CONTENTS

I. THE MAGIC CASKET

II. THE CONTENTS OF A MARE’S NEST

III. THE STALKING HORSE

IV. THE NATURALIST AT LAW

V. MR. PONTING’S ALIBI

VI. PANDORA’S BOX

VII. THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH

VIII. THE PATHOLOGIST TO THE RESCUE

IX. GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE

I.

THE MAGIC CASKET

It was in the near neighbourhood of King’s Road, Chelsea, that

chance, aided by Thorndyke’s sharp and observant eyes, introduced us

to the dramatic story of the Magic Casket. Not that there was anything

strikingly dramatic in the opening phase of the affair, nor even in

the story of the casket itself. It was Thorndyke who added the

dramatic touch, and most of the magic, too; and I record the affair

principally as an illustration of his extraordinary capacity for

producing odd items of out-of-the-way knowledge and instantly applying

them in the most unexpected manner.

Eight o’clock had struck on a misty November night when we turned out

of the main road, and, leaving behind the glare of the shop windows,

plunged into the maze of dark and narrow streets to the north. The

abrupt change impressed us both, and Thorndyke proceeded to moralize

on it in his pleasant, reflective fashion.

“London is an inexhaustible place,” he mused. “Its variety is

infinite. A minute ago we walked in a glare of light, jostled by a

multitude. And now look at this little street. It is as dim as a

tunnel, and we have got it absolutely to ourselves. Anything might

happen in a place like this.”

Suddenly he stopped. We were, at the moment, passing a small church or

chapel, the west door of which was enclosed in an open porch; and as

my observant friend stepped into the latter and stooped, I perceived,

in the deep shadow against the wall, the object which had evidently

caught his eye.

“What is it?” I asked, following him in.

“It is a handbag,” he replied; “and the question is, what is it doing

here?”

He tried the church door, which was obviously locked, and coming out,

looked at the windows.

“There are no lights in the church,” said he; “the place is locked up,

and there is nobody in sight. Apparently the bag is derelict. Shall we

have a look at it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he picked it up and brought it out into

the mitigated darkness of the street, where we proceeded to inspect

it. But at the first glance it told its own tale; for it had evidently

been locked, and it bore unmistakable traces of having been forced

open.

“It isn’t empty,” said Thorndyke. “I think we had better see what is

in it. Just catch hold while I get a light.”

He handed me the bag while he felt in his pocket for the tiny electric

lamp which he made a habit of carrying--and an excellent habit it is.

I held the mouth of the bag open while he illuminated the interior,

which we then saw to be occupied by several objects neatly wrapped in

brown paper. One of these Thorndyke lifted out, and untying the string

and removing the paper, displayed a Chinese stoneware jar. Attached to

it was a label, bearing the stamp of the Victoria and Albert Museum,

on which was written:

“Miss Mabel Bonney,

168 Willow Walk, Fulham Road, W.”

“That tells us all that we want to know,” said Thorndyke, re-wrapping

the jar and tenderly replacing it in the bag. “We can’t do wrong in

delivering the things to their owner, especially as the bag itself is

evidently her property, too,” and he pointed to the gilt initials,

“M.B.”, stamped on the morocco.

It took us but a few minutes to reach the Fulham Road, but we then had

to walk nearly a mile along that thoroughfare before we arrived at

Willow Walk--to which an obliging shopkeeper had directed us; and,

naturally, No. 168 was at the farther end.

As we turned into the quiet street we almost collided with two men,

who were walking at a rapid pace, but both looking back over their

shoulders. I noticed that they were both Japanese--well-dressed,

gentlemanly-looking men--but I gave them little attention, being

interested, rather, in what they were looking at. This was a taxi-cab

which was dimly visible by the light of a street lamp at the farther

end of the “Walk,” and from which four persons had just alighted. Two

of these had hurried ahead to knock at a door, while the other two

walked very slowly across the pavement and up the steps to the

threshold. Almost immediately the door was opened; two of the shadowy

figures entered, and the other two returned slowly to the cab; and as

we came nearer, I could see that these latter were policemen in

uniform. I had just time to note this fact when they both got into the

cab and were forthwith spirited away.

“Looks like a street accident of some kind,” I remarked; and then, as

I glanced at the number of the house we were passing, I added: “Now, I

wonder if that house happens to be--yes, by Jove! it is. It is 168!

Things have been happening, and this bag of ours is one of the

dramatis personæ.”

The response to our knock was by no means prompt. I was, in fact, in

the act of raising my hand to the knocker to repeat the summons when

the door opened and revealed an elderly servant-maid, who regarded us

inquiringly, and, as I thought, with something approaching alarm.

“Does Miss Mabel Bonney live here?” Thorndyke asked.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “but I am afraid you can’t see her just

now, unless it is something urgent. She is rather upset, and

particularly engaged at present.”

“There is no occasion whatever to disturb her,” said Thorndyke. “We

have merely called to restore this bag, which seemed to have been

lost;” and with this he held it out towards her. She grasped it

eagerly, with a cry of surprise, and as the mouth fell open, she

peered into it.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “they don’t seem to have taken anything, after

all. Where did you find it, sir?”

“In the porch of a church in Spelton Street,” Thorndyke replied, and

was turning away when the servant said earnestly:

“Would you kindly give me your name and address, sir? Miss Bonney will

wish to write and thank you.”

“There is really no need,” said he; but she interrupted anxiously:

“If you would be so kind, sir. Miss Bonney will be so vexed if she is

unable to thank you; and besides, she may want to ask you some

questions about it.”

“That is true,” said Thorndyke (who was restrained only by good

manners from asking one or two questions, himself). He produced his

card-case, and having handed one of his cards to the maid, wished her

“good evening” and retired.

“That bag had evidently been pinched,” I remarked, as we walked back

towards the Fulham Road.

“Evidently,” he agreed, and was about to enlarge on the matter when

our attention was attracted to a taxi, which was approaching from the

direction of the main road. A man’s head was thrust out of the window,

and as the vehicle passed a street lamp, I observed that the head

appertained to an elderly gentleman with very white hair and a very

fresh-coloured face.

“Did you see who that was?” Thorndyke asked.

“It looked like old Brodribb,” I replied.

“It did; very much. I wonder where he is off to.”

He turned and followed, with a speculative eye, the receding taxi,

which presently swept alongside the kerb and stopped, apparently

opposite the house from which we had just come. As the vehicle came to

rest, the door flew open and the passenger shot out like an elderly,

but agile, Jack-in-the-box, and bounced up the steps.

“That is Brodribb’s knock, sure enough,” said I, as the old-fashioned

flourish reverberated up the quiet street. “I have heard it too often

on our own knocker to mistake it. But we had better not let him see us

watching him.”

As we went once more on our way, I took a sly glance, now and again,

at my friend, noting with a certain malicious enjoyment his profoundly

cogitative air. I knew quite well what was happening in his mind; for

his mind reacted to observed facts in an invariable manner. And here

was a group of related facts: the bag, stolen, but deposited intact;

the museum label; the injured or sick person--probably Miss Bonney,

herself--brought home under police escort; and the arrival,

post-haste, of the old lawyer; a significant group of facts. And there

was Thorndyke, under my amused and attentive observation, fitting them

together in various combinations to see what general conclusion

emerged. Apparently my own mental state was equally clear to him, for

he remarked, presently, as if replying to an unspoken comment:

“Well, I expect we shall know all about it before many days have

passed if Brodribb sees my card, as he most probably will. Here comes

an omnibus that will suit us. Shall we hop on?”

He stood at the kerb and raised his stick; and as the accommodation on

the omnibus was such that our seats were separated, there was no

opportunity to pursue the subject further, even if there had been

anything to discuss.

But Thorndyke’s prediction was justified sooner than I had expected.

For we had not long finished our supper, and had not yet closed the

“oak,” when there was heard a mighty flourish on the knocker of our

inner door.

“Brodribb, by Jingo!” I exclaimed, and hurried across the room to let

him in.

“No, Jervis,” he said as I invited him to enter, “I am not coming in.

Don’t want to disturb you at this time of night. I’ve just called to

make an appointment for to-morrow with a client.”

“Is the client’s name Bonney?” I asked.

He started and gazed at me in astonishment. “Gad, Jervis!” he

exclaimed, “you are getting as bad as Thorndyke. How the deuce did you

know that she was my client?”

“Never mind how I know. It is our business to know everything in these

chambers. But if your appointment concerns Miss Mabel Bonney, for the

Lord’s sake come in and give Thorndyke a chance of a night’s rest. At

present, he is on broken bottles, as Mr. Bumble would express it.”

On this persuasion, Mr. Brodribb entered, nothing loath--very much the

reverse, in fact--and having bestowed a jovial greeting on Thorndyke,

glanced approvingly round the room.

“Ha!” said he, “you look very cosy. If you are really sure I am

not----”

I cut him short by propelling him gently towards the fire, beside

which I deposited him in an easy chair, while Thorndyke pressed the

electric bell which rang up in the laboratory.

“Well,” said Brodribb, spreading himself out comfortably before the

fire like a handsome old Tom-cat, “if you are going to let me give you

a few particulars--but perhaps you would rather that I should not talk

shop.”

“Now you know perfectly well, Brodribb,” said Thorndyke, “that ‘shop’

is the breath of life to us all. Let us have those particulars.”

Brodribb sighed contentedly and placed his toes on the fender (and at

this moment the door opened softly and Polton looked into the room. He

took a single, understanding glance at our visitor and withdrew,

shutting the door without a sound.)

“I am glad,” pursued Brodribb, “to have this opportunity of a

preliminary chat, because there are certain things that one can say

better when the client is not present; and I am deeply interested in

Miss Bonney’s affairs. The crisis in those affairs which has brought

me here is of quite recent date--in fact, it dates from this evening.

But I know your partiality for having events related in their proper

sequence, so I will leave to-day’s happenings for the moment and tell

you the story--the whole of which is material to the case--from the

beginning.”

Here there was a slight interruption, due to Polton’s noiseless entry

with a tray on which was a decanter, a biscuit box, and three port

glasses. This he deposited on a small table, which he placed within

convenient reach of our guest. Then, with a glance of altruistic

satisfaction at our old friend, he stole out like a benevolent ghost.

“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Brodribb, beaming on the decanter, “this is

really too bad. You ought not to indulge me in this way.”

“My dear Brodribb,” replied Thorndyke, “you are a benefactor to us.

You give us a pretext for taking a glass of port. We can’t drink

alone, you know.”

“I should, if I had a cellar like yours,” chuckled Brodribb, sniffing

ecstatically at his glass. He took a sip, with his eyes closed,

savoured it solemnly, shook his head, and set the glass down on the

table.

“To return to our case,” he resumed; “Miss Bonney is the daughter of a

solicitor, Harold Bonney--you may remember him. He had offices in

Bedford Row; and there, one morning, a client came to him and asked

him to take care of some property while he, the said client, ran over

to Paris, where he had some urgent business. The property in question

was a collection of pearls of most unusual size and value, forming a

great necklace, which had been unstrung for the sake of portability.

It is not clear where they came from, but as the transaction occurred

soon after the Russian Revolution, we may make a guess. At any rate,

there they were, packed loosely in a leather bag, the string of which

was sealed with the owner’s seal.

“Bonney seems to have been rather casual about the affair. He gave the

client a receipt for the bag, stating the nature of the contents,

which he had not seen, and deposited it, in the client’s presence, in

the safe in his private office. Perhaps he intended to take it to the

bank or transfer it to his strong-room, but it is evident that he did

neither; for his managing clerk, who kept the second key of the

strong-room--without which the room could not be opened--knew nothing

of the transaction. When he went home at about seven o’clock, he left

Bonney hard at work in his office, and there is no doubt that the

pearls were still in the safe.

“That night, at about a quarter to nine, it happened that a couple of

C.I.D. officers were walking up Bedford Row when they saw three men

come out of one of the houses. Two of them turned up towards

Theobald’s Road, but the third came south, towards them. As he passed

them, they both recognized him as a Japanese named Uyenishi, who was

believed to be a member of a cosmopolitan gang and whom the police

were keeping under observation. Naturally, their suspicions were

aroused. The first two men had hurried round the corner and were out

of sight; and when they turned to look after Uyenishi, he had mended

his pace considerably and was looking back at them. Thereupon one of

the officers, named Barker, decided to follow the Jap, while the

other, Holt, reconnoitred the premises.

“Now, as soon as Barker turned, the Japanese broke into a run. It was

just such a night as this: dark and slightly foggy. In order to keep

his man in sight, Barker had to run, too; and he found that he had a

sprinter to deal with. From the bottom of Bedford Row, Uyenishi darted

across and shot down Hand Court like a lamplighter. Barker followed,

but at the Holborn end his man was nowhere to be seen. However, he

presently learned from a man at a shop door that the fugitive had run

past and turned up Brownlow Street, so off he went again in pursuit.

But when he got to the top of the street, back in Bedford Row, he was

done. There was no sign of the man, and no one about from whom he

could make inquiries. All he could do was to cross the road and walk

up Bedford Row to see if Holt had made any discoveries.

“As he was trying to identify the house, his colleague came out on to

the doorstep and beckoned him in; and this was the story that he told.

He had recognized the house by the big lamp-standard; and as the place

was all dark, he had gone into the entry and tried the office door.

Finding it unlocked, he had entered the clerks’ office, lit the gas,

and tried the door of the private office, but found it locked. He

knocked at it, but getting no answer, had a good look round the

clerks’ office; and there, presently, on the floor in a dark corner,

he found a key. This he tried in the door of the private office, and

finding that it fitted, turned it and opened the door. As he did so,

the light from the outer office fell on the body of a man lying on the

floor just inside.

“A moment’s inspection showed that the man had been murdered--first

knocked on the head and then finished with a knife. Examination of the

pockets showed that the dead man was Harold Bonney, and also that no

robbery from the person seemed to have been committed. Nor was there

any sign of any other kind of robbery. Nothing seemed to have been

disturbed, and the safe had not been broken into, though that was not

very conclusive, as the safe key was in the dead man’s pocket.

However, a murder had been committed, and obviously Uyenishi was

either the murderer or an accessory; so Holt had, at once, rung up

Scotland Yard on the office telephone, giving all the particulars.

“I may say at once that Uyenishi disappeared completely and at once.

He never went to his lodgings at Limehouse, for the police were there

before he could have arrived. A lively hue and cry was kept up.

Photographs of the wanted man were posted outside every

police-station, and a watch was set at all the ports. But he was never

found. He must have got away at once on some outward-bound tramp from

the Thames. And there we will leave him for the moment.

“At first it was thought that nothing had been stolen, since the

managing clerk could not discover that anything was missing. But a few

days later the client returned from Paris, and presenting his receipt,

asked for his pearls. But the pearls had vanished. Clearly they had

been the object of the crime. The robbers must have known about them

and traced them to the office. Of course the safe had been opened with

its own key, which was then replaced in the dead man’s pocket.

“Now, I was poor Bonney’s executor, and in that capacity I denied his

liability in respect of the pearls on the ground that he was a

gratuitous bailee--there being no evidence that any consideration had

been demanded--and that being murdered cannot be construed as

negligence. But Miss Mabel, who was practically the sole legatee,

insisted on accepting liability. She said that the pearls could have

been secured in the bank or the strong-room, and that she was morally,

if not legally, liable for their loss; and she insisted on handing to

the owner the full amount at which he valued them. It was a wildly

foolish proceeding, for he would certainly have accepted half the sum.

But still, I take my hat off to a person--man or woman--who can accept

poverty in preference to a broken covenant”; and here Brodribb, being

in fact, that sort of person himself, had to be consoled with a

replenished glass.

“And mind you,” he resumed, “when I speak of poverty, I wish to be

taken literally. The estimated value of those pearls was fifty

thousand pounds--if you can imagine anyone out of Bedlam giving such a

sum for a parcel of trash like that; and when poor Mabel Bonney had

paid it, she was left with the prospect of having to spread her butter

mighty thin for the rest of her life. As a matter of fact, she has had

to sell one after another of her little treasures to pay just her

current expenses, and I’m hanged if I can see how she is going to

carry on when she has sold the last of them. But there, I mustn’t take

up your time with her private troubles. Let us return to our muttons.

“First, as to the pearls. They were never traced, and it seems

probable that they were never disposed of. For, you see, pearls are

different from any other kind of gems. You can cut up a big diamond,

but you can’t cut up a big pearl. And the great value of this necklace

was due not only to the size, the perfect shape and ‘orient’ of the

separate pearls, but to the fact that the whole set was perfectly

matched. To break up the necklace was to destroy a good part of its

value.

“And now as to our friend Uyenishi. He disappeared, as I have said;

but he reappeared at Los Angeles, in custody of the police, charged

with robbery and murder. He was taken red-handed and was duly

convicted and sentenced to death; but for some reason--or more

probably, for no reason, as we should think--the sentence was commuted

to imprisonment for life. Under these circumstances, the English

police naturally took no action, especially as they really had no

evidence against him.

“Now Uyenishi was, by trade, a metal-worker; a maker of those pretty

trifles that are so dear to the artistic Japanese, and when he was in

prison he was allowed to set up a little workshop and practise his

trade on a small scale. Among other things that he made was a little

casket in the form of a seated figure, which he said he wanted to give

to his brother as a keepsake. I don’t know whether any permission was

granted for him to make this gift, but that is of no consequence; for

Uyenishi got influenza and was carried off in a few days by pneumonia;

and the prison authorities learned that his brother had been killed, a

week or two previously, in a shooting affair at San Francisco. So the

casket remained on their hands.

“About this time, Miss Bonney was invited to accompany an American

lady on a visit to California, and accepted gratefully. While she was

there she paid a visit to the prison to inquire whether Uyenishi had

ever made any kind of statement concerning the missing pearls. Here

she heard of Uyenishi’s recent death; and the governor of the prison,

as he could not give her any information, handed over to her the

casket as a sort of memento. This transaction came to the knowledge of

the press, and--well, you know what the Californian press is like.

There were ‘some comments,’ as they would say, and quite an assortment

of Japanese, of shady antecedents, applied at the prison to have the

casket ‘restored’ to them as Uyenishi’s heirs. Then Miss Bonney’s

rooms at the hotel were raided by burglars--but the casket was in the

hotel strong-room--and Miss Bonney and her hostess were shadowed by

various undesirables in such a disturbing fashion that the two ladies

became alarmed and secretly made their way to New York. But there

another burglary occurred, with the same unsuccessful result, and the

shadowing began again. Finally, Miss Bonney, feeling that her presence

was a danger to her friend, decided to return to England, and managed

to get on board the ship without letting her departure be known in

advance.

“But even in England she has not been left in peace. She has had an

uncomfortable feeling of being watched and attended, and has seemed to

be constantly meeting Japanese men in the streets, especially in the

vicinity of her house. Of course, all the fuss is about this infernal

casket; and when she told me what was happening, I promptly popped the

thing in my pocket and took it to my office, where I stowed it in the

strong-room. And there, of course, it ought to have remained. But it

didn’t. One day Miss Bonney told me that she was sending some small

things to a loan exhibition of oriental works of art at the South

Kensington Museum, and she wished to include the casket. I urged her

strongly to do nothing of the kind, but she persisted; and the end of

it was that we went to the museum together, with her pottery and stuff

in a handbag and the casket in my pocket.

“It was a most imprudent thing to do, for there the beastly casket

was, for several months, exposed in a glass case for anyone to see,

with her name on the label; and what was worse, full particulars of

the origin of the thing. However, nothing happened while it was

there--the museum is not an easy place to steal from--and all went

well until it was time to remove the things after the close of the

exhibition. Now, to-day was the appointed day, and, as on the previous

occasion, she and I went to the museum together. But the unfortunate

thing is that we didn’t come away together. Her other exhibits were

all pottery, and these were dealt with first, so that she had her

handbag packed and was ready to go before they had begun on the

metal-work cases. As we were not going the same way, it didn’t seem

necessary for her to wait; so she went off with her bag and I stayed

behind until the casket was released, when I put it in my pocket and

went home, where I locked the thing up again in the strong-room.

“It was about seven when I got home. A little after eight I heard the

telephone ring down in the office, and down I went, cursing the

untimely ringer, who turned out to be a policeman at St. George’s

Hospital. He said he had found Miss Bonney lying unconscious in the

street and had taken her to the hospital, where she had been detained

for a while, but she was now recovered and he was taking her home. She

would like me, if possible, to go and see her at once. Well, of

course, I set off forthwith and got to her house a few minutes after

her arrival, and just after you had left.

“She was a good deal upset, so I didn’t worry her with many questions,

but she gave me a short account of her misadventure, which amounted to

this: She had started to walk home from the museum along the Brompton

Road, and she was passing down a quiet street between that and Fulham

Road when she heard soft footsteps behind her. The next moment, a

scarf or shawl was thrown over her head and drawn tightly round her

neck. At the same moment, the bag was snatched from her hand. That is

all that she remembers, for she was half-suffocated and so terrified

that she fainted, and knew no more until she found herself in a cab

with two policemen, who were taking her to the hospital.

“Now it is obvious that her assailants were in search of that damned

casket, for the bag had been broken open and searched, but nothing

taken or damaged; which suggests the Japanese again, for a British

thief would have smashed the crockery. I found your card there, and I

put it to Miss Bonney that we had better ask you to help us--I told

her all about you--and she agreed emphatically. So that is why I am

here, drinking your port and robbing you of your night’s rest.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Thorndyke asked.

“Whatever you think best,” was the cheerful reply. “In the first

place, this nuisance must be put a stop to--this shadowing and hanging

about. But apart from that, you must see that there is something queer

about this accursed casket. The beastly thing is of no intrinsic

value. The museum man turned up his nose at it. But it evidently has

some extrinsic value, and no small value either. If it is good enough

for these devils to follow it all the way from the States, as they

seem to have done, it is good enough for us to try to find out what

its value is. That is where you come in. I propose to bring Miss

Bonney to see you to-morrow, and I will bring the infernal casket,

too. Then you will ask her a few questions, take a look at the

casket--through the microscope, if necessary--and tell us all about it

in your usual necromantic way.”

Thorndyke laughed as he refilled our friend’s glass. “If faith will

move mountains, Brodribb,” said he, “you ought to have been a civil

engineer. But it is certainly a rather intriguing problem.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the old solicitor; “then it’s all right. I’ve known

you a good many years, but I’ve never known you to be stumped; and you

are not going to be stumped now. What time shall I bring her?

Afternoon or evening would suit her best.”

“Very well,” replied Thorndyke; “bring her to tea--say, five o’clock.

How will that do?”

“Excellently; and here’s good luck to the adventure.” He drained his

glass, and the decanter being now empty, he rose, shook our hands

warmly, and took his departure in high spirits.

It was with a very lively interest that I looked forward to the

prospective visit. Like Thorndyke, I found the case rather intriguing.

For it was quite clear, as our shrewd old friend had said, that there

was something more than met the eye in the matter of this casket.

Hence, on the following afternoon, when, on the stroke of five,

footsteps became audible on our stairs, I awaited the arrival of our

new client with keen curiosity, both as to herself and her mysterious

property.

To tell the truth, the lady was better worth looking at than the

casket. At the first glance, I was strongly prepossessed in her

favour, and so, I think, was Thorndyke. Not that she was a beauty,

though comely enough. But she was an example of a type that seems to

be growing rarer; quiet, gentle, soft-spoken, and a lady to her

finger-tips; a little sad-faced and care-worn, with a streak or two of

white in her prettily-disposed black hair, though she could not have

been much over thirty-five. Altogether a very gracious and winning

personality.

When we had been presented to her by Brodribb--who treated her as if

she had been a royal personage--and had enthroned her in the most

comfortable easy-chair, we inquired as to her health, and were duly

thanked for the salvage of the bag. Then Polton brought in the tray,

with an air that seemed to demand an escort of choristers; the tea was

poured out, and the informal proceedings began.

She had not, however, much to tell; for she had not seen her

assailants, and the essential facts of the case had been fully

presented in Brodribb’s excellent summary. After a very few questions,

therefore, we came to the next stage; which was introduced by

Brodribb’s taking from his pocket a small parcel which he proceeded to

open.

“There,” said he, “that is the _fons et origo mali_. Not much to look

at, I think you will agree.” He set the object down on the table and

glared at it malevolently, while Thorndyke and I regarded it with a

more impersonal interest. It was not much to look at. Just an ordinary

Japanese casket in the form of a squat, shapeless figure with a silly

little grinning face, of which the head and shoulders opened on a

hinge; a pleasant enough object, with its quiet, warm colouring, but

certainly not a masterpiece of art.

Thorndyke picked it up and turned it over slowly for a preliminary

inspection; then he went on to examine it detail by detail, watched

closely, in his turn, by Brodribb and me. Slowly and methodically, his

eye--fortified by a watchmaker’s eyeglass--travelled over every part

of the exterior. Then he opened it, and having examined the inside of

the lid, scrutinized the bottom from within, long and attentively.

Finally, he turned the casket upside down and examined the bottom from

without, giving to it the longest and most rigorous inspection of

all--which puzzled me somewhat, for the bottom was absolutely plain.

At length, he passed the casket and the eyeglass to me without

comment.

“Well,” said Brodribb, “what is the verdict?”

“It is of no value as a work of art,” replied Thorndyke. “The body and

lid are just castings of common white metal--an antimony alloy, I

should say. The bronze colour is lacquer.”

“So the museum man remarked,” said Brodribb.

“But,” continued Thorndyke, “there is one very odd thing about it. The

only piece of fine metal in it is in the part which matters least. The

bottom is a separate plate of the alloy known to the Japanese as

Shakudo--an alloy of copper and gold.”

“Yes,” said Brodribb, “the museum man noted that, too, and couldn’t

make out why it had been put there.”

“Then,” Thorndyke continued, “there is another anomalous feature; the

inside of the bottom is covered with elaborate decoration--just the

place where decoration is most inappropriate, since it would be

covered up by the contents of the casket. And, again, this decoration

is etched; not engraved or chased. But etching is a very unusual

process for this purpose, if it is ever used at all by Japanese

metal-workers. My impression is that it is not; for it is most

unsuitable for decorative purposes. That is all that I observe, so

far.”

“And what do you infer from your observations?” Brodribb asked.

“I should like to think the matter over,” was the reply. “There is an

obvious anomaly, which must have some significance. But I won’t embark

on speculative opinions at this stage. I should like, however, to take

one or two photographs of the casket, for reference; but that will

occupy some time. You will hardly want to wait so long.”

“No,” said Brodribb. “But Miss Bonney is coming with me to my office

to go over some documents and discuss a little business. When we have

finished, I will come back and fetch the confounded thing.”

“There is no need for that,” replied Thorndyke. “As soon as I have

done what is necessary, I will bring it up to your place.”

To this arrangement Brodribb agreed readily, and he and his client

prepared to depart. I rose, too, and as I happened to have a call to

make in Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn, I asked permission to walk with

them.

As we came out into King’s Bench Walk I noticed a smallish,

gentlemanly-looking man who had just passed our entry and now turned

in at the one next door; and by the light of the lamp in the entry he

looked to me like a Japanese. I thought Miss Bonney had observed him,

too, but she made no remark, and neither did I. But, passing up Inner

Temple Lane, we nearly overtook two other men, who--though I got but a

back view of them and the light was feeble enough--aroused my

suspicions by their neat, small figures. As we approached, they

quickened their pace, and one of them looked back over his shoulder;

and then my suspicions were confirmed, for it was an unmistakable

Japanese face that looked round at us. Miss Bonney saw that I had

observed the men, for she remarked, as they turned sharply at the

Cloisters and entered Pump Court:

“You see, I am still haunted by Japanese.”

“I noticed them,” said Brodribb. “They are probably law students. But

we may as well be companionable;” and with this, he, too, headed for

Pump Court.

We followed our oriental friends across the Lane into Fountain Court,

and through that and Devereux Court out to Temple Bar, where we parted

from them; they turning westward and we crossing to Bell Yard, up

which we walked, entering New Square by the Carey Street gate. At

Brodribb’s doorway we halted and looked back, but no one was in sight.

I accordingly went my way, promising to return anon to hear

Thorndyke’s report, and the lawyer and his client disappeared through

the portal.

My business occupied me longer than I had expected, but nevertheless,

when I arrived at Brodribb’s premises--where he lived in chambers over

his office--Thorndyke had not yet made his appearance. A quarter of an

hour later, however, we heard his brisk steps on the stairs, and as

Brodribb threw the door open, he entered and produced the casket from

his pocket.

“Well,” said Brodribb, taking it from him and locking it, for the time

being, in a drawer, “has the oracle spoken; and if so, what did he

say?”

“Oracles,” replied Thorndyke, “have a way of being more concise than

explicit. Before I attempt to interpret the message, I should like to

view the scene of the escape; to see if there was any intelligible

reason why this man, Uyenishi, should have returned up Brownlow Street

into what must have been the danger zone. I think that is a material

question.”

“Then,” said Brodribb, with evident eagerness, “let us all walk up and

have a look at the confounded place. It is quite close by.”

We all agreed instantly, two of us, at least, being on the tip-toe of

expectation. For Thorndyke, who habitually understated his results,

had virtually admitted that the casket had told him something; and as

we walked up the Square to the gate in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, I watched

him furtively, trying to gather from his impassive face a hint as to

what the something amounted to, and wondering how the movements of the

fugitive bore on the solution of the mystery. Brodribb was similarly

occupied, and as we crossed from Great Turnstile and took our way up

Brownlow Street, I could see that his excitement was approaching

bursting-point.

At the top of the street Thorndyke paused and looked up and down the

rather dismal thoroughfare which forms a continuation of Bedford Row

and bears its name. Then he crossed to the paved island surrounding

the pump which stands in the middle of the road, and from thence

surveyed the entrances to Brownlow Street and Hand Court; and then he

turned and looked thoughtfully at the pump.

“A quaint old survivor, this,” he remarked, tapping the iron shell

with his knuckles. “There is a similar one, you may remember, in Queen

Square, and another at Aldgate. But that is still in use.”

“Yes,” Brodribb assented, almost dancing with impatience and inwardly

damning the pump, as I could see, “I’ve noticed it.”

“I suppose,” Thorndyke proceeded, in a reflective tone, “they had to

remove the handle. But it was rather a pity.”

“Perhaps it was,” growled Brodribb, whose complexion was rapidly

developing affinities to that of a pickled cabbage, “but what the

d----”

Here he broke off short and glared silently at Thorndyke, who had

raised his arm and squeezed his hand into the opening once occupied by

the handle. He groped in the interior with an expression of placid

interest, and presently reported: “The barrel is still there, and so,

apparently, is the plunger--” (Here I heard Brodribb mutter huskily,

“Damn the barrel and the plunger too!”) “but my hand is rather large

for the exploration. Would you, Miss Bonney, mind slipping your hand

in and telling me if I am right?”

We all gazed at Thorndyke in dismay, but in a moment Miss Bonney

recovered from her astonishment, and with a deprecating smile, half

shy, half amused, she slipped off her glove, and reaching up--it was

rather high for her--inserted her hand into the narrow slit. Brodribb

glared at her and gobbled like a turkey-cock, and I watched her with a

sudden suspicion that something was going to happen. Nor was I

mistaken. For, as I looked, the shy, puzzled smile faded from her face

and was succeeded by an expression of incredulous astonishment. Slowly

she withdrew her hand, and as it came out of the slit it dragged

something after it. I started forward, and by the light of the lamp

above the pump I could see that the object was a leather bag secured

by a string from which hung a broken seal.

“It can’t be!” she gasped as, with trembling fingers, she untied the

string. Then, as she peered into the open mouth, she uttered a little

cry.

“It is! It is! It is the necklace!”

Brodribb was speechless with amazement. So was I; and I was still

gazing open-mouthed at the bag in Miss Bonney’s hands when I felt

Thorndyke touch my arm. I turned quickly and found him offering me an

automatic pistol.

“Stand by, Jervis,” he said quietly, looking towards Gray’s Inn.

I looked in the same direction, and then perceived three men stealing

round the corner from Jockey’s Fields. Brodribb saw them, too, and

snatching the bag of pearls from his client’s hands, buttoned it into

his breast pocket and placed himself before its owner, grasping his

stick with a war-like air. The three men filed along the pavement

until they were opposite us, when they turned simultaneously and bore

down on the pump, each man, as I noticed, holding his right hand

behind him. In a moment, Thorndyke’s hand, grasping a pistol, flew

up--as did mine, also--and he called out sharply:

“Stop! If any man moves a hand, I fire.”

The challenge brought them up short, evidently unprepared for this

kind of reception. What would have happened next it is impossible to

guess. But at this moment a police whistle sounded and two constables

ran out from Hand Court. The whistle was instantly echoed from the

direction of Warwick Court, whence two more constabulary figures

appeared through the postern gate of Gray’s Inn. Our three attendants

hesitated but for an instant. Then, with one accord, they turned tail

and flew like the wind round into Jockey’s Fields, with the whole

posse of constables close on their heels.

“Remarkable coincidence,” said Brodribb, “that those policemen should

happen to be on the look-out. Or isn’t it a coincidence?”

“I telephoned to the station superintendent before I started,” replied

Thorndyke, “warning him of a possible breach of the peace at this

spot.”

Brodribb chuckled. “You’re a wonderful man, Thorndyke. You think of

everything. I wonder if the police will catch those fellows.”

“It is no concern of ours,” replied Thorndyke. “We’ve got the pearls,

and that finishes the business. There will be no more shadowing, in

any case.”

Miss Bonney heaved a comfortable little sigh and glanced gratefully at

Thorndyke. “You can have no idea what a relief that is!” she

exclaimed; “to say nothing of the treasure-trove.”

We waited some time, but as neither the fugitives nor the constables

reappeared, we presently made our way back down Brownlow Street. And

there it was that Brodribb had an inspiration.

“I’ll tell you what,” said he. “I will just pop these things in my

strong-room--they will be perfectly safe there until the bank opens

to-morrow--and then we’ll go and have a nice little dinner. I’ll pay

the piper.”

“Indeed you won’t!” exclaimed Miss Bonney. “This is my thanksgiving

festival, and the benevolent wizard shall be the guest of the

evening.”

“Very well, my dear,” agreed Brodribb. “I will pay and charge it to

the estate. But I stipulate that the benevolent wizard shall tell us

exactly what the oracle said. That is essential to the preservation of

my sanity.”

“You shall have his _ipsissima verba_,” Thorndyke promised; and the

resolution was carried, _nem. con._

An hour and a half later we were seated around a table in a private

room of a café to which Mr. Brodribb had conducted us. I may not

divulge its whereabouts, though I may, perhaps, hint that we

approached it by way of Wardour Street. At any rate, we had dined,

even to the fulfilment of Brodribb’s ideal, and coffee and liqueurs

furnished a sort of gastronomic doxology. Brodribb had lighted a cigar

and Thorndyke had produced a vicious-looking little black cheroot,

which he regarded fondly and then returned to its abiding-place as

unsuited to the present company.

“Now,” said Brodribb, watching Thorndyke fill his pipe (as understudy

of the cheroot aforesaid), “we are waiting to hear the words of the

oracle.”

“You shall hear them,” Thorndyke replied. “There were only five of

them. But first, there are certain introductory matters to be disposed

of. The solution of this problem is based on two well-known physical

facts, one metallurgical and the other optical.”

“Ha!” said Brodribb. “But you must temper the wind to the shorn lamb,

you know, Thorndyke. Miss Bonney and I are not scientists.”

“I will put the matter quite simply, but you must have the facts. The

first relates to the properties of malleable metals--excepting iron

and steel--and especially of copper and its alloys. If a plate of such

metal or alloy--say, bronze, for instance--is made red-hot and

quenched in water, it becomes quite soft and flexible--the reverse of

what happens in the case of iron. Now, if such a plate of softened

metal be placed on a steel anvil and hammered, it becomes extremely

hard and brittle.”

“I follow that,” said Brodribb.

“Then see what follows. If, instead of hammering the soft plate, you

put on it the edge of a blunt chisel and strike on that chisel a sharp

blow, you produce an indented line. Now the plate remains soft; but

the metal forming the indented line has been hammered and has become

hard. There is now a line of hard metal on the soft plate. Is that

clear?”

“Perfectly,” replied Brodribb; and Thorndyke accordingly continued:

“The second fact is this: If a beam of light falls on a polished

surface which reflects it, and if that surface is turned through a

given angle, the beam of light is deflected through double that

angle.”

“H’m!” grunted Brodribb. “Yes. No doubt. I hope we are not going to

get into any deeper waters, Thorndyke.”

“We are not,” replied the latter, smiling urbanely. “We are now going

to consider the application of these facts. Have you ever seen a

Japanese magic mirror?”

“Never; nor even heard of such a thing.”

“They are bronze mirrors, just like the ancient Greek or Etruscan

mirrors--which are probably ‘magic’ mirrors, too. A typical specimen

consists of a circular or oval plate of bronze, highly polished on the

face and decorated on the back with chased ornament--commonly a dragon

or some such device--and furnished with a handle. The ornament is, as

I have said, chased; that is to say, it is executed in indented lines

made with chasing tools, which are, in effect, small chisels, more or

less blunt, which are struck with a chasing-hammer.

“Now these mirrors have a very singular property. Although the face is

perfectly plain, as a mirror should be, yet, if a beam of sunlight is

caught on it and reflected, say, on to a white wall, the round or oval

patch of light on the wall is not a plain light patch. It shows quite

clearly the ornament on the back of the mirror.”

“But how extraordinary!” exclaimed Miss Bonney. “It sounds quite

incredible.”

“It does,” Thorndyke agreed. “And yet the explanation is quite simple.

Professor Sylvanus Thompson pointed it out years ago. It is based on

the facts which I have just stated to you. The artist who makes one of

these mirrors begins, naturally, by annealing the metal until it is

quite soft. Then he chases the design on the back, and this design

then shows slightly on the face. But he now grinds the face perfectly

flat with fine emery and water so that the traces of the design are

completely obliterated. Finally, he polishes the face with rouge on a

soft buff.

“But now observe that wherever the chasing-tool has made a line, the

metal is hardened right through, so that the design is in hard metal

on a soft matrix. But the hardened metal resists the wear of the

polishing buff more than the soft metal does. The result is that the

act of polishing causes the design to appear in faint relief on the

face. Its projection is infinitesimal--less than the

hundred-thousandth of an inch--and totally invisible to the eye. But,

minute as it is, owing to the optical law which I mentioned--which, in

effect, doubles the projection--it is enough to influence the

reflection of light. As a consequence, every chased line appears on

the patch of light as a dark line with a bright border, and so the

whole design is visible. I think that is quite clear.”

“Perfectly clear,” Miss Bonney and Brodribb agreed.

“But now,” pursued Thorndyke, “before we come to the casket, there is

a very curious corollary which I must mention. Supposing our artist,

having finished the mirror, should proceed with a scraper to erase the

design from the back; and on the blank, scraped surface to etch a new

design. The process of etching does not harden the metal, so the new

design does not appear on the reflection. But the old design would.

For although it was invisible on the face and had been erased from the

back, it would still exist in the substance of the metal and continue

to influence the reflection. The odd result would be that the design

which would be visible in the patch of light on the wall would be a

different one from that on the back of the mirror.

“No doubt, you see what I am leading up to. But I will take the

investigation of the casket as it actually occurred. It was obvious,

at once, that the value of the thing was extrinsic. It had no

intrinsic value, either in material or workmanship. What could that

value be? The clear suggestion was that the casket was the vehicle of

some secret message or information. It had been made by Uyenishi, who

had almost certainly had possession of the missing pearls, and who had

been so closely pursued that he never had an opportunity to

communicate with his confederates. It was to be given to a man who was

almost certainly one of those confederates; and, since the pearls had

never been traced, there was a distinct probability that the

(presumed) message referred to some hiding-place in which Uyenishi had

concealed them during his flight, and where they were probably still

hidden.

“With these considerations in my mind, I examined the casket, and this

was what I found. The thing, itself, was a common white-metal casting,

made presentable by means of lacquer. But the white metal bottom had

been cut out and replaced by a plate of fine bronze--Shakudo. The

inside of this was covered with an etched design, which immediately

aroused my suspicions. Turning it over, I saw that the outside of the

bottom was not only smooth and polished; it was a true mirror. It gave

a perfectly undistorted reflection of my face. At once, I suspected

that the mirror held the secret; that the message, whatever it was,

had been chased on the back, had then been scraped away and an etched

design worked on it to hide the traces of the scraper.

“As soon as you were gone, I took the casket up to the laboratory and

threw a strong beam of parallel light from a condenser on the bottom,

catching the reflection on a sheet of white paper. The result was just

what I had expected. On the bright oval patch on the paper could be

seen the shadowy, but quite distinct, forms of five words in the

Japanese character.

“I was in somewhat of a dilemma, for I have no knowledge of Japanese,

whereas the circumstances were such as to make it rather unsafe to

employ a translator. However, as I do just know the Japanese

characters and possess a Japanese dictionary, I determined to make an

attempt to fudge out the words myself. If I failed, I could then look

for a discreet translator.

“However, it proved to be easier than I had expected, for the words

were detached; they did not form a sentence, and so involved no

questions of grammar. I spelt out the first word and then looked it up

in the dictionary. The translation was ‘pearls.’ This looked hopeful,

and I went on to the next, of which the translation was ‘pump.’ The

third word floored me. It seemed to be ‘jokkis,’ or ‘jokkish,’ but

there was no such word in the dictionary; so I turned to the next

word, hoping that it would explain its predecessor. And it did. The

fourth word was ‘fields,’ and the last word was evidently ‘London.’ So

the entire group read: ‘Pearls, Pump, Jokkis, Fields, London.’

“Now, there is no pump, so far as I know, in Jockey’s Fields, but

there is one in Bedford Row close to the corner of the Fields, and

exactly opposite the end of Brownlow Street. And by Mr. Brodribb’s

account, Uyenishi, in his flight, ran down Hand Court and returned up

Brownlow Street, as if he were making for the pump. As the latter is

disused and the handle-hole is high up, well out of the way of

children, it offers quite a good temporary hiding-place, and I had no

doubt that the bag of pearls had been poked into it and was probably

there still. I was tempted to go at once and explore; but I was

anxious that the discovery should be made by Miss Bonney, herself, and

I did not dare to make a preliminary exploration for fear of being

shadowed. If I had found the treasure I should have had to take it and

give it to her; which would have been a flat ending to the adventure.

So I had to dissemble and be the occasion of much smothered

objurgation on the part of my friend, Brodribb. And that is the whole

story of my interview with the oracle.”

Our mantelpiece is becoming a veritable museum of trophies of victory,

the gifts of grateful clients. Among them is a squat, shapeless figure

of a Japanese gentleman of the old school, with a silly, grinning

little face--The Magic Casket. But its possession is no longer a

menace. Its sting has been drawn; its magic is exploded; its secret is

exposed, and its glory departed.

II.

THE CONTENTS OF A MARE’S NEST

“It is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Stalker, of the ‘Griffin’ Life

Assurance Company, at the close of a consultation on a doubtful claim.

“I suppose we shall have to pay up.”

“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “The death was properly

certified, the deceased is buried, and you have not a single fact with

which to support an application for further inquiry.”

“No,” Stalker agreed. “But I am not satisfied. I don’t believe that

doctor really knew what she died from. I wish cremation were more

usual.”

“So, I have no doubt, has many a poisoner,” Thorndyke remarked dryly.

Stalker laughed, but stuck to his point. “I know you don’t agree,”

said he, “but from our point of view it is much more satisfactory to

know that the extra precautions have been taken. In a cremation case,

you have not to depend on the mere death certificate; you have the

cause of death verified by an independent authority, and it is

difficult to see how any miscarriage can occur.”

Thorndyke shook his head. “It is a delusion, Stalker. You can’t

provide in advance for unknown contingencies. In practice, your

special precautions degenerate into mere formalities. If the

circumstances of a death appear normal, the independent authority will

certify; if they appear abnormal, you won’t get a certificate at all.

And if suspicion arises only after the cremation has taken place, it

can neither be confirmed nor rebutted.”

“My point is,” said Stalker, “that the searching examination would

lead to discovery of a crime before cremation.”

“That is the intention,” Thorndyke admitted. “But no examination,

short of an exhaustive post-mortem, would make it safe to destroy a

body so that no reconsideration of the cause of death would be

possible.”

Stalker smiled as he picked up his hat. “Well,” he said, “to a cobbler

there is nothing like leather, and I suppose that to a toxicologist

there is nothing like an exhumation,” and with this parting shot he

took his leave.

We had not seen the last of him, however. In the course of the same

week he looked in to consult us on a fresh matter.

“A rather queer case has turned up,” said he. “I don’t know that we

are deeply concerned in it, but we should like to have your opinion as

to how we stand. The position is this: Eighteen months ago, a man

named Ingle insured with us for fifteen hundred pounds, and he was

then accepted as a first-class life. He has recently died--apparently

from heart failure, the heart being described as fatty and

dilated--and his wife, Sibyl, who is the sole legatee and executrix,

has claimed payment. But just as we were making arrangements to pay, a

caveat has been entered by a certain Margaret Ingle, who declares that

she is the wife of the deceased and claims the estate as next-of-kin.

She states that the alleged wife, Sibyl, is a widow named Huggard who

contracted a bigamous marriage with the deceased, knowing that he had

a wife living.”

“An interesting situation,” commented Thorndyke, “but, as you say, it

doesn’t particularly concern you. It is a matter for the Probate

Court.”

“Yes,” agreed Stalker. “But that is not all. Margaret Ingle not only

charges the other woman with bigamy; she accuses her of having made

away with the deceased.”

“On what grounds?”

“Well, the reasons she gives are rather shadowy. She states that

Sibyl’s husband, James Huggard, died under suspicious

circumstances--there seems to have been some suspicion that he had

been poisoned--and she asserts that Ingle was a healthy, sound man and

could not have died from the causes alleged.”

“There is some reason in that,” said Thorndyke, “if he was really a

first-class life only eighteen months ago. As to the first husband,

Huggard, we should want some particulars: as to whether there was an

inquest, what was the alleged cause of death, and what grounds there

were for suspecting that he had been poisoned. If there really were

any suspicious circumstances, it would be advisable to apply to the

Home Office for an order to exhume the body of Ingle and verify the

cause of death.”

Stalker smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Unfortunately,” said he, “that is

not possible. Ingle was cremated.”

“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “that is, as you say, unfortunate. It clearly

increases the suspicion of poisoning, but destroys the means of

verifying that suspicion.”

“I should tell you,” said Stalker, “that the cremation was in

accordance with the provisions of the will.”

“That is not very material,” replied Thorndyke. “In fact, it rather

accentuates the suspicious aspect of the case; for the knowledge that

the death of the deceased would be followed by cremation might act as

a further inducement to get rid of him by poison. There were two death

certificates, of course?”

“Yes. The confirmatory certificate was given by Dr. Halbury, of

Wimpole Street. The medical attendant was a Dr. Barber, of Howland

Street. The deceased lived in Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway.”

“A good distance from Howland Street,” Thorndyke remarked. “Do you

know if Halbury made a post-mortem? I don’t suppose he did.”

“No, he didn’t,” replied Stalker.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “his certificate is worthless. You can’t tell

whether a man has died from heart failure by looking at his dead body.

He must have just accepted the opinion of the medical attendant. Do I

understand that you want me to look into this case?”

“If you will. It is not really our concern whether or not the man was

poisoned, though I suppose we should have a claim on the estate of the

murderer. But we should like you to investigate the case; though how

the deuce you are going to do it I don’t quite see.”

“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “However, we must get into touch with

the doctors who signed the certificates, and possibly they may be able

to clear the whole matter up.”

“Of course,” said I, “there is the other body--that of Huggard--which

might be exhumed--unless he was cremated, too.”

“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke; “and for the purposes of the criminal law,

evidence of poisoning in that case would be sufficient. But it would

hardly help the Griffin Company, which is concerned exclusively with

Ingle deceased. Can you let us have a précis of the facts relating to

this case, Stalker?”

“I have brought one with me,” was the reply; “a short statement,

giving names, addresses, dates, and other particulars. Here it is”;

and he handed Thorndyke a sheet of paper bearing a tabulated

statement.

When Stalker had gone Thorndyke glanced rapidly through the précis

and then looked at his watch. “If we make our way to Wimpole Street at

once,” said he, “we ought to catch Halbury. That is obviously the

first thing to do. He signed the ‘C’ certificate, and we shall be able

to judge from what he tells us whether there is any possibility of

foul play. Shall we start now?”

As I assented, he slipped the précis in his pocket and we set forth.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane we chartered a taxi by which we were

shortly deposited at Dr. Halbury’s door, and a few minutes later were

ushered into his consulting room, and found him shovelling a pile of

letters into the waste-paper basket.

“How d’ye do?” he said briskly, holding out his hand. “I’m up to my

eyes in arrears, you see. Just back from my holiday. What can I do for

you?”

“We have called,” said Thorndyke, “about a man named Ingle.”

“Ingle--Ingle,” repeated Halbury. “Now, let me see----”

“Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway,” Thorndyke explained.

“Oh, yes. I remember him. Well, how is he?”

“He’s dead,” replied Thorndyke.

“Is he really?” exclaimed Halbury. “Now that shows how careful one

should be in one’s judgments. I half suspected that fellow of

malingering. He was supposed to have a dilated heart, but I couldn’t

make out any appreciable dilatation. There was excited, irregular

action. That was all. I had a suspicion that he had been dosing

himself with trinitrine. Reminded me of the cases of cordite chewing

that I used to meet with in South Africa. So he’s dead, after all.

Well, it’s queer. Do you know what the exact cause of death was?”

“Failure of a dilated heart is the cause stated on the

certificates--the body was cremated; and the ‘C’ Certificate was

signed by you.”

“By me!” exclaimed the physician. “Nonsense! It’s a mistake. I signed

a certificate for a Friendly Society--Mrs. Ingle brought it here for

me to sign--but I didn’t even know he was dead. Besides, I went away

for my holiday a few days after I saw the man, and only came back

yesterday. What makes you think I signed the death certificate?”

Thorndyke produced Stalker’s précis and handed it to Halbury, who

read out his own name and address with a puzzled frown. “This is an

extraordinary affair,” said he. “It will have to be looked into.”

“It will, indeed,” assented Thorndyke; “especially as a suspicion of

poisoning has been raised.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Halbury. “Then it was trinitrine, you may depend. But

I suspected him unjustly. It was somebody else who was dosing him;

perhaps that sly-looking baggage of a wife of his. Is anyone in

particular suspected?”

“Yes. The accusation, such as it is, is against the wife.”

“H’m. Probably a true bill. But she’s done us. Artful devil. You can’t

get much evidence out of an urnful of ashes. Still, somebody has

forged my signature. I suppose that is what the hussy wanted that

certificate for--to get a specimen of my handwriting. I see the ‘B’

certificate was signed by a man named Meeking. Who’s he? It was Barber

who called me in for an opinion.”

“I must find out who he is,” replied Thorndyke. “Possibly Dr. Barber

will know. I shall go and call on him now.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Halbury, shaking hands as we rose to depart, “you

ought to see Barber. He knows the history of the case, at any rate.”

From Wimpole Street we steered a course for Howland Street, and here

we had the good fortune to arrive just as Dr. Barber’s car drew up at

the door. Thorndyke introduced himself and me, and then introduced the

subject of his visit, but said nothing, at first, about our call on

Dr. Halbury.

“Ingle,” repeated Dr. Barber. “Oh, yes, I remember him. And you say he

is dead. Well, I’m rather surprised. I didn’t regard his condition as

serious.”

“Was his heart dilated?” Thorndyke asked.

“Not appreciably. I found nothing organic; no valvular disease. It was

more like a tobacco heart. But it’s odd that Meeking didn’t mention

the matter to me--he was my locum, you know. I handed the case over to

him when I went on my holiday. And you say he signed the death

certificate?”

“Yes; and the ‘B’ certificate for cremation, too.”

“Very odd,” said Dr. Barber. “Just come in and let us have a look at

the day book.”

We followed him into the consulting room, and there, while he was

turning over the leaves of the day book, I ran my eye along the shelf

over the writing-table from which he had taken it; on which I observed

the usual collection of case books and books of certificates and

notification forms, including the book of death certificates.

“Yes,” said Dr. Barber, “here we are; ‘Ingle, Mr., Stock-Orchard

Crescent.’ The last visit was on the 4th of September, and Meeking

seems to have given some sort of certificate. Wonder if he used a

printed form.” He took down two of the books and turned over the

counterfoils.

“Here we are,” he said presently; “‘Ingle, Jonathan, 4th September.

Now recovered and able to resume duties.’ That doesn’t look like

dying, does it? Still, we may as well make sure.”

He reached down the book of death certificates and began to glance

through the most recent entries.

“No,” he said, turning over the leaves, “there doesn’t seem to be----

Hullo! What’s this? Two blank counterfoils; and about the date, too;

between the 2nd and 13th of September. Extraordinary! Meeking is such

a careful, reliable man.”

He turned back to the day book and read through the fortnight’s

entries. Then he looked up with an anxious frown.

“I can’t make this out,” he said. “There is no record of any patient

having died in that period.”

“Where is Dr. Meeking at present?” I asked.

“Somewhere in the South Atlantic,” replied Barber. “He left here three

weeks ago to take up a post on a Royal Mail Boat. So he couldn’t have

signed the certificate in any case.”

That was all that Dr. Barber had to tell us, and a few minutes later

we took our departure.

“This case looks pretty fishy,” I remarked, as we turned down

Tottenham Court Road.

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “There is evidently something radically

wrong. And what strikes me especially is the cleverness of the fraud;

the knowledge and judgment and foresight that are displayed.”

“She took pretty considerable risks,” I observed.

“Yes, but only the risks that were unavoidable. Everything that could

be foreseen has been provided for. All the formalities have been

complied with--in appearance. And you must notice, Jervis, that the

scheme did actually succeed. The cremation has taken place. Nothing

but the incalculable accident of the appearance of the real Mrs. Ingle

and her vague and apparently groundless suspicions, prevented the

success from being final. If she had not come on the scene, no

questions would ever have been asked.”

“No,” I agreed. “The discovery of the plot is a matter of sheer bad

luck. But what do you suppose has really happened?”

Thorndyke shook his head.

“It is very difficult to say. The mechanism of the affair is obvious

enough, but the motives and purpose are rather incomprehensible. The

illness was apparently a sham, the symptoms being produced by

nitro-glycerine or some similar heart poison. The doctors were called

in, partly for the sake of appearances and partly to get specimens of

their handwriting. The fact that both the doctors happened to be away

from home and one of them at sea at the time when verbal questions

might have been asked--by the undertaker, for instance--suggests that

this had been ascertained in advance. The death certificate forms were

pretty certainly stolen by the woman when she was left alone in

Barber’s consulting room, and, of course, the cremation certificates

could be obtained on application to the crematorium authorities. That

is all plain sailing. The mystery is, what is it all about? Barber or

Meeking would almost certainly have given a death certificate,

although the death was unexpected, and I don’t suppose Halbury would

have refused to confirm it. They would have assumed that their

diagnosis had been at fault.”

“Do you think it could have been suicide, or an inadvertent overdose

of trinitrine?”

“Hardly. If it was suicide, it was deliberate, for the purpose of

getting the insurance money for the woman, unless there was some

further motive behind. And the cremation, with all its fuss and

formalities, is against suicide; while the careful preparation seems

to exclude inadvertent poisoning. Then, what was the motive for the

sham illness except as a preparation for an abnormal death?”

“That is true,” said I. “But if you reject suicide, isn’t it rather

remarkable that the victim should have provided for his own

cremation?”

“We don’t know that he did,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a suggestion

of a capable forger in this business. It is quite possible that the

will itself is a forgery.”

“So it is!” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You see,” continued Thorndyke, “the appearances suggest that

cremation was a necessary part of the programme; otherwise these

extraordinary risks would not have been taken. The woman was sole

executrix and could have ignored the cremation clause. But if the

cremation was necessary, why was it necessary? The suggestion is that

there was something suspicious in the appearance of the body;

something that the doctors would certainly have observed or that would

have been discovered if an exhumation had taken place.”

“You mean some injury or visible signs of poisoning?”

“I mean something discoverable by examination even after burial.”

“But what about the undertaker? Wouldn’t he have noticed anything

palpably abnormal?”

“An excellent suggestion, Jervis. We must see the undertaker. We have

his address: Kentish Town Road--a long way from deceased’s house, by

the way. We had better get on a bus and go there now.”

A yellow omnibus was approaching as he spoke. We hailed it and sprang

on, continuing our discussion as we were borne northward.

Mr. Burrell, the undertaker, was a pensive-looking, profoundly civil

man who was evidently in a small way, for he combined with his

funereal functions general carpentry and cabinet making. He was

perfectly willing to give any required information, but he seemed to

have very little to give.

“I never really saw the deceased gentleman,” he said in reply to

Thorndyke’s cautious inquiries. “When I took the measurements, the

corpse was covered with a sheet; and as Mrs. Ingle was in the room, I

made the business as short as possible.”

“You didn’t put the body in the coffin, then?”

“No. I left the coffin at the house, but Mrs. Ingle said that she and

the deceased gentleman’s brother would lay the body in it.”

“But didn’t you see the corpse when you screwed the coffin-lid down?”

“I didn’t screw it down. When I got there it was screwed down already.

Mrs. Ingle said they had to close up the coffin, and I dare say it was

necessary. The weather was rather warm; and I noticed a strong smell

of formalin.”

“Well,” I said, as we walked back down the Kentish Town Road, “we

haven’t got much more forward.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Thorndyke. “We have a further instance

of the extraordinary adroitness with which this scheme was carried

out; and we have confirmation of our suspicion that there was

something unusual in the appearance of the body. It is evident that

this woman did not dare to let even the undertaker see it. But one can

hardly help admiring the combination of daring and caution, the

boldness with which these risks were taken, and the care and judgment

with which they were provided against. And again I point out that the

risks were justified by the result. The secret of that man’s death

appears to have been made secure for all time.”

It certainly looked as if the mystery with which we were concerned

were beyond the reach of investigation. Of course, the woman could be

prosecuted for having forged the death certificates, to say nothing of

the charge of bigamy. But that was no concern of ours or Stalker’s.

Jonathan Ingle was dead, and no one could say how he died.

On our arrival at our chambers we found a telegram that had just

arrived, announcing that Stalker would call on us in the evening; and

as this seemed to suggest that he had some fresh information we looked

forward to his visit with considerable interest. Punctually at six

o’clock he made his appearance and at once opened the subject.

“There are some new developments in this Ingle case,” said he. “In the

first place, the woman, Huggard, has bolted. I went to the house to

make a few inquiries and found the police in possession. They had come

to arrest her on the bigamy charge, but she had got wind of their

intentions and cleared out. They made a search of the premises, but I

don’t think they found anything of interest except a number of rifle

cartridges; and I don’t know that they are of much interest either,

for she could hardly have shot him with a rifle.”

“What kind of cartridges were they?” Thorndyke asked.

Stalker put his hand in his pocket.

“The inspector let me have one to show you,” said he; and he laid on

the table a military cartridge of the pattern of some twenty years

ago. Thorndyke picked it up, and taking from a drawer a pair of pliers

drew the bullet out of the case and inserted into the latter a pair of

dissecting forceps. When he withdrew the forceps, their points grasped

one or two short strings of what looked like cat-gut.

“Cordite!” said I. “So Halbury was probably right, and this is how she

got her supply.” Then, as Stalker looked at me inquiringly, I gave him

a short account of the results of our investigations.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “the plot thickens. This juggling with the death

certificates seems to connect itself with another kind of juggling

that I came to tell you about. You know that Ingle was Secretary and

Treasurer to a company that bought and sold land for building estates.

Well, I called at their office after I left you and had a little talk

with the chairman. From him I learned that Ingle had practically

complete control of the financial affairs of the company, that he

received and paid all moneys and kept the books. Of late, however,

some of the directors have had a suspicion that all was not well with

the finances, and at last it was decided to have the affairs of the

company thoroughly overhauled by a firm of chartered accountants. This

decision was communicated to Ingle, and a couple of days later a

letter arrived from his wife saying that he had had a severe heart

attack and asking that the audit of the books might be postponed until

he recovered and was able to attend at the office.”

“And was it postponed?” I asked.

“No,” replied Stalker. “The accountants were asked to get to work at

once, which they did; with the result that they discovered a number of

discrepancies in the books and a sum of about three thousand pounds

unaccounted for. It isn’t quite obvious how the frauds were carried

out, but it is suspected that some of the returned cheques are fakes

with forged endorsements.”

“Did the company communicate with Ingle on the subject?” asked

Thorndyke.

“No. They had a further letter from Mrs. Ingle--that is,

Huggard--saying that Ingle’s condition was very serious; so they

decided to wait until he had recovered. Then, of course, came the

announcement of his death, on which the matter was postponed pending

the probate of the will. I suppose a claim will be made on the estate,

but as the executrix has absconded, the affair has become rather

complicated.”

“You were saying,” said Thorndyke, “that the fraudulent death

certificates seem to be connected with these frauds on the company.

What kind of connexion do you assume?”

“I assume--or, at least, suggest,” replied Stalker, “that this was a

case of suicide. The man, Ingle, saw that his frauds were discovered,

or were going to be, and that he was in for a long term of penal

servitude, so he just made away with himself. And I think that if the

murder charge could be dropped, Mrs. Huggard might be induced to come

forward and give evidence as to the suicide.”

Thorndyke shook his head.

“The murder charge couldn’t be dropped,” said he. “If it was suicide,

Huggard was certainly an accessory; and in law, an accessory to

suicide is an accessory to murder. But, in fact, no official charge of

murder has been made, and at present there are no means of sustaining

such a charge. The identity of the ashes might be assumed to be that

stated in the cremation order, but the difficulty is the cause of

death. Ingle was admittedly ill. He was attended for heart disease by

three doctors. There is no evidence that he did not die from that

illness.”

“But the illness was due to cordite poisoning,” said I.

“That is what we believe. But no one could swear to it. And we

certainly could not swear that he died from cordite poisoning.”

“Then,” said Stalker, “apparently there is no means of finding out

whether his death was due to natural causes, suicide, or murder?”

“There is only one chance,” replied Thorndyke. “It is just barely

possible that the cause of death might be ascertainable by an

examination of the ashes.”

“That doesn’t seem very hopeful,” said I. “Cordite poisoning would

certainly leave no trace.”

“We mustn’t assume that he died from cordite poisoning,” said

Thorndyke. “Probably he did not. That may have masked the action of a

less obvious poison, or death might have been produced by some new

agent.”

“But,” I objected, “how many poisons are there that could be detected

in the ashes? No organic poison would leave any traces, nor would

metallic poisons such as mercury, antimony, or arsenic.”

“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “But there are other metallic poisons which

could be easily recovered from the ashes; lead, tin, gold, and silver,

for instance. But it is useless to discuss speculative probabilities.

The only chance that we have of obtaining any new facts is by an

examination of the ashes. It seems infinitely improbable that we shall

learn anything from it, but there is the bare possibility and we ought

not to leave it untried.”

Neither Stalker nor I made any further remark, but I could see that

the same thought was in both our minds. It was not often that

Thorndyke was “gravelled”; but apparently the resourceful Mrs. Huggard

had set him a problem that was beyond even his powers. When an

investigator of crime is reduced to the necessity of examining a

potful of ashes in the wild hope of ascertaining from them how the

deceased met his death, one may assume that he is at the very end of

his tether. It is a forlorn hope indeed.

Nevertheless, Thorndyke seemed to view the matter quite cheerfully,

his only anxiety being lest the Home Secretary should refuse to make

the order authorizing the examination. And this anxiety was dispelled

a day or two later by the arrival of a letter giving the necessary

authority, and informing him that a Dr. Hemming--known to us both as

an expert pathologist--had been deputed to be present at the

examination and to confer with him as to the necessity for a chemical

analysis.

On the appointed day Dr. Hemming called at our chambers and we set

forth together for Liverpool Street; and as we drove thither it became

evident to me that his view of our mission was very similar to my own.

For, though he talked freely enough, and on professional topics, he

maintained a most discreet silence on the subject of the forthcoming

inspection; indeed, the first reference to the subject was made by

Thorndyke himself just as the train was approaching Corfield, where

the crematorium was situated.

“I presume,” said he, “you have made all necessary arrangements,

Hemming?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “The superintendent will meet us and will

conduct us to the catacombs, and there, in our presence, will take the

casket from its niche in the columbarium, and have it conveyed to the

office, where the examination will be made. I thought it best to use

these formalities, though, as the casket is sealed and bears the name

of the deceased, there is not much point in them.”

“No,” said Thorndyke, “but I think you were right. It would be easy to

challenge the identity of a mass of ashes if all precautions were not

taken, seeing that the ashes themselves are unidentifiable.”

“That was what I felt,” said Hemming; and then, as the train slowed

down, he added: “This is our station, and that gentleman on the

platform, I suspect, is the superintendent.”

The surmise turned out to be correct; but the cemetery official was

not the only one present bearing that title; for as we were mutually

introducing ourselves, a familiar tall figure approached up the

platform from the rear of the train--our old friend Superintendent

Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department.

“I don’t wish to intrude,” said he, as he joined the group and was

presented by Thorndyke to the strangers, “but we were notified by the

Home Office that an investigation was to be made, so I thought I would

be on the spot to pick up any crumbs of information that you may drop.

Of course, I am not asking to be present at the examination.”

“You may as well be present as an additional witness to the removal of

the urn,” said Thorndyke; and Miller accordingly joined the party,

which now made its way from the station to the cemetery.

The catacombs were in a long, low arcaded building at the end of the

pleasantly-wooded grounds, and on our way thither we passed the

crematorium, a smallish, church-like edifice with a perforated

chimney-shaft partly concealed by the low spire. Entering the

catacombs, we were conducted to the “columbarium,” the walls of which

were occupied by a multitude of niches or pigeon-holes, each niche

accommodating a terra-cotta urn or casket. The superintendent

proceeded to near the end of the gallery, where he halted, and opening

the register, which he had brought with him, read out a number and the

name “Jonathan Ingle,” and then led us to a niche bearing that number

and name, in which reposed a square casket, on which was inscribed the

name and date of death. When we had verified these particulars, the

casket was tenderly lifted from its place by two attendants, who

carried it to a well-lighted room at the end of the building, where a

large table by a window had been covered with white paper. Having

placed the casket on the table, the attendants retired, and the

superintendent then broke the seals and removed the cover.

For a while we all stood looking in at the contents of the casket

without speaking; and I found myself contrasting them with what would

have been revealed by the lifting of a coffin-lid. Truly corruption

had put on incorruption. The mass of snow-white, coral-like fragments,

delicate, fragile, and lace-like in texture, so far from being

repulsive in aspect, were almost attractive. I ran my eye, with an

anatomist’s curiosity, over these dazzling remnants of what had lately

been a man, half-unconsciously seeking to identify and give a name to

particular fragments, and a little surprised at the difficulty of

determining that this or that irregularly-shaped white object was a

part of any one of the bones with which I had thought myself so

familiar.

Presently Hemming looked up at Thorndyke and asked: “Do you observe

anything abnormal in the appearance of these ashes? I don’t.”

“Perhaps,” replied Thorndyke, “we had better turn them out on to the

table, so that we can see the whole of them.”

This was done very gently, and then Thorndyke proceeded to spread out

the heap, touching the fragments with the utmost delicacy--for they

were extremely fragile and brittle--until the whole collection was

visible.

“Well,” said Hemming, when we had once more looked them over

critically, “what do you say? I can see no trace of any foreign

substance. Can you?”

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “And there are some other things that I can’t

see. For instance, the medical referee reported that the proposer had

a good set of sound teeth. Where are they? I have not seen a single

fragment of a tooth. Yet teeth are far more resistant to fire than

bones, especially the enamel caps.”

Hemming ran a searching glance over the mass of fragments and looked

up with a perplexed frown.

“I certainly can’t see any sign of teeth,” he admitted; “and it _is_

rather curious, as you say. Does the fact suggest any particular

significance to you?”

By way of reply, Thorndyke delicately picked up a flat fragment and

silently held it out towards us. I looked at it and said nothing; for

a very strange suspicion was beginning to creep into my mind.

“A piece of a rib,” said Hemming. “Very odd that it should have broken

across so cleanly. It might have been cut with a saw.”

Thorndyke laid it down and picked up another, larger fragment, which I

had already noticed.

“Here is another example,” said he, handing it to our colleague.

“Yes,” agreed Hemming. “It is really rather extraordinary. It looks

exactly as if it had been sawn across.”

“It does,” agreed Thorndyke. “What bone should you say it is?”

“That is what I was just asking myself,” replied Hemming, looking at

the fragment with a sort of half-vexed smile. “It seems ridiculous

that a competent anatomist should be in any doubt with as large a

portion as this, but really I can’t confidently give it a name. The

shape seems to me to suggest a tibia, but of course it is much too

small. Is it the upper end of the ulna?”

“I should say no,” answered Thorndyke. Then he picked out another of

the larger fragments, and handing it to Hemming, asked him to name it.

Our friend began to look somewhat worried.

“It is an extraordinary thing, you know,” said he, “but I can’t tell

you what bone it is part of. It is clearly the shaft of a long bone,

but I’m hanged if I can say which. It is too big for a metatarsal and

too small for any of the main limb bones. It reminds one of a

diminutive thigh bone.”

“It does,” agreed Thorndyke; “very strongly.” While Hemming had been

speaking he had picked out four more large fragments, and these he now

laid in a row with the one that had seemed to resemble a tibia in

shape. Placed thus together, the five fragments bore an obvious

resemblance.

“Now,” said he, “look at these. There are five of them. They are parts

of limb bones, and the bones of which they are parts were evidently

exactly alike, excepting that three were apparently from the left side

and two from the right. Now, you know, Hemming, a man has only four

limbs, and of those only two contain similar bones. Then two of them

show distinct traces of what looks like a saw-cut.”

Hemming gazed at the row of fragments with a frown of deep cogitation.

“It is very mysterious,” he said. “And looking at them in a row they

strike me as curiously like tibiæ--in shape; not in size.”

“The size,” said Thorndyke, “is about that of a sheep’s tibia.”

“A sheep’s!” exclaimed Hemming, staring in amazement, first at the

calcined bones and then at my colleague.

“Yes; the upper half, sawn across in the middle of the shank.”

Hemming was thunderstruck.

“It is an astounding affair!” he exclaimed. “You mean to suggest----”

“I suggest,” said Thorndyke, “that there is not a sign of a human bone

in the whole collection. But there are very evident traces of at least

five legs of mutton.”

For a few moments there was a profound silence, broken only by a

murmur of astonishment from the cemetery official and a low chuckle

from Superintendent Miller, who had been listening with absorbed

interest. At length Hemming spoke.

“Then, apparently, there was no corpse in the coffin at all?”

“No,” answered Thorndyke. “The weight was made up, and the ashes

furnished, by joints of butcher’s meat. I dare say, if we go over the

ashes carefully, we shall be able to judge what they were. But it is

hardly necessary. The presence of five legs of mutton and the absence

of a single recognizable fragment of a human skeleton, together with

the forged certificates, gives us a pretty conclusive case. The rest,

I think we can leave to Superintendent Miller.”

“I take it, Thorndyke,” said I, as the train moved out of the station,

“that you came here expecting to find what you did find?”

“Yes,” he replied. “It seemed to me the only possibility, having

regard to all the known facts.”

“When did it first occur to you?”

“It occurred to me as a possibility as soon as we discovered that the

cremation certificates had been forged; but it was the undertaker’s

statement that seemed to clench the matter.”

“But he distinctly stated that he measured the body.”

“True. But there was nothing to show that it was a dead body. What was

perfectly clear was that there was something that must on no account

be seen; and when Stalker told us of the embezzlement we had a body of

evidence that could point to only one conclusion. Just consider that

evidence.

“Here we had a death, preceded by an obviously sham illness and

followed by cremation with forged certificates. Now, what was it that

had happened? There were four possible hypotheses. Normal death,

suicide, murder, and fictitious death. Which of these hypotheses

fitted the facts?

“Normal death was apparently excluded by the forged certificates.

“The theory of suicide did not account for the facts. It did not agree

with the careful, elaborate preparation. And why the forged

certificates? If Ingle had really died, Meeking would have certified

the death. And why the cremation? There was no purpose in taking those

enormous risks.

“The theory of murder was unthinkable. These certificates were almost

certainly forged by Ingle himself, who we know was a practised forger.

But the idea of the victim arranging for his own cremation is an

absurdity.

“There remained only the theory of fictitious death; and that theory

fitted all the facts perfectly. First, as to the motive. Ingle had

committed a felony. He had to disappear. But what kind of

disappearance could be so effectual as death and cremation? Both the

prosecutors and the police would forthwith write him off and forget

him. Then there was the bigamy--a criminal offence in itself. But

death would not only wipe that off; after ‘death’ he could marry

Huggard regularly under another name, and he would have shaken off his

deserted wife for ever. And he stood to gain fifteen hundred pounds

from the Insurance Company. Then see how this theory explained the

other facts. A fictitious death made necessary a fictitious illness.

It necessitated the forged certificates, since there was no corpse. It

made cremation highly desirable; for suspicion might easily have

arisen, and then the exhumation of a coffin containing a dummy would

have exploded the fraud. But successful cremation would cover up the

fraud for ever. It explained the concealment of the corpse from the

undertaker, and it even explained the smell of formalin which he

noticed.”

“How did it?” I asked.

“Consider, Jervis,” he replied. “The dummy in this coffin had to be a

dummy of flesh and bone which would yield the correct kind of ash.

Joints of butcher’s meat would fulfil the conditions. But the quantity

required would be from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds. Now

Ingle could not go to the butcher and order a whole sheep to be sent

the day before the funeral. The joints would have to be bought

gradually and stored. But the storage of meat in warm weather calls

for some kind of preservative; and formalin is highly effective, as it

leaves no trace after burning.

“So you see that the theory of fictitious death agreed with all the

known circumstances, whereas the alternative theories presented

inexplicable discrepancies and contradictions. Logically, it was the

only possible theory, and as you have seen, experiment proved it to be

the true one.”

As Thorndyke concluded, Dr. Hemming took his pipe from his mouth and

laughed softly.

“When I came down to-day,” said he, “I had all the facts which you had

communicated to the Home Office, and I was absolutely convinced that

we were coming to examine a mare’s nest. And yet, now I have heard

your exposition, the whole thing looks perfectly obvious.”

“That is usually the case with Thorndyke’s conclusions,” said I. “They

are perfectly obvious--when you have heard the explanation.”

Within a week of our expedition, Ingle was in the hands of the police.

The apparent success of the cremation adventure had misled him to a

sense of such complete security that he had neglected to cover his

tracks, and he had accordingly fallen an easy prey to our friend

Superintendent Miller. The police were highly gratified, and so were

the directors of the Griffin Life Assurance Company.

III.

THE STALKING HORSE

As Thorndyke and I descended the stairs of the footbridge at

Densford Junction we became aware that something unusual had happened.

The platform was nearly deserted save at one point, where a small but

dense crowd had collected around the open door of a first-class

compartment of the down train; heads were thrust out of the windows of

the other coaches, and at intervals doors opened and inquisitive

passengers ran along to join the crowd, from which an excited porter

detached himself just as we reached the platform.

“You’d better go for Dr. Pooke first,” the station-master called after

him.

On this, Thorndyke stepped forward.

“My friend and I,” said he, “are medical men. Can we be of any service

until the local doctor arrives?”

“I’m very much afraid not, sir,” was the reply, “but you’ll see.” He

cleared a way for us and we approached the open door.

At the first glance there appeared to be nothing to account for the

awe-stricken expression with which the bystanders peered into the

carriage and gazed at its solitary occupant. For the motionless figure

that sat huddled in the corner seat, chin on breast, might have been a

sleeping man. But it was not. The waxen pallor of the face and the

strange, image-like immobility forbade the hope of any awakening.

“It looks almost as if he had passed away in his sleep,” said the

station-master when we had concluded our brief examination and

ascertained certainly that the man was dead. “Do you think it was a

heart attack, sir?”

Thorndyke shook his head and touched with his finger a depressed spot

on the dead man’s waistcoat. When he withdrew his finger it was

smeared with blood.

“Good God!” the official gasped, in a horrified whisper. “The man has

been murdered!” He stared incredulously at the corpse for a few

moments and then turned and sprang out of the compartment, shutting

the door behind him, and we heard him giving orders for the coach to

be separated and shunted into the siding.

“This is a gruesome affair, Jervis,” my colleague said as he sat down

on the seat opposite the dead man and cast a searching glance round

the compartment. “I wonder who this poor fellow was and what was the

object of the murder? It looks almost too determined for a common

robbery; and, in fact, the body does not appear to have been robbed.”

Here he stooped suddenly to pick up one or two minute fragments of

glass which seemed to have been trodden into the carpet, and which he

examined closely in the palm of his hand. I leaned over and looked at

the fragments, and we agreed that they were portions of the bulb of an

electric torch or flash-lamp.

“The significance of these--if they have any,” said Thorndyke, “we can

consider later. But if they are recent, it would appear that the metal

part of the bulb has been picked up and taken away. That might be an

important fact. But, on the other hand, the fragments may have been

here some time and have no connexion with the tragedy; though you

notice that they were lying opposite the body and opposite the seat

which the murderer must have occupied when the crime was committed.”

As he was speaking, the uncoupled coach began slowly to move towards

the siding, and we both stooped to make a further search for the

remainder of the lamp-bulb. And then, almost at the same moment, we

perceived two objects lying under the opposite seat--the seat occupied

by the dead man. One was a small pocket-handkerchief, the other a

sheet of notepaper.

“This,” said I, as I picked up the former, “accounts for the strong

smell of scent in the compartment.”

“Possibly,” Thorndyke agreed, “though you will notice that the odour

does not come principally from the handkerchief, but from the back

cushion of the corner seat. But here is something more distinctive--a

most incriminating piece of evidence, unless it can be answered by an

undeniable alibi.” He held out to me a sheet of letter paper, both

pages of which were covered with writing in bright blue ink, done with

a Hectograph or some similar duplicator. It was evidently a circular

letter, for it bore the printed heading, “Women’s Emancipation League,

16 Barnabas Square, S.W.,” and the contents appeared to refer to a

“militant demonstration” planned for the near future.

“It is dated the day before yesterday,” commented Thorndyke, “so that

it might have been lying here for twenty-four hours, though that is

obviously improbable; and as this is neither the first sheet nor the

last, there are--or have been--at least two more sheets. The police

will have something to start on, at any rate.”

He laid the letter on the seat and explored both of the hat-racks,

taking down the dead man’s hat, gloves, and umbrella, and noting in

the hat the initials “F.B.” He had just replaced them when voices

became audible outside, and the station-master climbed up on the

foot-board and opened the door to admit two men, one of whom I assumed

to be a doctor, the other being a police inspector.

“The station-master tells me that this is a case of homicide,” said

the former, addressing us jointly.

“That is what the appearances suggest,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a

bullet wound, inflicted apparently at quite short range--the waistcoat

is perceptibly singed--and we have found no weapon in the

compartment.”

The doctor stepped past us and proceeded to make a rapid examination

of the body.

“Yes,” he said, “I agree with you. The position of the wound and the

posture of the body both suggest that death was practically

instantaneous. If it had been suicide, the pistol would have been in

the hand or on the floor. There is no clue to the identity of the

murderer, I suppose?”

“We found these on the floor under the dead man’s seat,” replied

Thorndyke, indicating the letter and the handkerchief; “and there is

some glass trodden into the carpet--apparently the remains of an

electric flash-lamp.”

The inspector pounced on the handkerchief and the letter, and having

scrutinized the former vainly in search of name or initials, turned to

the letter.

“Why, this is a suffragist’s letter!” he exclaimed. “But it can’t have

anything to do with this affair. They are mischievous beggars, but

they don’t do this sort of thing.” Nevertheless, he carefully bestowed

both articles in a massive wallet, and approaching the corpse,

remarked: “We may as well see who he is while we are waiting for the

stretcher.”

With a matter-of-fact air, which seemed somewhat to shock the

station-master, he unbuttoned the coat of the passive figure in the

corner and thrust his hand into the breast pocket, drawing out a

letter-case which he opened, and from which he extracted a visiting

card. As he glanced at it, his face suddenly took on an expression of

amazement.

“God!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Who do you think he is,

doctor? He is Mr. Francis Burnham!”

The doctor looked at him with an interrogative frown.

“Burnham--Burnham,” he repeated. “Let me see, now----”

“Don’t you know? The anti-suffrage man. Surely----”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the doctor. “Of course I remember him. The

arch-enemy of the suffrage movement and--yes, of course.” The doctor’s

brisk speech changed abruptly into a hesitating mumble. Like the

inspector, he had suddenly “seen a great light”; and again, like the

officer, his perception had begotten a sudden reticence.

Thorndyke glanced at his watch. “Our train is a minute overdue,” said

he. “We ought to get back to the platform.” Taking a card from his

case, he handed it to the inspector, who looked at it and slightly

raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t think my evidence will be of much value,” said he; “but, of

course, I am at your service if you want it.” With this and a bow to

the doctor and the station-master, he climbed down to the ground; and

when I had given the inspector my card, I followed, and we made our

way to the platform.

The case was not long in developing. That very evening, as Thorndyke

and I were smoking our after-dinner pipes by the fire, a hurried step

was heard on the stair and was followed by a peremptory knock on our

door. The visitor was a man of about thirty, with a clean-shaved face,

an intense and rather neurotic expression, and a restless, excited

manner. He introduced himself by the name of Cadmus Bawley, and

thereby, in effect, indicated the purpose of his visit.

“You know me by name, I expect,” he said, speaking rapidly and with a

sharp, emphatic manner, “and probably you can guess what I have come

about. You have seen the evening paper, of course?”

“I have not,” replied Thorndyke.

“Well,” said Mr. Bawley, “you know about the murder of the man

Burnham, because I see that you were present at the discovery; and you

know that part of a circular letter from our League was found in the

compartment. Perhaps you will not be surprised to learn that Miss

Isabel Dalby has been arrested and charged with the murder.”

“Indeed!” said Thorndyke.

“Yes. It’s an infamous affair! A national disgrace!” exclaimed Bawley,

banging the table with his fist. “A manifest plot of the enemies of

social reform to get rid of a high-minded, noble-hearted lady whose

championship of this great Cause they are unable to combat by fair

means in the open. And it is a wild absurdity, too. As to the fellow,

Burnham, I can’t pretend to feel any regret----”

“May I suggest”--Thorndyke interrupted somewhat stiffly--“that the

expression of personal sentiments is neither helpful nor discreet? My

methods of defence--if that is what you have come about--are based on

demonstration rather than rhetoric. Could you give us the plain

facts?”

Mr. Cadmus Bawley looked unmistakably sulky, but after a short pause,

he began his recital in a somewhat lower key.

“The bald facts,” he said, “are these: This afternoon, at half-past

two, Miss Dalby took the train from King’s Cross to Holmwood. This is

the train that stops at Densford Junction and is the one in which

Burnham travelled. She took a first-class ticket and occupied a

compartment for ladies only, of which she was the only occupant. She

got out at Holmwood and went straight to the house of our

Vice-President, Miss Carleigh--who has been confined to her room for

some days--and stayed there about an hour. She came back by the

four-fifteen train, and I met her at the station--King’s Cross--at a

quarter to five. We had tea at a restaurant opposite the station, and

over our tea we discussed the plans for the next demonstration, and

arranged the rendezvous and the most convenient routes for retreat and

dispersal when the police should arrive. This involved the making of

sketch plans, and these Miss Dalby drew on a sheet of paper that she

took from her pocket, and which happened to be part of the circular

letter referring to the raid. After tea we walked together down Gray’s

Inn Road and parted at Theobald’s Road, I going on to the

head-quarters and she to her rooms in Queen Square. On her arrival

home, she found two detectives waiting outside her house, and

then--and then, in short, she was arrested, like a common criminal,

and taken to the police station, where she was searched and the

remainder of the circular letter found in her pocket. Then she was

formally charged with the murder of the man Burnham, and she was

graciously permitted to send a telegram to head-quarters. It arrived

just after I got there, and, of course, I at once went to the police

station. The police refused to accept bail, but they allowed me to see

her to make arrangements for the defence.”

“Does Miss Dalby offer any suggestion,” asked Thorndyke, “as to how a

sheet of her letter came to be in the compartment with the murdered

man?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Mr. Bawley. “I had forgotten that. It wasn’t her

letter at all. She destroyed her copy of the letter as soon as she had

read it.”

“Then,” inquired Thorndyke, “how came the letter to be in her pocket?”

“Ah,” replied Bawley, “that is the mystery. She thinks someone must

have slipped it into her pocket to throw suspicion on her.”

“Did she seem surprised to find it in her pocket when you were having

tea together?”

“No. She had forgotten having destroyed her copy. She only remembered

it when I told her that the sheet had been found in Burnham’s

carriage.”

“Can she produce the fragments of the destroyed letter?”

“No, she can’t. Unfortunately she burned it.”

“Do these circular letters bear any distinguishing mark? Are they

addressed to members by name?”

“Only on the envelopes. The letters are all alike. They are run off a

duplicator. Of course, if you don’t believe the story----”

“I am not judging the case,” interrupted Thorndyke; “I am simply

collecting the facts. What do you want me to do?”

“If you feel that you could undertake the defence, I should like you

to do so. We shall employ the solicitors to the League, Bird &

Marshall, but I know they will be willing and glad to act with you.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “I will investigate the case and consult

with your solicitors. By the way, do the police know about the sheet

of the letter on which the plans were drawn?”

“No. I thought it best to say nothing about that, and I have told Miss

Dalby not to mention it.”

“That is just as well,” said Thorndyke. “Have you the sheet with the

plan on it?”

“I haven’t it about me,” was the reply. “It is in my desk at my

chambers.”

“You had better let me have it to look at,” said Thorndyke.

“You can have it if you want it, of course,” said Bawley, “but it

won’t help you. The letters are all alike, as I have told you.”

“I should like to see it, nevertheless,” said Thorndyke; “and perhaps

you could give me some account of Mr. Burnham. What do you know about

him?”

Mr. Bawley shut his lips tightly, and his face took on an expression

of vindictiveness verging on malignity.

“All I know about Burnham,” he said, “is that he was a fool and a

ruffian. He was not only an enemy of the great reform that our League

stands for; he was a treacherous enemy--violent, crafty, and

indefatigably active. I can only regard his death as a blessing to

mankind.”

“May I ask,” said Thorndyke, “if any members of your League have ever

publicly threatened to take personal measures against him?”

“Yes,” snapped Bawley. “Several of us--including myself--have

threatened to give him the hiding that he deserved. But a hiding is a

different thing from murder, you know.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed somewhat dryly; then he asked: “Do you know

anything about Mr. Burnham’s occupation and habits?”

“He was a sort of manager of the London and Suburban Bank. His job was

to supervise the suburban branches, and his habit was to visit them in

rotation. He was probably going to the branch at Holmwood when he was

killed. That is all I can tell you about him.”

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke; and as our visitor rose to depart he

continued: “Then I will look into the case and arrange with your

solicitors to have Miss Dalby properly represented at the inquest; and

I shall be glad to have that sheet of the letter as soon as you can

send or leave it.”

“Very well,” said Bawley, “though, as I have told you, it won’t be of

any use to you. It is only a duplicated circular.”

“Possibly,” Thorndyke assented. “But the other sheets will be produced

in Court, so I may as well have an opportunity of examining it

beforehand.”

For some minutes after our client had gone Thorndyke remained silent

and reflective, copying his rough notes into his pocket-book and

apparently amplifying and arranging them. Presently he looked up at me

with an unspoken question in his eyes.

“It is a queer case,” said I. “The circumstantial evidence seems to be

strongly against Miss Dalby, but it is manifestly improbable that she

murdered the man.”

“It seems so,” he agreed. “But the case will be decided on the

evidence; and the evidence will be considered by a judge, not by a

Home Secretary. You notice the importance of Burnham’s destination?”

“Yes. He was evidently dead when the train arrived at Holmwood. But it

isn’t clear how long he had been dead.”

“The evidence,” said Thorndyke, “points strongly to the tunnel between

Cawden and Holmwood as the place where the murder was committed. You

will remember that the up-express passed our train in the tunnel. If

the adjoining compartments were empty, the sound of a pistol shot

would be completely drowned by the noise of the express thundering

past. Then you will remember the fragments of the electric bulb that

we picked up, and that there was no light on in the carriage. That is

rather significant. It not only suggests that the crime was committed

in the dark, but there is a distinct suggestion of

preparation--arrangement and premeditation. It suggests that the

murderer knew what the circumstances would be and provided for them.”

“Yes; and that is rather a point against our client. But I don’t quite

see what you expect to get out of that sheet of the letter. It is the

presence of the letter, rather than its matter, that constitutes the

evidence against Miss Dalby.”

“I don’t expect to learn anything from it,” replied Thorndyke; “but

the letter will be the prosecution’s trump card, and it is always well

to know in advance exactly what cards your opponent holds. It is a

mere matter of routine to examine everything, relevant or irrelevant.”

The inquest was to be held at Densford on the third day after the

discovery of the body. But in the interval certain new facts had come

to light. One was that the deceased was conveying to the Holmwood

branch of the bank a sum of three thousand pounds, of which one

thousand was in gold and the remainder in Bank of England notes, the

whole being contained in a leather handbag. This bag had been found,

empty, in a ditch by the side of the road which led from the station

to the house of Miss Carleigh, the Vice-President of the Women’s

Emancipation League. It was further stated that the ticket-collector

at Holmwood had noticed that Miss Dalby--whom he knew by sight--was

carrying a bag of the kind described when she passed the barrier, and

that when she returned, about an hour later, she had no bag with her.

On the other hand, Miss Carleigh had stated that the bag which Miss

Dalby brought to her house was her (Miss Carleigh’s) property, and she

had produced it for the inspection of the police. So that already

there was some conflict of evidence, with a balance distinctly against

Miss Dalby.

“There is no denying,” said Thorndyke, as we discussed the case at the

breakfast table on the morning of the inquest, “that the

circumstantial evidence is formidably complete and consistent, while

the rebutting evidence is of the feeblest. Miss Dalby’s statement that

the letter had been put into her pocket by some unknown person will

hardly be taken seriously, and even Miss Carleigh’s statement with

reference to the bag will not carry much weight unless she can furnish

corroboration.”

“Nevertheless,” said I, “the general probabilities are entirely in

favour of the accused. It is grossly improbable that a lady like Miss

Dalby would commit a robbery with murder of this cold-blooded,

deliberate type.”

“That may be,” Thorndyke retorted, “but a jury has to find in

accordance with the evidence.”

“By the way,” said I, “did Bawley ever send you that sheet of the

letter that you asked for?”

“No, confound him! But I have sent Polton round to get it from him, so

that I can look it over carefully in the train. Which reminds me that

I can’t get down in time for the opening of the inquest. You had

better travel with the solicitors and see the shorthand writers

started. I shall have to come down by a later train.”