symbolize its subjection to precedent by head-gear reminiscent
of the good days of Queen Anne?
I should apologize for intruding upon the reader these somewhat trite
reflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of the
wig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I strayed
on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I had halted opposite
the little shop window, and, with my eyes bent dreamily on the row of
wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was startled by a
deep voice saying softly in my ear: "I'd have the full-bottomed one if I
were you."
I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of my old
friend and fellow student, Jervis; behind whom, regarding us with a
sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both men
greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, for Thorndyke
was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was several years my
academic senior.
"You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope," said Thorndyke;
and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me across the court in
the direction of the Treasury.
"But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley?" he
asked. "Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's--deserting
the bedside for the Bar?"
"What! Has Jervis gone in for the law?" I exclaimed.
"Bless you, yes!" replied Jervis. "I have become parasitical on
Thorndyke! 'The big fleas have little fleas,' you know. I am the
additional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of a
decimal point."
"Don't you believe him, Berkeley," interposed Thorndyke. "He is the
brains of the firm. I supply the respectability and moral worth. But
you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here on a summer
afternoon staring into a wig-maker's window?"
"I am Barnard's locum; he is in practise in Fetter Lane."
"I know," said Thorndyke; "we meet him occasionally, and very pale and
peaky he has been looking of late. Is he taking a holiday?"
"Yes. He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece in a currant ship."
"Then," said Jervis, "you are actually a local G.P. I thought you were
looking beastly respectable."
"And judging from your leisured manner when we encountered you," added
Thorndyke, "the practise is not a strenuous one. I suppose it is
entirely local?"
"Yes," I replied. "The patients mostly live in the small streets and
courts within a half-mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes of some
of them are pretty squalid. Oh! and that reminds me of a very strange
coincidence. It will interest you, I think."
"Life is made up of strange coincidences," said Thorndyke. "Nobody but a
reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence. But what
is yours?"
"It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospital
about two years ago, the case of a man who disappeared under rather
mysterious circumstances. Do you remember it? The man's name was
Bellingham."
"The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite well. What about it?"
"The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Nevill's Court with
his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice."
"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting. They must have
come down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, the
brother was living in a house of some pretentions standing in its own
grounds."
"Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case."
"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.
He is a sort of medico-legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the
newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly
regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quaint habit. A
case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke
swallows it whole. Then it lapses and every one forgets it. A year or
two later it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find
that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on
it periodically in the interval.
"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned friend is pleased to
indulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true,
though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."
Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first
floor of No. 5A, King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious,
paneled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black,
setting out the tea-service on the table. I glanced at him with some
curiosity. He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of his neat, black
clothes; in fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, for while his quiet
dignity and his serious intelligent face suggested some kind of
professional man, his neat, capable hands were those of a skilled
mechanic.
Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and then looked at his
retainer. "I see you have put three teacups, Polton," he said. "Now,
how did you know I was bringing some one in to tea?"
The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification as he
explained:
"I happened to look out of the laboratory window as you turned the
corner, sir."
"How disappointingly simple," said Jervis. "We were hoping for something
abstruse and telepathic."
"Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir," replied Polton as he checked
the tea-service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, and with this
remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated.
"To return to the Bellingham case," said Thorndyke, when he had poured
out the tea. "Have you picked up any facts relating to the parties--and
facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to mention?"
"I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating.
For instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham--my patient--lost all his
property quite suddenly about the time of the disappearance."
"That is really odd," said Thorndyke. "The opposite condition would be
quite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can have
happened, unless there was an allowance of some sort."
"No, that was what struck me. But there seem to be some queer features
in the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated.
There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble."
"They will hardly be able to administer the will without either proof or
presumption of death," Thorndyke remarked.
"Exactly. That's one of the difficulties. Another is that there seems
to be some fatal defect in the drafting of the will itself. I don't know
what it is, but I expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I
mentioned the interest that you have taken in the case, and I think
Bellingham would have liked to consult you, but, of course, the poor devil
has no money."
"That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have. There
will probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takes no
account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought to have
advice of some sort."
"I don't see how he is to get it," said I.
"Neither do I," Thorndyke admitted. "There are no hospitals for
impecunious litigants; it is assumed that only persons of means have a
right to go to law. Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances
we might be able to help him; but for all we know to the contrary, he may
be an arrant scoundrel."
I had recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard, and
wondered what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had been allowable
for me to repeat it. Obviously it was not, however, and I could only
give my own impressions.
"He doesn't strike me as that," I said; "but of course, one never knows.
Personally, he impressed me rather favorably, which is more than the
other man did."
"What other man?" asked Thorndyke.
"There was another man in the case, wasn't there? I forget his name. I
saw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him. I suspect
he's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham."
"Berkeley knows more about this than he's telling us," said Jervis. "Let
us look up the report and see who this stranger is." He took down from a
shelf a large volume of newspaper cuttings and laid it on the table.
"You see," said he, as he ran his finger down the index. "Thorndyke
files all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I know he
had expectations regarding this one. I fancy he had some ghoulish hope
that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody's dust-bin.
Here we are; the other man's name is Hurst. He is apparently a cousin,
and it was at his house the missing man was last seen alive."
"So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?" said Thorndyke, when he
had glanced over the report.
"That is my impression," I replied, "though I really know nothing about
it."
"Well," said Thorndyke, "if you should learn what is being done and
should have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested to hear
how the case progresses and if an unofficial opinion on any point would
be of service, I think there would be no harm in giving it."
"It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are taking
professional advice," I said; and then, after a pause, I asked: "Have you
given this case much consideration?"
Thorndyke reflected. "No," he said, "I can't say that I have. I turned
it over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I have
speculated on it occasionally since. It is my habit, as Jervis was
telling you, to utilize odd moments of leisure (such as a railway
journey, for instance) by constructing theories to account for the facts
of such obscure cases as have come to my notice. It is a useful habit, I
think, for, apart from the mental exercise and experience that one gains
from it, an appreciable portion of these cases ultimately comes into my
hands, and then the previous consideration of them is so much time
gained."
"Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case?" I
asked.
"Yes, I have several theories, one of which I especially favor, and I am
awaiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to me which
of these theories is probably the correct one."
"It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley," said Jervis. "He is
fitted with an information valve that opens inward. You can pour in as
much as you like, but you can't get any out."
Thorndyke chuckled. "My learned friend is, in the main, correct," he
said. "You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case, in
which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded
my views in detail. But I should like to hear what you and Jervis make
of the case as reported in the newspapers."
"There now," exclaimed Jervis, "what did I tell you? He wants to suck
our brains."
"As far as my brain is concerned," I said, "the process of suction isn't
likely to yield much except a vacuum, so I will resign in favor of you.
You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple G.P."
Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it. Then,
blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said:
"If you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I can tell
you in one word--nothing. Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac."
"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke, "this is mere laziness. Berkeley wants to
witness a display of your forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be in a
fog--he very often is--but he doesn't state the fact baldly; he wraps it
up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how you arrive at your
conclusion. Show us that you have really weighed the facts."
"Very well," said Jervis, "I will give you a masterly analysis of the
case--leading to nothing." He continued to puff at his pipe for a time
with slight embarrassment, as I thought--and I fully sympathized with
him. Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:
"The position appears to be this: Here is a man seen to enter a certain
house, who is shown into a certain room, and shut in. He is not seen to
come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found to be
empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or dead. That is a pretty
tough beginning.
"Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened. Either
he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house, alive; or
he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body have been
concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved. Let us take the
first case. This affair happened nearly two years ago. Now, he couldn't
have remained alive in the house for two years. He would have been
noticed. The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms, would
have observed him."
Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior: "My
learned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity. We accept
the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive."
"Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently not. The report
says that as soon as the man was missed, Hurst and the servants together
searched the house thoroughly. But there had been no time or opportunity
to dispose of the body, whence the only possible conclusion is that the
body was not there. Moreover, if we admit the possibility of his having
been murdered--for that is what concealment of the body would
imply--there is the question: 'Who could have murdered him?' Not the
servants, obviously, and as to Hurst--well, of course, we don't know what
his relations with the missing man may have been--at least, I don't."
"Neither do I," said Thorndyke. "I know nothing beyond what is in the
newspaper report and what Berkeley has told us."
"Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive for murdering the man or
he may not. The point is that he doesn't seem to have had the
opportunity. Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the body
temporarily, still there was the final disposal of it. He couldn't have
buried it in the garden with the servants about; neither could he have
burned it. The only conceivable method by which he could have got rid of
it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments and burying the
dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or
rivers. But no remains of the kind have been found, as some of them
probably would have been by now, so that there is nothing to support this
suggestion; indeed, the idea of murder, in this house at least, seems to
be excluded by the search that was made the instant the man was missed.
"Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave the house unobserved?
Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thing to do. He may
have been an impulsive or eccentric man. We can't say. We know nothing
about him. But two years have elapsed and he has never turned up, so
that if he left the house secretly he must have gone into hiding and be
hiding still. Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic who would
behave in that manner or he may not. We have no information as to his
personal character.
"Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up in the
grounds of his brother's house at Woodford. That seems to show that he
visited that house at some time. But no one admits having seen him
there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first to his
brother's house or to Hurst's. If he was wearing the scarab when he
arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that house unobserved and
gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it he probably went from
Woodford to Eltham, and there finally disappeared. As to whether he was
or was not wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by Hurst's
housemaid, there is at present no evidence.
"If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hurst, the
disappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flinging
accusations of murder about rather casually; for the disposal of the body
would be much less difficult in that case. Apparently no one saw him
enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back gate which
communicated with the library--a separate building some distance from the
house. In that case it would have been physically possible for the
Bellinghams to have made away with him. There was plenty of time to
dispose of the body unobserved--temporarily, at any rate. Nobody had
seen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there--if he was
there; and apparently no search was made either at the time or afterward.
In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man left Hurst's house
alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrived there, things
would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams--for, of course, the girl
must have been in it if the father was. But there's the crux: there is
no proof that the man ever did leave Hurst's house alive. And if he
didn't--but there! as I said at first, whichever turning you take, you
find that it ends in a blind alley."
"A lame ending to a masterly exposition," was Thorndyke's comment.
"I know," said Jervis. "But what would you have? There are quite a
number of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one. But
how are we to judge which it is? I maintain that until we know something
of the parties and the financial and other interests involved we have no
data."
"There," said Thorndyke, "I disagree with you entirely. I maintain that
we have ample data. You say that we have no means of judging which of
the various possible solutions is the true one; but I think that if you
read the report carefully and thoughtfully you will find that the facts
now known point to one explanation, and one only. It may not be the true
explanation, and I don't suppose it is. But we are now dealing with the
matter speculatively, academically, and I contend that our data yield a
definite conclusion. What do you say, Berkeley?"
"I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening consultations begin
at half-past six."
"Well," said Thorndyke, "don't let us keep you from your duties, with
poor Barnard currant picking in the Grecian Isles. But come in and see
us again. Drop in when you like after your work is done. You won't be
in our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eight
o'clock."
I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making me free of his chambers
in this hospitable fashion and took my leave, setting forth homeward by
way of Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a very direct route for
Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but our talk had revived my interest
in the Bellingham household and put me in a reflective vein.
From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard it was evident that
the plot was thickening. Not that I supposed that these two respectable
gentlemen really suspected one another of having made away with the
missing man; but still, their unguarded words, spoken in anger, made it
clear that each had allowed the thought of sinister possibilities to
enter his mind--a dangerous condition that might easily grow into actual
suspicion. And then the circumstances really were highly mysterious, as
I realized with especial vividness now after listening to my friend's
analysis of the evidence.
From the problem itself my mind traveled, not for the first time during
the last few days, to the handsome girl, who had seemed in my eyes the
high-priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court.
What a strange figure she had made against this strange background, with
her quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her pale face, so sad and worn,
her black, straight brows and solemn gray eyes, so inscrutable,
mysterious, Sibylline. A striking, even impressive, personality this, I
reflected, with something in it somber and enigmatic that attracted and
yet repelled.
And here I recalled Jervis's words: "The girl must have been in it if the
father was." It was a dreadful thought, even though only speculatively
uttered, and my heart rejected it; rejected it with indignation that
rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding that the somber
black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one that associated
itself with the idea of mystery and tragedy.