RIVAL SLEUTH-HOUNDS
(_Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D._)
The half-hour that follows breakfast, when the fire has, so to speak,
got into its stride, and the morning pipe throws up its clouds of
incense, is, perhaps, the most agreeable in the whole day. Especially
so when a sombre sky, brooding over the town, hints at streets
pervaded by the chilly morning air, and hoots from protesting tugs
upon the river tell of lingering mists, the legacy of the
lately-vanished night.
The autumn morning was raw: the fire burned jovially. I thrust my
slippered feet towards the blaze and meditated, on nothing in
particular, with catlike enjoyment. Presently a disapproving grunt
from Thorndyke attracted my attention, and I looked round lazily. He
was extracting, with a pair of office shears, the readable portions
of the morning paper, and had paused with a small cutting between his
finger and thumb. “Bloodhounds again,” said he. “We shall be hearing
presently of the revival of the ordeal by fire.”
“And a deuced comfortable ordeal, too, on a morning like this,” I
said, stroking my legs ecstatically. “What is the case?”
He was about to reply when a sharp rat-tat from the little brass
knocker announced a disturber of our peace. Thorndyke stepped over to
the door and admitted a police inspector in uniform, and I stood up,
and, presenting my dorsal aspect to the fire, prepared to combine
bodily comfort with attention to business.
“I believe I am speaking to Dr. Thorndyke,” said the officer, and, as
Thorndyke nodded, he went on: “My name, sir, is Fox, Inspector Fox of
the Baysford Police. Perhaps you’ve seen the morning paper?”
Thorndyke held up the cutting, and, placing a chair by the fire,
asked the inspector if he had breakfasted.
“Thank you, sir, I have,” replied Inspector Fox. “I came up to town
by the late train last night so as to be here early, and stayed at an
hotel. You see, from the paper, that we have had to arrest one of our
own men. That’s rather awkward, you know, sir.”
“Very,” agreed Thorndyke.
“Yes; it’s bad for the force and bad for the public too. But we had
to do it. There was no way out that we could see. Still, we should
like the accused to have every chance, both for our sake and his own,
so the chief constable thought he’d like to have your opinion on the
case, and he thought that, perhaps, you might be willing to act for
the defence.”
“Let us have the particulars,” said Thorndyke, taking a writing-pad
from a drawer and dropping into his armchair. “Begin at the
beginning,” he added, “and tell us all you know.”
“Well,” said the inspector, after a preliminary cough, “to begin with
the murdered man: his name is Pratt. He was a retired prison warder,
and was employed as steward by General O’Gorman, who is a retired
prison governor--you may have heard of him in connection with his
pack of blood hounds. Well, Pratt came down from London yesterday
evening by a train arriving at Baysford at six-thirty. He was seen by
the guard, the ticket collector and the outside porter. The porter
saw him leave the station at six-thirty-seven. General O’Gorman’s
house is about half-a-mile from the station. At five minutes to seven
the general and a gentleman named Hanford and the general’s
housekeeper, a Mrs. Parton, found Pratt lying dead in the avenue that
leads up to the house. He had apparently been stabbed, for there was
a lot of blood about, and a knife--a Norwegian knife--was lying on
the ground near the body. Mrs. Parton had thought she heard some one
in the avenue calling out for help, and, as Pratt was just due, she
came out with a lantern. She met the general and Mr. Hanford, and all
three seem to have caught sight of the body at the same moment. Mr.
Hanford cycled down to us, at once, with the news; we sent for a
doctor, and I went back with Mr. Hanford and took a sergeant with me.
We arrived at twelve minutes past seven, and then the general, who
had galloped his horse over the meadows each side of the avenue
without having seen anybody, fetched out his bloodhounds and led them
up to the knife. All three hounds took up the scent at once--I held
the leash of one of them--and they took us across the meadows without
a pause or a falter, over stiles and fences, along a lane, out into
the town, and then, one after the other, they crossed the road in a
bee-line to the police station, bolted in at the door, which stood
open, and made straight for the desk, where a supernumerary officer,
named Ellis, was writing. They made a rare to-do, struggling to get
at him, and it was as much as we could manage to hold them back. As
for Ellis, he turned as pale as a ghost.”
“Was any one else in the room?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. There were two constables and a messenger. We led the
hounds up to them, but the brutes wouldn’t take any notice of them.
They wanted Ellis.”
“And what did you do?”
“Why, we arrested Ellis, of course. Couldn’t do anything
else--especially with the general there.”
“What had the general to do with it?” asked Thorndyke.
“He’s a J.P. and a late governor of Dartmoor, and it was his hounds
that had run the man down. But we must have arrested Ellis in any
case.”
“Is there anything against the accused man?”
“Yes, there is. He and Pratt were on distinctly unfriendly terms.
They were old comrades, for Ellis was in the Civil Guard at Portland
when Pratt was warder there--he was pensioned off from the service
because he got his left forefinger chopped off--but lately they had
had some unpleasantness about a woman, a parlourmaid of the
general’s. It seems that Ellis, who is a married man, paid the girl
too much attention--or Pratt thought he did--and Pratt warned Ellis
off the premises. Since then they had not been on speaking terms.”
“And what sort of a man is Ellis?”
“A remarkably decent fellow he always seemed; quiet, steady,
good-natured; I should have said he wouldn’t have hurt a fly. We all
liked him--better than we liked Pratt, in fact; poor Pratt was what
you’d call an old soldier--sly, you know, sir--and a bit of a sneak.”
“You searched and examined Ellis, of course?”
“Yes. There was nothing suspicious about him except that he had two
purses. But he says he picked up one of them--a small, pigskin
pouch--on the footpath of the Thorpe road yesterday afternoon; and
there’s no reason to disbelieve him. At any rate, the purse was not
Pratt’s.”
Thorndyke made a note on his pad, and then asked: “There were no
bloodstains or marks on his clothing?”
“No. His clothing was not marked or disarranged in any way.”
“Any cuts, scratches or bruises on his person?”
“None whatever,” replied the inspector.
“At what time did you arrest Ellis?”
“Half-past seven exactly.”
“Have you ascertained what his movements were? Had he been near the
scene of the murder?”
“Yes; he had been to Thorpe and would pass the gates of the avenue on
his way back. And he was later than usual in returning, though not
later than he has often been before.”
“And now, as to the murdered man: has the body been examined?”
“Yes; I had Dr. Hills’s report before I left. There were no less than
seven deep knife-wounds, all on the left side of the back. There was
a great deal of blood on the ground, and Dr. Hills thinks Pratt must
have bled to death in a minute or two.”
“Do the wounds correspond with the knife that was found?”
“I asked the doctor that, and he said ‘Yes,’ though he wasn’t going
to swear to any particular knife. However, that point isn’t of much
importance. The knife was covered with blood, and it was found close
to the body.”
“What has been done with it, by the way?” asked Thorndyke.
“The sergeant who was with me picked it up and rolled it in his
handkerchief to carry in his pocket. I took it from him, just as it
was, and locked it in a dispatch-box.”
“Has the knife been recognized as Ellis’s property?”
“No, sir, it has not.”
“Were there any recognizable footprints or marks of a struggle?”
Thorndyke asked.
The inspector grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t examined the spot, of
course, sir,” said he, “but, after the general’s horse and the
bloodhounds and the general on foot and me and the gardener and the
sergeant and Mr. Hanford had been over it twice, going and returning,
why, you see, sir----
“Exactly, exactly,” said Thorndyke. “Well, inspector, I shall be
pleased to act for the defence; it seems to me that the case against
Ellis is in some respects rather inconclusive.”
The inspector was frankly amazed. “It certainly hadn’t struck me in
that light, sir,” he said.
“No? Well, that is my view; and I think the best plan will be for me
to come down with you and investigate matters on the spot.”
The inspector assented cheerfully, and, when we had provided him with
a newspaper, we withdrew to the laboratory to consult time-tables and
prepare for the expedition.
“You are coming, I suppose, Jervis?” said Thorndyke.
“If I shall be of any use,” I replied.
“Of course you will,” said he. “Two heads are better than one, and,
by the look of things, I should say that ours will be the only ones
with any sense in them. We will take the research case, of course,
and we may as well have a camera with us. I see there is a train from
Charing Cross in twenty minutes.”
For the first half-hour of the journey Thorndyke sat in his corner,
alternately conning over his notes and gazing with thoughtful eyes
out of the window. I could see that the case pleased him, and was
careful not to break in upon his train of thought. Presently,
however, he put away his notes and began to fill his pipe with a more
companionable air, and then the inspector, who had been wriggling
with impatience, opened fire.
“So you think, sir, that you see a way out for Ellis?”
“I think there is a case for the defence,” replied Thorndyke. “In
fact, I call the evidence against him rather flimsy.”
The inspector gasped. “But the knife, sir? What about the knife?”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “what about the knife? Whose knife was it?
You don’t know. It was covered with blood. Whose blood? You don’t
know. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that it was the
murderer’s knife. Then the blood on it was Pratt’s blood. But if it
was Pratt’s blood, when the hounds had smelt it they should have led
you to Pratt’s body, for blood gives a very strong scent. But they
did not. They ignored the body. The inference seems to be that the
blood on the knife was not Pratt’s blood.”
The inspector took off his cap and gently scratched the back of his
head. “You’re perfectly right, sir,” he said. “I’d never thought of
that. None of us had.”
“Then,” pursued Thorndyke, “let us assume that the knife was Pratt’s.
If so, it would seem to have been used in self-defence. But this was
a Norwegian knife, a clumsy tool--not a weapon at all--which takes an
appreciable time to open and requires the use of two free hands. Now,
had Pratt both hands free? Certainly not after the attack had
commenced. There were seven wounds, all on the left side of the back;
which indicates that he held the murderer locked in his arms and that
the murderer’s arms were around him. Also, incidentally, that the
murderer is right-handed. But, still, let us assume that the knife
was Pratt’s. Then the blood on it was that of the murderer. Then the
murderer must have been wounded. But Ellis was not wounded. Then
Ellis is not the murderer. The knife doesn’t help us at all.”
The inspector puffed out his cheeks and blew softly. “This is getting
out of my depth,” he said. “Still, sir, you can’t get over the
bloodhounds. They tell us distinctly that the knife is Ellis’s knife
and I don’t see any answer to that.”
“There is no answer because there has been no statement. The
bloodhounds have told you nothing. You have drawn certain inferences
from their actions, but those inferences may be totally wrong and
they are certainly not evidence.”
“You don’t seem to have much opinion of bloodhounds,” the inspector
remarked.
“As agents for the detection of crime,” replied Thorndyke, “I regard
them as useless. You cannot put a bloodhound in the witness-box. You
can get no intelligible statement from it. If it possesses any
knowledge, it has no means of communicating it. The fact is,” he
continued, “that the entire system of using bloodhounds for criminal
detection is based on a fallacy. In the American plantations these
animals were used with great success for tracking runaway slaves. But
the slave was a known individual. All that was required was to
ascertain his whereabouts. That is not the problem that is presented
in the detection of a crime. The detective is not concerned in
establishing the whereabouts of a known individual, but in
discovering the identity of an unknown individual. And for this
purpose bloodhounds are useless. They may discover such identity, but
they cannot communicate their knowledge. If the criminal is unknown
they cannot identify him: if he is known, the police have no need of
the bloodhound.
“To return to our present case,” Thorndyke resumed, after a pause;
“we have employed certain agents--the hounds--with whom we are not
_en rapport_, as the spiritualists would say; and we have no
‘medium.’ The hound possesses a special sense--the olfactory--which
in man is quite rudimentary. He thinks, so to speak, in terms of
smell, and his thoughts are untranslatable to beings in whom the
sense of smell is undeveloped. We have presented to the hound a
knife, and he discovers in it certain odorous properties; he
discovers similar or related odorous properties in a tract of land
and a human individual--Ellis. We cannot verify his discoveries or
ascertain their nature. What remains? All that we can say is that
there appears to exist some odorous relation between the knife and
the man Ellis. But until we can ascertain the nature of that
relation, we cannot estimate its evidential value or bearing. All the
other ‘evidence’ is the product of your imagination and that of the
general. There is, at present, no case against Ellis.”
“He must have been pretty close to the place when the murder
happened,” said the inspector.
“So, probably, were many other people,” answered Thorndyke; “but had
he time to wash and change? Because he would have needed it.”
“I suppose he would,” the inspector agreed dubiously.
“Undoubtedly. There were seven wounds which would have taken some
time to inflict. Now we can’t suppose that Pratt stood passively
while the other man stabbed him--indeed, as I have said, the position
of the wounds shows that he did not. There was a struggle. The two
men were locked together. One of the murderer’s hands was against
Pratt’s back; probably both hands were, one clasping and the other
stabbing. There must have been blood on one hand and probably on
both. But you say there was no blood on Ellis, and there doesn’t seem
to have been time or opportunity for him to wash.”
“Well, it’s a mysterious affair,” said the inspector; “but I don’t
see how you are going to get over the bloodhounds.”
Thorndyke shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “The bloodhounds are an
obsession,” he said. “The whole problem really centres around the
knife. The questions are, Whose knife was it? and what was the
connection between it and Ellis? There is a problem, Jervis,” he
continued, turning to me, “that I submit for your consideration. Some
of the possible solutions are exceedingly curious.”
As we set out from Baysford station, Thorndyke looked at his watch
and noted the time. “You will take us the way that Pratt went,” he
said.
“As to that,” said the inspector, “he may have gone by the road or by
the footpath; but there’s very little difference in the distance.”
Turning away from Baysford, we walked along the road westward,
towards the village of Thorpe, and presently passed on our right a
stile at the entrance to a footpath.
“That path,” said the inspector, “crosses the avenue about half-way
up. But we’d better keep to the road.” A quarter of a mile further on
we came to a pair of rusty iron gates one of which stood open, and,
entering, we found ourselves in a broad drive bordered by two rows of
trees, between the trunks of which a long stretch of pasture meadows
could be seen on either hand. It was a fine avenue, and, late in the
year as it was, the yellowing foliage clustered thickly overhead.
When we had walked about a hundred and fifty yards from the gates,
the inspector halted.
“This is the place,” he said; and Thorndyke again noted the time.
“Nine minutes exactly,” said he. “Then Pratt arrived here about
fourteen minutes to seven, and his body was found at five minutes to
seven--nine minutes after his arrival. The murderer couldn’t have
been far away then.”
“No, it was a pretty fresh scent,” replied the inspector. “You’d like
to see the body first, I think you said, sir?”
“Yes; and the knife, if you please.”
“I shall have to send down to the station for that. It’s locked up in
the office.”
He entered the house, and, having dispatched a messenger to the
police station, came out and conducted us to the outbuilding where
the corpse had been deposited. Thorndyke made a rapid examination of
the wounds and the holes in the clothing, neither of which presented
anything particularly suggestive. The weapon used had evidently been
a thick-backed, single-edged knife similar to the one described, and
the discolouration around the wounds indicated that the weapon had a
definite shoulder like that of a Norwegian knife, and that it had
been driven in with savage violence.
“Do you find anything that throws any light on the case?” the
inspector asked, when the examination was concluded.
“That is impossible to say until we have seen the knife,” replied
Thorndyke; “but while we are waiting for it, we may as well go and
look at the scene of the tragedy. These are Pratt’s boots, I think?”
He lifted a pair of stout laced boots from the table and turned them
up to inspect the soles.
“Yes, those are his boots,” replied Fox, “and pretty easy they’d have
been to track, if the case had been the other way about. Those
Blakey’s protectors are as good as a trademark.”
“We’ll take them, at any rate,” said Thorndyke; and, the inspector
having taken the boots from him, we went out and retraced our steps
down the avenue.
The place where the murder had occurred was easily identified by a
large dark stain on the gravel at one side of the drive, half-way
between two trees--an ancient pollard hornbeam and an elm. Next to
the elm was a pollard oak with a squat, warty bole about seven feet
high, and three enormous limbs, of which one slanted half-way across
the avenue; and between these two trees the ground was covered with
the tracks of men and hounds superimposed upon the hoof-prints of a
horse.
“Where was the knife found?” Thorndyke asked.
The inspector indicated a spot near the middle of the drive, almost
opposite the hornbeam and Thorndyke, picking up a large stone, laid
it on the spot. Then he surveyed the Scene thoughtfully, looking up
and down the drive and at the trees that bordered it, and, finally,
walked slowly to the space between the elm and the oak, scanning the
ground as he went. “There is no dearth of footprints,” he remarked
grimly, as he looked down at the trampled earth.
“No, but the question is, whose are they?” said the inspector.
“Yes, that is the question,” agreed Thorndyke; “and we will begin the
solution by identifying those of Pratt.”
“I don’t see how that will help us,” said the inspector. “We know he
was here.”
Thorndyke looked at him in surprise, and I must confess that the
foolish remark astonished me too, accustomed as I was to the
quick-witted officers from Scotland Yard.
“The hue and cry procession,” remarked Thorndyke, “seems to have
passed out between the elm and the oak; elsewhere the ground seems
pretty clear.” He walked round the elm, still looking earnestly at
the ground, and presently continued: “Now here, in the soft earth
bordering the turf, are the prints of a pair of smallish feet wearing
pointed boots; a rather short man, evidently, by the size of foot and
length of stride, and he doesn’t seem to have belonged to the
procession. But I don’t see any of Pratt’s; he doesn’t seem to have
come off the hard gravel.” He continued to walk slowly towards the
hornbeam with his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly he halted and
stooped with an eager look at the earth; and, as Fox and I
approached, he stood up and pointed. “Pratt’s footprints--faint and
fragmentary, but unmistakable. And now, inspector, you see their
importance. They furnish the time factor in respect of the other foot
prints. Look at this one and then look at that.” He pointed from one
to another of the faint impressions of the dead man’s foot.
“You mean that there are signs of a struggle?” said Fox.
“I mean more than that,” replied Thorndyke. “Here is one of Pratt’s
footprints treading into the print of a small, pointed foot; and
there at the edge of the gravel is another of Pratt’s nearly
obliterated by the tread of a pointed foot. Obviously the first
pointed footprint was made before Pratt’s, and the second one after
his; and the necessary inference is that the owner of the pointed
foot was here at the same time as Pratt.”
“Then he must have been the murderer!” exclaimed Fox.
“Presumably,” answered Thorndyke; “but let us see whither he went.
You notice, in the first place, that the man stood close to this
tree”--he indicated the hornbeam--“and that he went towards the elm.
Let us follow him. He passes the elm, you see, and you will observe
that these tracks form a regular series leading from the hornbeam and
not mixed up with the marks of the struggle. They were, therefore,
probably made after the murder had been perpetrated. You will also
notice that they pass along the backs of the trees--outside the
avenue, that is; what does that suggest to you?”
“It suggests to me,” I said, when the inspector had shaken his head
hopelessly, “that there was possibly some one in the avenue when the
man was stealing off.”
“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “The body was found not more than nine
minutes after Pratt arrived here. But the murder must have taken some
time. Then the housekeeper thought she heard some one calling and
came out with a lantern, and, at the same time, the general and Mr.
Hanford came up the drive. The suggestion is that the man sneaked
along outside the trees to avoid being seen. However, let us follow
the tracks. They pass the elm and they pass on behind the next tree;
but wait! There is something odd here.” He passed behind the great
pollard oak and looked down at the soft earth by its roots. “Here is
a pair of impressions much deeper than the rest, and they are not a
part of the track since their toes point towards the tree. What do
you make of that?” Without waiting for an answer he began closely to
scan the bole of the tree and especially a large, warty protuberance
about three feet from the ground. On the bark above this was a
vertical mark, as if something had scraped down the tree, and from
the wart itself a dead twig had been newly broken off and lay upon
the ground. Pointing to these marks Thorndyke set his foot on the
protuberance, and, springing up, brought his eye above the level of
the crown, whence the great boughs branched off.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here is something much more definite.” With the
aid of another projection, he scrambled up into the crown of the
tree, and, having glanced quickly round, beckoned to us. I stepped up
on the projecting lump and, as my eyes rose above the crown, I
perceived the brown, shiny impression of a hand on the edge. Climbing
into the crown, I was quickly followed by the inspector, and we both
stood up by Thorndyke between the three boughs. From where we stood
we looked on the upper side of the great limb that swept out across
the avenue; and there on its lichen-covered surface, we saw the
imprints in reddish-brown of a pair of open hands.
“You notice,” said Thorndyke, leaning out upon the bough, “that he is
a short man; I cannot conveniently place my hands so low. You also
note that he has both forefingers intact, and so is certainly not
Ellis.”
“If you mean to say, sir, that these marks were made by the
murderer,” said Fox, “I say it’s impossible. Why, that would mean
that he was here looking down at us when we were searching for him
with the hounds. The presence of the hounds proves that this man
could not have been the murderer.”
“On the contrary,” said Thorndyke, “the presence of this man with
bloody hands confirms the other evidence, which all indicates that
the hounds were never on the murderer’s trail at all. Come now,
inspector, I put it to you: Here is a murdered man; the murderer has
almost certainly blood upon his hands; and here is a man with bloody
hands, lurking in a tree within a few feet of the corpse and within a
few minutes of its discovery (as is shown by the footprints); what
are the reasonable probabilities?”
“But you are forgetting the bloodhounds, sir, and the murderer’s
knife,” urged the inspector.
“Tut, tut, man!” exclaimed Thorndyke; “those blood hounds are a
positive obsession. But I see a sergeant coming up the drive, with
the knife, I hope. Perhaps that will solve the riddle for us.”
The sergeant, who carried a small dispatch-box, halted opposite the
tree in some surprise while we descended, when he came forward with a
military salute and handed the box to the inspector, who forthwith
unlocked it, and, opening the lid, displayed an object wrapped in a
pocket-handkerchief.
“There is the knife, sir,” said he, “just as I received it. The
handkerchief is the sergeant’s.”
Thorndyke unrolled the handkerchief and took from it a large-sized
Norwegian knife, which he looked at critically and then handed to me.
While I was inspecting the blade, he, shook out the handkerchief and,
having looked it over on both sides, turned to the sergeant.
“At what time did you pick up this knife?” he asked.
“About seven-fifteen, sir; directly after the hounds had started. I
was careful to pick it up by the ring, and I wrapped it in the
handkerchief at once.”
“Seven-fifteen,” said Thorndyke. “Less than half-an-hour after the
murder. That is very singular. Do you observe the state of this
handkerchief? There is not a mark on it. Not a trace of any
bloodstain; which proves that when the knife was picked up, the blood
on it was already dry. But things dry slowly, if they dry at all, in
the saturated air of an autumn evening. The appearances seem to
suggest that the blood on the knife was dry when it was thrown down.
By the way, sergeant, what do you scent your handkerchief with?’”
“Scent, sir!” exclaimed the astonished officer in indignant accents;
“me scent my handkerchief! No, sir, certainly not. Never used scent
in my life, sir.”
Thorndyke held out the handkerchief, and the sergeant Sniffed at it
incredulously. “It certainly does seem to smell of scent,” he
admitted, “but it must be the knife.” The same idea having occurred
to me, I applied the handle of the knife to my nose and instantly
detected the sickly-sweet odour of musk.
“The question is,” said the inspector, when the two articles had been
tested by us all, “was it the knife that scented the handkerchief or
the handkerchief that scented the knife?”
“You heard what the sergeant said,” replied Thorndyke. “There was no
scent on the handkerchief when the knife was wrapped in it. Do you
know, inspector, this scent seems to me to offer a very curious
suggestion. Consider the facts of the case: the distinct trail
leading straight to Ellis, who is, nevertheless, found to be without
a scratch or a spot of blood; the inconsistencies in the case that I
pointed out in the train, and now this knife, apparently dropped with
dried blood on it and scented with musk. To me it suggests a
carefully-planned, coolly-premeditated crime. The murderer knew about
the general’s bloodhounds and made use of them as a blind. He planted
this knife, smeared with blood and tainted with musk, to furnish a
scent. No doubt some object, also scented with musk, would be drawn
over the ground to give the trail. It is only a suggestion, of
course, but it is worth considering.”
“But, sir,” the inspector objected eagerly, “if the murderer had
handled the knife, it would have scented him too.”
“Exactly; so, as we are assuming that the man is not a fool, we may
assume that he did not handle it. He will have left it here in
readiness, hidden in some place whence he could knock it down, say,
with a stick, without touching it.”
“Perhaps in this very tree, sir,” suggested the sergeant, pointing to
the oak.
“No,” said Thorndyke, “he would hardly have hidden in the tree where
the knife had been. The hounds might have scented the place instead
of following the trail at once. The most likely hiding-place for the
knife is the one nearest the spot where it was found.” He walked over
to the stone that marked the spot, and looking round, continued: “You
see, that hornbeam is much the nearest, and its flat crown would be
very convenient for the purpose--easily reached even by a short man,
as he appears to be. Let us see if there are any traces of it.
Perhaps you will give me a ‘back up,’ sergeant, as we haven’t a
ladder.”
The sergeant assented with a faint grin, and stooping beside the tree
in an attitude suggesting the game of leap frog, placed his hands
firmly on his knees. Grasping a stout branch, Thorndyke swung himself
up on the Sergeant’s broad back, whence he looked down into the crown
of the tree. Then, parting the branches, he stepped onto the ledge
and disappeared into the central hollow.
When he reappeared he held in his hands two very singular objects: a
pair of iron crucible-tongs and an artist’s brush-case of
black-japanned tin. The former article he handed down to me, but the
brush-case he held carefully by its wire handle as he dropped to the
ground.
“The significance of these things is, I think, obvious,” he said.
“The tongs were used to handle the knife with and the case to carry
it in, so that it should not scent his clothes or bag. It was very
carefully planned.”
“If that is so,” said the inspector, “the inside of the case ought to
smell of musk.”
“No doubt,” said Thorndyke; “but before we open it, there is a rather
important matter to be attended to. Will you give me the Vitogen
powder, Jervis?”
I opened the canvas-covered “research case” and took from it an
object like a diminutive pepper-caster--an iodoform dredger in
fact--and handed it to him. Grasping the brush-case by its wire
handle, he sprinkled the pale yellow powder from the dredger freely
all round the pulloff lid, tapping the top with his knuckles to make
the fine particles spread. Then he blew off the superfluous powder,
and the two police officers gave a simultaneous gasp of joy; for now,
on the black background, there stood out plainly a number of
finger-prints, so clear and distinct that the ridge-pattern could be
made out with perfect ease.
“These will probably be his right hand,” said Thorndyke.
“Now for the left.” He treated the body of the case in the same way,
and, when he had blown off the powder, the entire surface was spotted
with yellow, oval impressions. “Now, Jervis,” said he, “if you will
put on a glove and pull off the lid, we can test the inside.”
There was no difficulty in getting the lid off, for the shoulder of
the case had been smeared with vaseline--apparently to produce an
airtight joint--and, as it separated with a hollow sound, a faint,
musky odour exhaled from its interior.
“The remainder of the inquiry,” said Thorndyke, when I pushed the lid
on again, “will be best conducted at the police station, where, also,
we can photograph these finger prints.”
“The shortest way will be across the meadows,” said Fox; “the way the
hounds went.”
By this route we accordingly travelled, Thorndyke carrying the
brush-case tenderly by its handle.
“I don’t quite see where Ellis comes in in this job,” said the
inspector, as we walked along, “if the fellow had a grudge against
Pratt. They weren’t chums.”
“I think I do,” said Thorndyke. “You say that both men were prison
officers at Portland at the same time. Now doesn’t it seem likely
that this is the work of some old convict who had been
identified--and perhaps blackmailed--by Pratt, and possibly by Ellis
too? That is where the value of the finger-prints comes in. If he is
an old ‘lag’ his prints will be at Scotland Yard. Otherwise they are
not of much value as a clue.”
“That’s true, sir,” said the inspector. “I suppose you want to see
Ellis.”
“I want to see that purse that you spoke of, first,” replied
Thorndyke. “That is probably the other end of the clue.”
As soon as we arrived at the station, the inspector unlocked a safe
and brought out a parcel. “These are Ellis’s things,” said he, as he
unfastened it, “and that is the purse.”
He handed Thorndyke a small pigskin pouch, which my colleague opened,
and having smelt the inside, passed to me. The odour of musk was
plainly perceptible, especially in the small compartment at the back.
“It has probably tainted the other contents of the parcel,” said
Thorndyke, sniffing at each article in turn, “but my sense of smell
is not keen enough to detect any scent. They all seem odourless to
me, whereas the purse smells quite distinctly. Shall we have Ellis in
now?”
The sergeant took a key from a locked drawer and de parted for the
cells, whence he presently reappeared accompanied by the prisoner--a
stout, burly man, in the last stage of dejection.
“Come, cheer up, Ellis,” said the inspector. “Here’s Dr. Thorndyke
come down to help us and he wants to ask you one or two questions.”
Ellis looked piteously at Thorndyke, and exclaimed: “I know nothing
whatever about this affair, sir, I swear to God I don’t.”
“I never supposed you did,” said Thorndyke. “But there are one or two
things that I want you to tell me. To begin with, that purse: where
did you find it?”
“On the Thorpe road, sir. It was lying in the middle of the footway.”
“Had any one else passed the spot lately? Did you meet or pass any
one?”
“Yes, sir, I met a labourer about a minute before I saw the purse. I
can’t imagine why he didn’t see it.”
“Probably because it wasn’t there,” said Thorndyke. “Is there a hedge
there?”
“Yes, sir; a hedge on a low bank.”
“Ha! Well, now, tell me: is there any one about here whom you knew
when you and Pratt were together at Portland? Any old lag--to put it
bluntly--whom you and Pratt have been putting the screw on.”
“No, sir, I swear there isn’t. But I wouldn’t answer for Pratt. He
had a rare memory for faces.”
Thorndyke reflected. “Were there any escapes from Portland in your
time?” he asked.
“Only one--a man named Dobbs. He made off to the Sea in a sudden fog
and he was supposed to be drowned. His clothes washed up on the Bill,
but not his body. At any rate, he was never heard of again.”
“Thank you, Ellis. Do you mind my taking your finger prints?”
“Certainly, not, sir,” was the almost eager reply; and the office
inking-pad being requisitioned, a rough set of finger-prints was
produced; and when Thorndyke had compared them with those on the
brush-case and found no resemblance, Ellis returned to his cell in
quite buoyant spirits.
Having made several photographs of the strange finger-prints, we
returned to town that evening, taking the negatives with us; and
while we waited for our train, Thorndyke gave a few parting
injunctions to the inspector. “Remember,” he said, “that the man must
have washed his hands before he could appear in public. Search the
banks of every pond, ditch and stream in the neighbourhood for
footprints like those in the avenue; and, if you find any, search the
bottom of the water thoroughly, for he is quite likely to have
dropped the knife into the mud.”
The photographs, which we handed in at Scotland Yard that same night,
enabled the experts to identify the finger prints as those of Francis
Dobbs, an escaped convict. The two photographs--profile and
full-face--which were attached to his record, were sent down to
Baysford with a description of the man, and were, in due course,
identified with a somewhat mysterious individual, who passed by the
name of Rufus Pembury and who had lived in the neighbourhood as a
private gentleman for some two years. But Rufus Pembury was not to be
found either at his genteel house or elsewhere. All that was known
was, that on the day after the murder, he had converted his entire
“personalty” into “bearer securities,” and then vanished from mortal
ken. Nor has he ever been heard of to this day.
“And, between ourselves,” said Thorndyke, when we were discussing the
case some time after, “he deserved to escape. It was clearly a case
of blackmail, and to kill a blackmailer--when you have no other
defence against him--is hardly murder. As to Ellis, he could never
have been convicted, and Dobbs, or Pembury, must have known it. But
he would have been committed to the Assizes, and that would have
given time for all traces to disappear. No, Dobbs was a man of
courage, ingenuity and resource; and, above all, he knocked the
bottom out of the great bloodhound superstition.”
THE ECHO OF A MUTINY