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 travelled 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 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
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 the 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 sincere
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 an 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 practice--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 scrutinised 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 garden railings.
It's cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will 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 at the bottom 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 am 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
under-estimate 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 honourable 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 Isaak
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 realise 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 afterwards. 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-defence, will make the most of any facts that may
transfer suspicion from him to someone else. And that someone else will
be Miss Bellingham."
I sat for some moments literally paralysed 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 honourable 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 sympathise 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 must 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 off-hand; 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 latchkey now. I have a duplicate upstairs, and you
understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment."
He handed me the latchkey 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
recognised me in the dim light; also that 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 crystallised into scare headlines 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 these 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 neighbourhood 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 recognised 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 up 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 men were plain-clothes policemen.
For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane impulse urged me to
give battle to this intruder; to avenge upon his 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.