THE ACCUSING FINGER
Of my wanderings after I left the Museum on that black and dismal _dies
irae_, I have but a dim recollection. But I must have traveled a quite
considerable distance, since it wanted an hour or two to the time for
returning to the surgery, and I spent the interval walking swiftly
through streets and squares, unmindful of the happenings around, intent
only on my present misfortune, and driven by a natural impulse to seek
relief in bodily exertion. For mental distress sets up, as it were, a
sort of induced current of physical unrest; a beneficent arrangement,
by which a dangerous excess of emotional excitement may be transformed
into motor energy, and so safely got rid of. The motor apparatus acts
as a safety-valve to the psychical; and if the engine races for a
while, with the onset of a bodily fatigue the emotional pressure-gauge
returns to a normal reading.
And so it was with me. At first I was conscious of nothing but a sense
of utter bereavement, of the shipwreck of all my hopes. But, by
degrees, as I threaded my way among the moving crowds, I came to a
better and more worthy frame of mind. After all, I had lost nothing
that I had ever had. Ruth was still all that she had ever been to
me--perhaps even more; and if that had been a rich endowment yesterday,
why not to-day also? And how unfair it would be to her if I should
mope and grieve over a disappointment that was no fault of hers and for
which there was no remedy? Thus I reasoned with myself, and to such
purpose that, by the time I reached Fetter Lane, my dejection had come
to quite manageable proportions and I had formed the resolution to get
back to the _status quo ante bellum_ as soon as possible.
About eight o'clock, as I was sitting alone in the consulting-room,
gloomily persuading myself that I was now quite resigned to the
inevitable, Adolphus brought me a registered packet, at the handwriting
on which my heart gave such a bound that I had much ado to sign the
receipt. As soon as Adolphus had retired (with undissembled contempt
of the shaky signature) I tore open the packet, and as I drew out a
letter a tiny box dropped on the table.
The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over and over again
with the eagerness of a condemned man reading a reprieve:
"MY DEAR PAUL,
"_Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this afternoon, and leaving
you so unhappy, too. I am more sane and reasonable now, and so send
you greeting and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. It
is quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as you care for
me, never to speak of it again; never again to make me feel that I can
give you so little when you have given so much. And do not try to see
me for a little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will my
father, who is very fond of you; but it is better that we should not
meet, until we can take up our old relations--if that can ever be._
"_I am sending you a little keepsake in case we should drift apart on
the eddies of life. It is the ring that I told you about--the one that
my uncle gave me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you have a
small hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance of our friendship.
The device on it is the Eye of Osiris, a mystic symbol for which I have
a sentimentally superstitious affection, as also had my poor uncle, who
actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his breast. It signifies that
the great judge of the dead looks down on men to see that justice is
done and that truth prevails. So I commend you to the good Osiris; may
his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your welfare in the absence of_
"_Your affectionate friend,_
"RUTH."
It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried little comfort;
quiet and reticent like its writer, but with an undertone of affection.
I laid it down at length, and, taking the ring from its box, examined
it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintness and feeling of
the antique original, and, above all, it was fragrant with the spirit
of the giver. Dainty and delicate, wrought of silver and gold, with an
inlay of copper, I would not have exchanged it for the Koh-i-noor; and
when I had slipped it on my finger its tiny eye of blue enamel looked
up at me so friendly and companionable that I felt the glamour of the
old-world superstition stealing over me too.
Not a single patient came in this evening, which was well for me (and
also for the patient), as I was able forthwith to write in reply a long
letter; but this I shall spare the long-suffering reader excepting its
concluding paragraph:
"_And now, dearest, I have said my say; once for all I have said it,
and I will not open my mouth on the subject again (I am not actually
opening it now) 'until the times do alter.' And if the times do never
alter--if it shall come to pass, in due course, that we two shall sit
side by side, white-haired, and crinkly-nosed, and lean our poor old
chins upon our sticks and mumble and gibber amicably over the things
that might have been if the good Osiris had come up to the scratch--I
will still be content, because your friendship, Ruth, is better than
another woman's love. So you see, I have taken my gruel and come up to
time smiling--if you will pardon the pugilistic metaphor--and I promise
you loyally to do your bidding and never again to distress you._
"_Your faithful and loving friend,_
"PAUL."
This letter I addressed and stamped, and then, with a wry grimace which
I palmed off on myself (but not on Adolphus) as a cheerful smile, I
went out and dropped it into the post-box; after which I further
deluded myself by murmuring _Nunc dimittis_ and assuring myself that
the incident was now absolutely closed.
But despite this comfortable assurance I was, in the days that
followed, an exceedingly miserable young man. It is all very well to
write down troubles of this kind as trivial and sentimental. They are
nothing of the kind. When a man of essentially serious nature has
found the one woman of all the world who fulfils his highest ideals of
womanhood, who is, in fact, a woman in ten thousand, to whom he has
given all that he has to give of love and worship, the sudden wreck of
all his hopes is no small calamity. And so I found it. Resign myself
as I would to the bitter reality, the ghost of the might-have-been
haunted me night and day, so that I spent my leisure wandering
abstractedly about the streets, always trying to banish thought and
never for an instant succeeding. A great unrest was upon me; and when
I received a letter from Dick Barnard announcing his arrival at
Madeira, homeward bound, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no plans
for the future, but I longed to be rid of the now irksome, routine of
the practise--to be free to come and go when and how I pleased.
One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite my solitary
supper, there fell on me a sudden sense of loneliness. The desire that
I had hitherto felt to be alone with my own miserable reflections gave
place to a yearning for human companionship. That, indeed, which I
craved for most was forbidden, and I must abide by my lady's wishes;
but there were my friends in the Temple. It was more than a week since
I had seen them; in fact, we had not met since the morning of that
unhappiest day of my life. They would be wondering what had become of
me. I rose from the table, and having filled my pouch from a tin of
tobacco, set forth for King's Bench Walk.
As I approached the entry of No. 5A in the gathering darkness I met
Thorndyke himself emerging encumbered with two deck-chairs, a
reading-lantern, and a book.
"Why, Berkeley!" he exclaimed, "is it indeed thou? We have been
wondering what had become of you."
"It _is_ a long time since I looked you up," I admitted.
He scrutinized me attentively by the light of the entry lamp, and then
remarked: "Fetter Lane doesn't seem to be agreeing with you very well,
my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky."
"Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about ten
days. His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal and take in some
cargo, and then he is coming home. Where are you going with those
chairs?"
"I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by the railings. It's
cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will go and
fetch another chair for Jervis, though he won't be back for a little
while." He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a third
chair, and we carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner of the
Walk.
"So your term of servitude is coming to an end," said he, when we had
placed the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. "Any other
news?"
"No. Have you any?"
"I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negative
results. There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it
all seems to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move
without something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmation
or otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item of evidence."
"I didn't know there was any evidence."
"Didn't you?" said Thorndyke. "But you know as much as I know. You
have all the essential facts; but apparently you haven't collated them
and extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found them
curiously significant."
"I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is?"
"No, I think not. When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to
nobody--not even to Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has
been no leakage. Don't think I distrust you. Remember that my
thoughts are my client's property, and that the essence of strategy is
to keep the enemy in the dark."
"Yes, I see that. Of course I ought not to have asked."
"You ought not to need to ask," Thorndyke replied, with a smile; "you
should put the facts together and reason from them yourself."
While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me
inquisitively from time to time. Now after an interval of silence, he
asked suddenly:
"Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends'
affairs?"
"No, not particularly; though their prospects don't look very rosy."
"Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look," said he. "But I am
afraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to have
evaporated." He paused for a few moments, and then added: "I don't
want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by
advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are
my academic offspring."
Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began to mumble a
half-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped. After all, why should
I not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of human
sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his
professional capacity. And I wanted a friend badly just now.
"I'm afraid," I began shyly, "it is not a matter that admits of much
help, and it's hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by
talking about----"
"If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough to
merit serious consideration by your friend; so if you don't mind
telling me----"
"Of course I don't, sir!" I exclaimed.
"Then fire away; and don't call me 'sir.' We are brother practitioners
now."
Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little romance; bashfully
at first and with halting phrases, but later, with more freedom and
confidence. He listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a
question when my narrative became a little disconnected. When I had
finished he laid his hand softly on my arm.
"You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don't wonder that you are
miserable. I am more sorry than I can tell you."
"Thank you," I said. "It's exceedingly good of you to listen so
patiently, but it's a shame for me to pester you with my sentimental
troubles."
"Now, Berkeley, you don't think that, and I hope you don't think that I
do. We should be bad biologists and worse physicians if we should
underestimate the importance of that which is nature's chiefest care.
The one salient biological truth is the paramount importance of sex;
and we are deaf and blind if we do not hear and see it in everything
that lives when we look abroad upon the world; when we listen to the
spring song of the birds, or when we consider the lilies of the field.
And as is man to the lower organisms, so is human love to their merely
reflex manifestations of sex. I will maintain, and you will agree with
me, I know, that the love of a serious and honorable man for a woman
who is worthy of him is the most momentous of all human affairs. It is
the foundation of social life, and its failure is a serious calamity,
not only to those whose lives may be thereby spoilt, but to society at
large."
"It's a serious enough matter for the parties concerned," I agreed;
"but that is no reason why they should bore their friends."
"But they don't. Friends should help one another and think it a
privilege."
"Oh, I shouldn't mind coming to you for help, knowing you as I do. But
no one can help a poor devil in a case like this--and certainly not a
medical jurist."
"Oh, come, Berkeley!" he protested, "don't rate us too low. The
humblest of creatures has its uses--'even the little pismire,' you
know, as Izaak Walton tells us. Why, I have got substantial help from
a stamp-collector. And then reflect upon the motor-scorcher and the
earthworm and the blow-fly. All these lowly creatures play their parts
in the scheme of nature; and shall we cast out the medical jurist as
nothing worth?"
I laughed dejectedly at my teacher's genial irony.
"What I meant," said I, "was that there is nothing to be done but
wait--perhaps for ever. I don't know why she isn't able to marry me,
and I mustn't ask her. She can't be married already."
"Certainly not. She told you explicitly that there was no man in the
case."
"Exactly. And I can think of no other valid reason, excepting that she
doesn't care enough for me. That would be a perfectly sound reason,
but then it would only be a temporary one, not the insuperable obstacle
that she assumes to exist, especially as we really got on excellently
together. I hope it isn't some confounded perverse feminine scruple.
I don't see how it could be; but women are most frightfully tortuous
and wrong-headed at times."
"I don't see," said Thorndyke, "why we should cast about for perversely
abnormal motives when there is a perfectly reasonable explanation
staring us in the face."
"Is there?" I exclaimed. "I see none."
"You are, not unnaturally, overlooking some of the circumstances that
affect Miss Bellingham; but I don't suppose she has failed to grasp
their meaning. Do you realize what her position really is? I mean
with regard to her uncle's disappearance?"
"I don't think I quite understand you."
"Well, there is no use in blinking the facts," said Thorndyke. "The
position is this: if John Bellingham ever went to his brother's house
at Woodford, it is nearly certain that he went there after his visit to
Hurst. Mind, I say '_if_ he went'; I don't say that I believe he did.
But it is stated that he appears to have gone there; and if he did go,
he was never seen alive afterward. Now, he did not go in at the front
door. No one saw him enter the house. But there was a back gate,
which John Bellingham knew, and which had a bell which rang in the
library. And you will remember that, when Hurst and Jellicoe called,
Mr. Bellingham had only just come in. Previous to that time Miss
Bellingham had been alone in the library; that is to say, she was alone
in the library at the very time when John Bellingham is said to have
made his visit. That is the position, Berkeley. Nothing pointed has
been said up to the present. But, sooner or later, if John Bellingham
is not found, dead or alive, the question will be opened. Then it is
certain that Hurst, in self-defense, will make the most of any facts
that may transfer suspicion from him to some one else. And that some
one else will be Miss Bellingham."
I sat for some moments literally paralyzed with horror. Then my dismay
gave place to indignation. "But damn it!" I exclaimed, starting up--"I
beg your pardon--but could anyone have the infernal audacity to
insinuate that that gentle, refined lady murdered her uncle?"
"That is what will be hinted, if not plainly asserted; and she knows
it. And that being so, is it difficult to understand why she should
refuse to allow you to be publicly associated with her? To run the
risk of dragging your honorable name into the sordid transactions of
the police-court or the Old Bailey? To invest it, perhaps, with a
dreadful notoriety?"
"Oh, don't! for God's sake! It is too horrible! Not that I would care
for myself. I would be proud to share her martyrdom of ignominy, if it
had to be; but it is the sacrilege, the blasphemy of even thinking of
her in such terms that enrages me."
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "I understand and sympathize with you. Indeed,
I share your righteous indignation at this dastardly affair. So you
mustn't think me brutal for putting the case so plainly."
"I don't. You have only shown me the danger that I was fool enough not
to see. But you seem to imply that this hideous position has been
brought about deliberately."
"Certainly I do! This is no chance affair. Either the appearances
indicate the real events--which I am sure they do not--or they have
been created of a set purpose to lead to false conclusions. But the
circumstances convince me that there has been a deliberate plot; and I
am waiting--in no spirit of Christian patience, I can tell you--to lay
my hand on the wretch who has done this."
"What are you waiting for?" I asked.
"I am waiting for the inevitable," he replied; "for the false move that
the most artful criminal invariably makes. At present he is lying low;
but presently he will make a move, and then I shall have him."
"But he may go on lying low. What will you do then?"
"Yes, that is the danger. We may have to deal with the perfect villain
who knows when to leave well alone. I have never met him, but he may
exist, nevertheless."
"And then we should have to stand by and see our friends go under."
"Perhaps," said Thorndyke; and we both subsided into gloomy and silent
reflection.
The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London can be.
Occasional hoots from far-away tugs and steamers told of the busy life
down below in the crowded Pool. A faint hum of traffic was borne in
from the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices of
newspaper boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction of Carmelite
Street. They were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the
excited yells, toned down as they were by distance, nevertheless
stirred the very marrow in my bones, so dreadfully suggestive were they
of those possibilities of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted.
They seemed like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes.
Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke's
mind, for he remarked presently:
"The newsvendor is abroad to-night like a bird of ill-omen. Something
unusual has happened; some public or private calamity, most likely, and
these yelling ghouls are out to feast on the remains. The newspaper
men have a good deal in common with the carrion-birds that hover over a
battle-field."
Again we subsided into silence and reflection. Then, after an
interval, I asked:
"Would it be possible for me to help in any way in this investigation
of yours?"
"That is exactly what I have been asking myself," replied Thorndyke.
"It would be right and proper that you should, and I think you might."
"How?" I asked eagerly.
"I can't say offhand; but Jervis will be going away for his holiday
almost at once--in fact, he will go off actual duty to-night. There is
very little doing; the long vacation is close upon us, and I can do
without him. But if you would care to come down here and take his
place, you would be very useful to me; and if there should be anything
to be done in the Bellinghams' case, I am sure you would make up in
enthusiasm for any deficiency in experience."
"I couldn't really take Jervis's place," said I, "but if you would let
me help you in any way it would be a great kindness. I would rather
clean your boots than be out of it altogether."
"Very well. Let us leave it that you come here as soon as Barnard has
done with you. You can have Jervis's room, which he doesn't often use
nowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know. I
may as well give you my latch-key now. I have a duplicate upstairs,
and you understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment."
He handed me the latch-key and I thanked him warmly from my heart, for
I felt sure that the suggestion was made, not for any use that I should
be to him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly finished
speaking when a quick step on the paved walk caught my ear.
"Here is Jervis," said Thorndyke. "We will let him know that there is
a locum tenens ready to step into his shoes when he wants to be off."
He flashed the lantern across the path, and a few moments later his
junior stepped up briskly with a bundle of newspapers tucked under his
arm.
It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly when he
recognized me in the dim light; also he was a trifle constrained in his
manner, as if my presence were an embarrassment. He listened to
Thorndyke's announcement of our newly made arrangement without much
enthusiasm and with none of his customary facetious comments. And
again I noticed a quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, and
wholly puzzling to me.
"That's all right," he said when Thorndyke had explained the situation.
"I daresay you'll find Berkeley as useful as me, and, in any case,
he'll be better here than staying on with Barnard." He spoke with
unwonted gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude for me that
attracted my notice and that of Thorndyke as well, for the latter
looked at him curiously, though he made no comment. After a short
silence, however, he asked: "And what news does my learned brother
bring? There is a mighty shouting among the outer barbarians and I see
a bundle of newspapers under my learned friend's arm. Has anything in
particular happened?"
Jervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Well--yes," he replied
hesitatingly, "something has happened--there! It's no use beating
about the bush; Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from those
yelling devils outside." He took a couple of papers from his bundle
and silently handed one to me and the other to Thorndyke.
Jervis's ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed me not a little. I
opened the paper with a nameless dread. But whatever my vague fears,
they fell far short of the occasion; and when I saw those yells from
without crystallized into scare head-lines and flaming capitals I
turned for a moment sick and dizzy with fear.
The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it through in less than
a minute.
"THE MISSING FINGER
"DRAMATIC DISCOVERY AT WOODFORD
"The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a mutilated human body,
portions of which have been found in various places in Kent and Essex,
has received a partial and very sinister solution. The police have,
all along, suspected that those remains were those of a Mr. John
Bellingham who disappeared under circumstances of some suspicion about
two years ago. There is now no doubt upon the subject, for the finger
which was missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup has been
discovered at the bottom of a disused well _together with a ring_,
which has been identified as one habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham.
"The house in the garden of which the well is situated was the property
of the murdered man, and was occupied at the time of the disappearance
by his brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latter left it very
soon after, and it has been empty ever since. Just lately it has been
put in repair, and it was in this way that the well came to be emptied
and cleaned out. It seems that Detective-Inspector Badger, who was
searching the neighborhood for further remains, heard of the emptying
of the well and went down in the bucket to examine the bottom, where he
found the three bones and the ring.
"Thus the identity of the body is established beyond all doubt, and the
question that remains is, Who killed John Bellingham? It may be
remembered that a trinket, apparently broken from his watch-chain, was
found in the grounds of this house on the day that he disappeared, and
that he was never again seen alive. What may be the import of these
facts time will show."
That was all; but it was enough. I dropped the paper to the ground and
glanced round furtively at Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toes
of his boots. It was horrible! It was incredible! The blow was so
crushing that it left my faculties numb, and for a while I seemed
unable even to think intelligibly.
I was aroused by Thorndyke's voice--calm, business-like, composed:
"Time will show, indeed! But meanwhile we must go warily. And don't
be unduly alarmed, Berkeley. Go home, take a good dose of bromide with
a little stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been rather a
shock to you."
I rose from my chair like one in a dream and held out my hand to
Thorndyke; and even in the dim light and in my dazed condition I
noticed that his face bore a look that I had never seen before; the
look of a granite mask of Fate--grim, stern, inexorable.
My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway at the top of Inner
Temple Lane, and as we reached the entry a stranger, coming quickly up
the Lane, overtook and passed us. In the glare of the lamp outside the
porter's lodge he looked at us quickly over his shoulder, and though he
passed on without halt or greeting, I recognized him with a certain
dull surprise which I did not understand then and do not understand
now. It was Mr. Jellicoe.
I shook hands once more with my friends and strode out into Fleet
Street, but as soon as I was outside the gate I made direct for
Nevill's Court. What was in my mind I do not know; only that some
instinct of protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious of
the hideous menace that hung over her. At the entrance to the Court a
tall, powerful man was lounging against the wall, and he seemed to look
at me curiously as I passed; but I hardly noticed him and strode
forward into the narrow passage. By the shabby gateway of the house I
halted and looked up at such of the windows as I could see over the
wall. They were all dark. All the inmates, then, were in bed.
Vaguely comforted by this, I walked on to the New Street end of the
Court and looked out. Here, too, a man--a tall, thick-set man--was
loitering; and as he looked inquisitively into my face I turned and
reentered the Court, slowly retracing my steps. As I again reached the
gate of the house I stopped to look once more at the windows, and
turning I found the man whom I had last noticed close behind me. Then,
in a flash of dreadful comprehension, I understood. These two were
plainclothes policemen.
For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane impulse urged me to
give battle to this intruder; to avenge upon this person the insult of
his presence. Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and I
recovered myself without making any demonstration. But the appearance
of those two policemen brought the peril into the immediate present,
imparted to it a horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood on
my forehead, and my ears were ringing when I walked with faltering
steps out into Fetter Lane.