Half an hour later, just as I was about to start, a familiar step was

heard on the stair, and then our laboratory assistant, Polton, let

himself in with his key.

“Just caught him, sir, as he was starting for the station,” he said,

with a satisfied, crinkly smile, laying an envelope on the table, and

added, “Lord! how he did swear!”

Thorndyke chuckled, and having thanked his assistant, opened the

envelope and handed it to me. It contained a single sheet of

letter-paper, exactly similar to the one that we had found in the

railway carriage, excepting that the writing filled one side and a

quarter only, and, since it concluded with the signature “Letitia

Humboe, President,” it was evidently the last sheet. There was no

water-mark nor anything, so far as I could see, to distinguish it from

the dozens of other impressions that had been run off the duplicator

with it, excepting the roughly-pencilled plan on the blank side of the

sheet.

“Well,” I said as I put on my hat and walked towards the door, “I

suspect that Bawley was right. You won’t get much help from this to

support Miss Dalby’s rather improbable statement.” And Thorndyke

agreed that appearances were not very promising.

The scene in the coffee-room of “The Plough” Inn at Densford was one

with which I was familiar enough. The quiet, business-like coroner,

the half-embarrassed jurors, the local police and witnesses and the

spectators, penned up at one end of the room, were all well-known

characters. The unusual feature was the handsome,

distinguished-looking young lady who sat on a plain Windsor chair

between two inscrutable policemen, watched intently by Mr. Cadmus

Bawley. Miss Dalby was pale and obviously agitated, but quiet,

resolute, and somewhat defiant in manner. She greeted me with a

pleasant smile when I introduced myself, and hoped that I and my

colleague would have no difficulty in disposing of “this grotesque and

horrible accusation.”

I need not describe the proceedings in detail. Evidence of the

identity of the deceased having been taken, Dr. Pooke deposed that

death was due to a wound of the heart produced by a spherical bullet,

apparently fired from a small, smooth-bore pistol at very short range.

The wound was in his opinion not self-inflicted. The coroner then

produced the sheet of the circular letter found in the carriage, and I

was called to testify to the finding of it. The next witness was

Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department, who

produced the two sheets of the letter which were taken from Miss

Dalby’s pocket when she was arrested. These he handed to the coroner

for comparison with the one found in the carriage with the body of

deceased.

“There appears,” said the coroner, after placing the three sheets

together, “to be one or more sheets missing. The two you have handed

me are sheets one and three, and the one found in the railway carriage

is sheet two.”

“Yes,” the witness agreed, “sheet four is missing, but I have a

photograph of it. Here is a set of the complete letter,” and he laid

four unmounted prints on the table.

The coroner examined them with a puzzled frown. “May I ask,” he said,

“how you obtained these photographs?”

“They are not photographs of the copy that you have,” the witness

explained, “but of another copy of the same letter which we

intercepted in the post. That letter was addressed to a stationer’s

shop to be called for. We have considered it necessary to keep

ourselves informed of the contents of these circulars, so that we can

take the necessary precautions; and as the envelopes are marked with

the badge and are invariably addressed in blue ink, it is not

difficult to identify them.”

“I see,” said the coroner, glaring stonily at Mr. Bawley, who had

accompanied the Superintendent’s statement with audible and

unfavourable comments. “Is that the whole of your evidence? Thank you.

Then, if there is no cross-examination, I will call the next witness.

Mr. Bernard Parsons.”

Mr. Parsons was the general manager of the London and Suburban Bank,

and he deposed that deceased was, on the day when he met his death,

travelling to Holmwood to visit and inspect the new local branch of

the bank, and that he was taking thither the sum of three thousand

pounds, of which one thousand was in gold and the remainder in Bank of

England notes--mostly five-pound notes. He carried the notes and

specie in a strong leather handbag.

“Can you say if either of these is the bag that he carried?” the

coroner asked, indicating two largish, black leather bags that his

officer had placed on the table.

Mr. Parsons promptly pointed to the larger of the two, which was

smeared externally with mud. The coroner noted the answer and then

asked:

“Did anyone besides yourself know that deceased was making this

visit?”

“Many persons must have known,” was the reply. “Deceased visited the

various branches in a fixed order. He came to Holmwood on the second

Tuesday in the month.”

“And would it be known that he had this great sum of money with him?”

“The actual amount would not be generally known, but he usually took

with him supplies of specie and notes--sometimes very large sums--and

this would be known to many of the bank staff, and probably to a good

many persons outside. The Holmwood Branch consumes a good deal of

specie, as most of the customers pay in cheques and draw out cash for

local use.”

This was the substance of Mr. Parsons’ evidence, and when he sat down

the ticket-collector was called. That official identified Miss Dalby

as one of the passengers by the train in which the body of deceased

was found. She was carrying a bag when she passed the barrier. He

could not identify either of the bags, but both were similar to the

one that she was carrying. She returned about an hour later and caught

an up-train, and he noticed that she was then not carrying a bag. He

could not say whether any of the other passengers was carrying a bag.

There were very few first-class passengers by that train, but a large

number of third-class--mostly fruit-pickers--and they made a dense

crowd at the barrier, so that he did not notice individual passengers

particularly. He noticed Miss Dalby because he knew her by sight, as

she often came to Holmwood with other suffragist ladies. He did not

see which carriage Miss Dalby came from, and he did not see any

first-class compartment with an open door.

The coroner noted down this evidence with thoughtful deliberation, and

I was considering whether there were any questions that it would be

advisable to ask the witness when I felt a light touch on my shoulder,

and looking up perceived a constable holding out a telegram. Observing

that it was addressed to “Dr. Jervis, Plough Inn, Densford,” I nodded

to the constable, and taking the envelope from him, opened it and

unfolded the paper. The telegram was from Thorndyke, in the simple

code that he had devised for our private use. I was able to decode it

without referring to the key--which each of us always carried in his

pocket--and it then read:

“I am starting for Folkestone _in re_ Burnham deceased. Follow

immediately and bring Miller if you can for possible arrest. Meet me

on pier near Ostend boat. Thorndyke.”

Accustomed as I was to my colleague’s inveterate habit of acting in

the least expected manner, I must confess that I gazed at the decoded

message in absolute stupefaction. I had been totally unaware of the

faintest clue beyond the obvious evidence to which I had been

listening, and behold! here was Thorndyke with an entirely fresh case,

apparently cut-and-dried, and the unsuspected criminal in the hollow

of his hand. It was astounding.

Unconsciously I raised my eyes--and met those of Superintendent

Miller, fixed on me with devouring curiosity. I held up the telegram

and beckoned, and immediately he tip-toed across and took a seat by my

side. I laid the decoded telegram before him, and when he had glanced

through it, I asked in a whisper: “Well, what do you say?”

By way of reply, he whisked out a time-table, conned it eagerly for a

few minutes, and then held it towards me with his thumb-nail on the

words “Densford Junction.”

“There’s a fast train up in seven minutes,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Get the coroner to excuse us and let your solicitors carry on for

you.”

A brief, and rather vague, explanation secured the assent of the

coroner--since we had both given our evidence--and the less willing

agreement of my clients. In another minute the superintendent and I

were heading for the station, which we reached just as the train swept

up alongside the platform.

“This is a queer start,” said Miller, as the train moved out of the

station; “but, Lord! there is never any calculating Dr. Thorndyke’s

moves. Did you know that he had anything up his sleeve?”

“No; but then one never does know. He is as close as an oyster. He

never shows his hand until he can play a trump card. But it is

possible that he has struck a fresh clue since I left.”

“Well,” rejoined Miller, “we shall know when we get to the other end.

And I don’t mind telling you that it will be a great relief to me if

we can drop this charge against Miss Dalby.”

From time to time during the journey to London, and from thence to

Folkestone, the superintendent reverted to Thorndyke’s mysterious

proceedings. But it was useless to speculate. We had not a single fact

to guide us; and when, at last, the train ran into Folkestone Central

Station, we were as much in the dark as when we started.

Assuming that Thorndyke would have made any necessary arrangements for

assistance from the local police, we chartered a cab and proceeded

direct to the end of Rendez-vous Street--a curiously appropriate

destination, by the way. Here we alighted in order that we might make

our appearance at the meeting place as inconspicuously as possible,

and, walking towards the harbour, perceived Thorndyke waiting on the

quay, ostensibly watching the loading of a barge, and putting in their

case a pair of prismatic binoculars with which he had apparently

observed our arrival.

“I am glad you have come, Miller,” he said, shaking the

superintendent’s hand. “I can’t make any promises, but I have no doubt

that it is a case for you even if it doesn’t turn out all that I hope

and expect. The _Cornflower_ is our ship, and we had better go on

board separately in case our friends are keeping a look-out. I have

arranged matters with the captain, and the local superintendent has

got some plain-clothes men on the pier.”

With this we separated. Thorndyke went on in advance, and Miller and I

followed at a discreet interval.

As I descended the gangway a minute or so after Miller, a steward

approached me, and having asked my name, requested me to follow him,

when he conducted me to the purser’s office, in which I found

Thorndyke and Miller in conversation with the purser.

“The gentlemen you are inquiring for,” said the latter, “are in the

smoking-room playing cards with another passenger. I have put a

tarpaulin over one of the ports, in case you want to have a look at

them without being seen.”

“Perhaps you had better make a preliminary inspection, Miller,” said

Thorndyke. “You may know some of them.”

To this suggestion the superintendent agreed, and forthwith went off

with the purser, leaving me and Thorndyke alone. I at once took the

opportunity to demand an explanation.

“I take it that you struck some new evidence after I left you?”

“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “And none too soon, as you see. I don’t

quite know what it will amount to, but I think we have secured the

defence, at any rate; and that is really all that we are concerned

with. The positive aspects of the case are the business of the police.

But here comes Miller, looking very pleased with himself, and with the

purser.”

The superintendent, however, was not only pleased; he was also not a

little puzzled.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “this is a quaint affair. We have got two of the

leading lights of the suffrage movement in there. One is Jameson, the

secretary of the Women’s Emancipation League, the other is Pinder,

their chief bobbery-monger. Then there are two men named Dorman and

Spiller, both of them swell crooks, I am certain, though we have never

been able to fix anything on them. The fifth man I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “My repertoire includes only four. And

now we will proceed to sort them out. Could we have a few words with

Mr. Thorpe--in here, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” replied the purser. “I’ll go and fetch him.” He bustled

away in the direction of the smoking-room, whence he presently

reappeared, accompanied by a tall, lean man who wore large bi-focal

spectacles of the old-fashioned, split-lens type, and was smoking a

cigar. As the new-comer approached down the alley-way, it was evident

that he was nervous and uneasy, though he maintained a certain jaunty

swagger that accorded ill with a pronounced, habitual stoop. As he

entered the cabin, however, and became aware of the portentous group

of strangers, the swagger broke down completely; suddenly his face

became ashen and haggard, and he peered through his great spectacles

from one to the others with an expression of undisguisable terror.

“Mr. Thorpe?” queried Thorndyke; and the superintendent murmured:

“Alias Pinder.”

“Yes,” was the reply, in a husky undertone. “What can I do for you?”

Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.

“I charge this man,” said he, “with having murdered Francis Burnham in

the train between London and Holmwood.”

The superintendent was visibly astonished, but not more so than the

accused, on whom Thorndyke’s statement produced the most singular

effect. In a moment, his terror seemed to drop from him; the colour

returned to his face, the haggard expression of which gave place to

one of obvious relief.

Miller stood up, and addressing the accused, began:

“It is my duty to caution you--” but the other interrupted:

“Caution your grandmother! You are talking a parcel of dam’ nonsense.

I was in Birmingham when the murder was committed. I can prove it,

easily.”

The superintendent was somewhat taken aback, for the accused spoke

with a confidence that carried conviction.

“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “you can probably explain how a letter

belonging to you came to be found in the carriage with the murdered

man.”

“Belonging to me!” exclaimed Thorpe. “What the deuce do you mean? That

letter belonged to Miss Dalby. The rest of it was found in her

pocket.”

“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “One sheet had been placed in the railway

carriage and the remainder in Miss Dalby’s pocket to fix suspicion on

her. But it was your letter, and the inference is that you disposed of

it in that manner for the purpose that I have stated.”

“But,” persisted Thorpe, with visibly-growing uneasiness, “this was a

duplicated circular. You couldn’t tell one copy from another.”

“Mr. Pinder,” said Thorndyke, in an impressively quiet tone, “if I

tell you that I ascertained from that letter that you had taken a

passage on this ship in the name of Thorpe, you will probably

understand what I mean.”

Apparently he did understand, for, once more, the colour faded from

his face and he sat down heavily on a locker, fixing on Thorndyke a

look of undisguised dismay. Thus he sat for some moments, motionless

and silent, apparently thinking hard.

Suddenly he started up. “My God!” he exclaimed, “I see now what has

happened. The infernal scoundrel! First he put it on to Miss Dalby,

and now he has put it on to me. Now I understand why he looked so

startled when I ran against him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Thorndyke.

“I’ll tell you,” replied Pinder. “As I move about a good deal--and for

other reasons--I used to have my suffrage letters sent to a

stationer’s shop in Barlow Street----”

“I know,” interrupted the superintendent; “Bedall’s. I used to look

them over and take photographs of them.” He grinned craftily as he

made this statement, and, rather to my surprise, the accused grinned

too. A little later I understood that grin.

“Well,” continued Pinder, “I used to collect these letters pretty

regularly. But this last letter was delivered while I was away at

Birmingham. Before I came back I met a man who gave me

certain--er--instructions--you know what they were,” he added,

addressing Thorndyke--“so I did not need the letter. But, of course, I

couldn’t leave it there uncollected, so when I got back to London, I

called for it. That was two days ago. To my astonishment Miss Bedall

declared that I had collected it three days previously. I assured her

that I was not in London on that day, but she was positive that I had

called. ‘I remember clearly,’ she said, ‘giving you the letter

myself.’ Well, there was no arguing. Evidently she had given the

letter to the wrong person--she is very nearsighted, I should say,

judging by the way she holds things against her nose--but how it

happened I couldn’t understand. But I think I understand now. There is

one person only in the world who knew that I had my letters addressed

there: a sort of pal of mine named Payne. He happened to be with me

one evening when I called to collect my letters. Now, Payne chanced to

be a good deal like me--at least, he is tall and thin and stoops a

bit; but he does not wear spectacles. He tried on my spectacles once

for a joke, and then he really looked extremely like me. He looked in

a mirror and remarked on the resemblance himself. Now, Payne did not

belong to the Women’s League, and I suggest that he took advantage of

this resemblance to get possession of this letter. He got a pair of

spectacles like mine and personated me at the shop.”

“Why should he want to get possession of that letter?” Miller

demanded.

“To plant it as he has planted it,” replied Pinder, “and set the

police on a false trail.”

“This sounds pretty thin,” said Miller. “You are accusing this man of

having murdered Mr. Burnham. What grounds have you for this

accusation?”

“My grounds,” replied Pinder, “are, first, that he stole this letter

which has been found, obviously planted; and, second, that he had a

grudge against Burnham and knew all about his movements.”

“Indeed!” said Miller, with suddenly increased interest. “Then who and

what is this man Payne?”

“Why,” replied Pinder, “until a month ago, he was assistant cashier at

the Streatham branch of the bank. Then Burnham came down and hoofed

him out without an hour’s notice. I don’t know what for, but I can

guess.”

“Do you happen to know where Payne is at this moment?”

“Yes, I do. He is on this ship, in the smoking-room--only he is Mr.

Shenstone now. And mighty sick he was when he found me on board.”

The superintendent looked at Thorndyke.

“What do you think about it, doctor?” he asked.

“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that we had better have Mr. Shenstone in

here and ask him a few questions. Would you see if you can get him to

come here?” he added, addressing the purser, who had been listening

with ecstatic enjoyment.

“I’ll get him to come along all right,” replied the purser, evidently

scenting a new act in this enthralling drama; and away he bustled, all

agog. In less than a minute we saw him returning down the alley-way,

with a tall, thin man, who, at a distance, was certainly a good deal

like Pinder, though the resemblance diminished as he approached. He,

too, was obviously agitated, and seemed to be plying the purser with

questions. But when he came opposite the door of the cabin he stopped

dead and seemed disposed to shrink back.

“Is that the man?” Thorndyke demanded sharply and rather loudly,

springing to his feet as he spoke.

The effect of the question was electrical. As Thorndyke rose, the

new-comer turned, and, violently thrusting the purser aside, raced

madly down the alley-way and out on to the deck.

“Stop that man!” roared Miller, darting out in pursuit; and at the

shout a couple of loitering deck-hands headed the fugitive off from

the gangway. Following, I saw the terrified man swerving this way and

that across the littered deck to avoid the seamen, who joined in the

pursuit; I saw him make a sudden frantic burst for a baggage-slide

springing from a bollard up to the bulwark-rail. Then his foot must

have tripped on a lashing, for he staggered for a moment, flung out

his arms with a wild shriek, and plunged headlong into the space

between the ship’s side and the quay wall.

In an instant the whole ship was in an uproar. An officer and two

hands sprang to the rail with ropes and a boathook, while others

manned the cargo derrick and lowered a rope with a running bowline

between the ship and the quay.

“He’s gone under,” a hoarse voice proclaimed from below; “but I can

see him jammed against the side.”

There were a couple of minutes of sickening suspense. Then the voice

from below was heard again.

“Heave up!”

The derrick-engine rattled, the taut rope came up slowly, and at

length out of that horrid gulf arose a limp and dripping shape that,

as it cleared the bulwark, was swung inboard and let down gently on

the deck. Thorndyke and I stooped over him. But it was a dead man’s

face that we looked into; and a tinge of blood on the lips told the

rest of the tale.

“Cover him up,” said the superintendent. “He’s out of our jurisdiction

now. But what’s going on there?”

Following his look, I perceived a small, scattered crowd of men all

running furiously along the quay towards the town. Some of them I

judged to be the late inmates of the smoking-room and some

plain-clothes men. The only figure that I recognized was that of Mr.

Pinder, and he was already growing small in the distance.

“The local police will have to deal with them,” said Miller. Then

turning to the purser, he asked: “What baggage had this man?”

“Only two cabin trunks,” was the reply. “They are both in his

state-room.”

To the state-room we followed the purser, when Miller had possessed

himself of the dead man’s keys, and the two trunks were hoisted on to

the bunk and opened. Each trunk contained a large cash-box, and each

cash-box contained five hundred pounds in gold and a big bundle of

notes. The latter Miller examined closely, checking their numbers by a

column of entries in his pocket-book.

“Yes,” he reported at length; “it’s a true bill. These are the notes

that were stolen from Mr. Burnham. And now I will have a look at the

baggage of those other four sportsmen.”

This being no affair of ours, Thorndyke and I went ashore and slowly

made our way towards the town. But presently the superintendent

overtook us in high glee, with the news that he had discovered what

appeared to be the accumulated “swag” of a gang of swell burglars for

whom he had been for some months vainly on the look-out.

“How was it done?” repeated Thorndyke in reply to Miller’s question,

as we sat at a retired table in the “Lord Warden” Hotel. “Well, it was

really very simple. I am afraid I shall disappoint you if you expect

anything ingenious and recondite. Of course, it was obvious that Miss

Dalby had not committed this atrocious murder and robbery; and it was

profoundly improbable that this extremely incriminating letter had

been dropped accidentally. That being so, it was almost certain that

the letter had been ‘planted,’ as Pinder expressed it. But that was a

mere opinion that helped us not at all. The actual solution turned

upon a simple chemical fact with which I happened to be acquainted;

which is this: that all the basic coal-tar dyes, and especially

methylene blue, dye oxycellulose without requiring a mordant, but do

not react in this way on cellulose. Now, good paper is practically

pure cellulose; and if you dip a sheet of such paper into certain

oxidizing liquids, such as a solution of potassium chlorate with a

slight excess of hydrochloric acid, the paper is converted into

oxycellulose. But if instead of immersing the paper, you write on it

with a quill or glass pen dipped in the solution, only the part which

has been touched by the pen is changed into oxycellulose. No change is

visible to the eye: but if a sheet of paper written on with this

colourless fluid is dipped in a solution of, say, methylene blue, the

invisible writing immediately becomes visible. The oxycellulose takes

up the blue dye.

“Now, when I picked up that sheet of the letter in the railway

carriage and noted that the ink used appeared to be methylene blue,

this fact was recalled to my mind. Then, on looking at it closely, I

seemed to detect a certain slight spottiness in the writing. There

were points on some of the letters that were a little deeper in colour

than the rest; and it occurred to me that it was possible that these

circulars might be used to transmit secret messages of a less innocent

kind than those that met the unaided eye, just as these political

societies might form an excellent cover for the operations of criminal

associations. But if the circulars had been so used, it is evident

that the secret writing would not be on all the circulars. The

prepared sheets would be used only for the circulars that were to be

sent to particular persons, and in those cases the secret writing

would probably be in the nature of a personal communication, either to

a particular individual or to a small group. The possible presence of

a secret message thus became of vital evidential importance; for if it

could be shown that this letter was addressed to some person other

than Miss Dalby, that would dispose of the only evidence connecting

her with the crime.

“It happened, most fortunately, that I was able to get possession of

the final sheet of this letter----”

“Of course it did,” growled Miller, with a sour smile.

“It reached me,” continued Thorndyke, “only after Dr. Jervis had

started for Densford. The greater part of one side was blank,

excepting for a rough plan drawn in pencil, and this blank side I laid

down on a sheet of glass and wetted the written side with a small wad

of cotton-wool dipped in distilled water. Of course, the blue writing

began to run and dissolve out; and then, very faintly, some other

writing began to show through in reverse. I turned the paper over, and

now the new writing, though faint, was quite legible, and became more

so when I wiped the blue-stained cotton-wool over it a few times. A

solution of methylene blue would have made it still plainer, but I

used water only, as I judged that the blue writing was intended to

furnish the dye for development. Here is the final result.”

He drew from his pocket a letter-case, from which he extracted a

folded paper which he opened and laid on the table. It was stained a

faint blue, through which the original writing could be seen, dim and

blurred, while the secret message, though very pale, was quite sharp

and clear. And this was the message:

“… so although we are not actually blown on, the position is getting

risky and it’s time for us to hop. I have booked passages for the four

of us to Ostend by the _Cornflower_, which sails on Friday evening

next (20th). The names of the four illustrious passengers are, Walsh

(that’s me), Grubb (Dorman), Jenkins (Spiller), and Thorpe (that’s

you). Get those names well into your canister--better make a note of

them--and turn up in good time on Friday.”

“Well,” said Miller, as he handed back the letter, “we can’t know

everything--unless we are Dr. Thorndyke. But there’s one thing I do

know.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“I know why that fellow, Pinder, grinned when I told him that I had

photographed his confounded letters.”

IV.

THE NATURALIST AT LAW

A hush had fallen on the court as the coroner concluded his brief

introductory statement and the first witness took up his position by

the long table. The usual preliminary questions elicited that Simon

Moffet, the witness aforesaid, was fifty-eight years of age, that he

followed the calling of a shepherd and that he was engaged in

supervising the flocks that fed upon the low-lying meadows adjoining

the little town of Bantree in Buckinghamshire.

“Tell us how you came to discover the body,” said the coroner.

“’Twas on Wednesday morning, about half-past five,” Moffet began. “I

was getting the sheep through the gate into the big meadow by Reed’s

farm, when I happened to look down the dyke, and then I noticed a boot

sticking up out of the water. Seemed to me as if there was a foot in

it by the way it stuck up, so as soon as all the sheep was in, I shut

the gate and walked down the dyke to have a look at un. When I got

close I see the toe of another boot just alongside. Looks a bit queer,

I thinks, but I couldn’t see anything more, ’cause the duck-weed is

that thick as it looks as if you could walk on it. Howsever, I clears

away the weed with my stick, and then I see ’twas a dead man. Give me

a rare turn, it did. He was a-layin’ at the bottom of the ditch with

his head near the middle and his feet up close to the bank. Just then

young Harry Walker comes along the cart-track on his way to work, so I

shows him the body and sends him back to the town for to give notice

at the police station.”

“And is that all you know about the affair?”

“Ay. Later on I see the sergeant come along with a man wheelin’ the

stretcher, and I showed him where the body was and helped to pull it

out and load it on the stretcher. And that’s all I know about it.”

On this the witness was dismissed and his place taken by a

shrewd-looking, business-like police sergeant, who deposed as follows:

“Last Wednesday, the 8th of May, at 6.15 a.m., I received information

from Henry Walker that a dead body was lying in the ditch by the

cart-track leading from Ponder’s Road to Reed’s farm. I proceeded

there forthwith, accompanied by Police-Constable Ketchum, and taking

with us a wheeled stretcher. On the track I was met by the last

witness, who conducted me to the place where the body was lying and

where I found it in the position that he has described; but we had to

clear away the duck-weed before we could see it distinctly. I examined

the bank carefully, but could see no trace of footprints, as the grass

grows thickly right down to the water’s edge. There were no signs of a

struggle or any disturbance on the bank. With the aid of Moffet and

Ketchum, I drew the body out and placed it on the stretcher. I could

not see any injuries or marks of violence on the body or anything

unusual about it. I conveyed it to the mortuary, and with Constable

Ketchum’s assistance removed the clothing and emptied the pockets,

putting the contents of each pocket in a separate envelope and writing

the description on each. In a letter-case from the coat pocket were

some visiting cards bearing the name and address of Mr. Cyrus Pedley,

of 21 Hawtrey Mansions, Kensington, and a letter signed Wilfred

Pedley, apparently from deceased’s brother. Acting on instructions, I

communicated with him and served a summons to attend this inquest.”

“With regard to the ditch in which you found the body,” said the

coroner, “can you tell us how deep it is?”

“Yes; I measured it with Moffet’s crook and a tape measure. In the

deepest part, where the body was lying, it is four feet two inches

deep. From there it slopes up pretty sharply to the bank.”

“So far as you can judge, if a grown man fell into the ditch by

accident, would he have any difficulty in getting out?”

“None at all, I should say, if he were sober and in ordinary health. A

man of medium height, standing in the middle at the deepest part would

have his head and shoulders out of water; and the sides are not too

steep to climb up easily, especially with the grass and rushes on the

bank to lay hold of.”

“You say there were no signs of disturbance on the bank. Were there

any in the ditch itself?”

“None that I could see. But, of course, signs of disturbance soon

disappear in water. The duck-weed drifts about as the wind drives it,

and there are creatures moving about on the bottom. I noticed that

deceased had some weed grasped in one hand.”

This concluded the sergeant’s evidence, and as he retired, the name of

Dr. Albert Parton was called. The new witness was a young man of grave

and professional aspect, who gave his evidence with an extreme regard

for clearness and accuracy.

“I have made an examination of the body of the deceased,” he began,

after the usual preliminaries. “It is that of a healthy man of about

forty-five. I first saw it about two hours after it was found. It had

then been dead from twelve to fifteen hours. Later I made a complete

examination. I found no injuries, marks of violence or any definite

bruises, and no signs of disease.”

“Did you ascertain the cause of death?” the coroner asked.

“Yes. The cause of death was drowning.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“Quite sure. The lungs contained a quantity of water and duck-weed,

and there was more than a quart of water mixed with duck-weed and

water-weed in the stomach. That is a clear proof of death by drowning.

The water in the lungs was the immediate cause of death, by making

breathing impossible, and as the water and weed in the stomach must

have been swallowed, they furnish conclusive evidence that deceased

was alive when he fell into the water.”

“The water and weed could not have got into the stomach after death?”

“No, that is quite impossible. They must have been swallowed when the

head of the deceased was just below the surface; and the water must

have been drawn into the lungs by spasmodic efforts to breathe when

the mouth was under water.”

“Did you find any signs indicating that deceased might have been

intoxicated?”

“No. I examined the water from the stomach very carefully with that

question in view, but there was no trace of alcohol--or, indeed, of

anything else. It was simple ditch-water. As the point is important I

have preserved it, and----” here the witness produced a paper parcel

which he unfastened, revealing a large glass jar containing about a

quart of water plentifully sprinkled with duck-weed. This he presented

to the coroner, who waved it away hastily and indicated the jury; to

whom it was then offered and summarily rejected with emphatic

head-shakes. Finally it came to rest on the table by the place where I

was sitting with my colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, and our client, Mr.

Wilfred Pedley. I glanced at it with faint interest, noting how the

duck-weed plants had risen to the surface and floated, each with its

tassel of roots hanging down into the water, and how a couple of tiny,

flat shells, like miniature ammonites, had sunk and lay on the bottom

of the jar. Thorndyke also glanced at it; indeed, he did more than

glance, for he drew the jar towards him and examined its contents in

the systematic way in which it was his habit to examine everything.

Meanwhile the coroner asked:

“Did you find anything abnormal or unusual, or anything that could

throw light on how deceased came to be in the water?”

“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “I found simply that deceased met

his death by drowning.”

Here, as the witness seemed to have finished his evidence, Thorndyke

interposed.

“The witness states, sir, there were no definite bruises. Does he mean

that there were any marks that might have been bruises?”

The coroner glanced at Dr. Parton, who replied:

“There was a faint mark on the outside of the right arm, just above

the elbow, which had somewhat the appearance of a bruise, as if the

deceased had been struck with a stick. But it was very indistinct. I

shouldn’t like to swear that it was a bruise at all.”

This concluded the doctor’s evidence, and when he had retired, the

name of our client, Wilfred Pedley, was called. He rose, and having

taken the oath and given his name and address, deposed:

“I have viewed the body of deceased. It is that of my brother, Cyrus

Pedley, who is forty-three years of age. The last time I saw deceased

alive was on Tuesday morning, the day before the body was found.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or state of mind?”

The witness hesitated but at length replied:

“Yes. He seemed anxious and depressed. He had been in low spirits for

some time past, but on this occasion he seemed more so than usual.”

“Had you any reason to suspect that he might contemplate taking his

life?”

“No,” the witness replied, emphatically, “and I do not believe that he

would, under any circumstances, have contemplated suicide.”

“Have you any special reason for that belief?”

“Yes. Deceased was a highly conscientious man and he was in my debt.

He had occasion to borrow two thousand pounds from me, and the debt

was secured by an insurance on his life. If he had committed suicide

that insurance would be invalidated and the debt would remain unpaid.

From my knowledge of him, I feel certain that he would not have done

such a thing.”

The coroner nodded gravely, and then asked:

“What was deceased’s occupation?”

“He was employed in some way by the Foreign Office, I don’t know in

what capacity. I know very little about his affairs.”

“Do you know if he had any money worries or any troubles or

embarrassments of any kind?”

“I have never heard of any; but deceased was a very reticent man. He

lived alone in his flat, taking his meals at his club, and no one

knew--at least, I did not--how he spent his time or what was the state

of his finances. He was not married, and I am his only near relative.”

“And as to deceased’s habits. Was he ever addicted to taking more

stimulants than was good for him?”

“Never,” the witness replied emphatically. “He was a most temperate

and abstemious man.”

“Was he subject to fits of any kind, or fainting attacks?”

“I have never heard that he was.”

“Can you account for his being in this solitary place at this

time--apparently about eight o’clock at night?”

“I cannot. It is a complete mystery to me. I know of no one with whom

either of us was acquainted in this district. I had never heard of the

place until I got the summons to the inquest.”

This was the sum of our client’s evidence, and, so far, things did not

look very favourable from our point of view--we were retained on the

insurance question, to rebut, if possible, the suggestion of suicide.

However, the coroner was a discreet man, and having regard to the

obscurity of the case--and perhaps to the interests involved--summed

up in favour of an open verdict; and the jury, taking a similar view,

found that deceased met his death by drowning, but under what

circumstances there was no evidence to show.

“Well,” I said, as the court rose, “that leaves it to the insurance

people to make out a case of suicide if they can. I think you are

fairly safe, Mr. Pedley. There is no positive evidence.”

“No,” our client replied. “But it isn’t only the money I am thinking

of. It would be some consolation to me for the loss of my poor brother

if I had some idea how he met with his death, and could feel sure that

it was an unavoidable misadventure. And for my own

satisfaction--leaving the insurance out of the question--I should like

to have definite proof that it was not suicide.”

He looked half-questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded gravely.

“Yes,” the latter agreed, “the suggestion of suicide ought to be

disposed of if possible, both for legal and sentimental reasons. How

far away is the mortuary?”

“A couple of minutes’ walk,” replied Mr. Pedley. “Did you wish to

inspect the body?”

“If it is permissible,” replied Thorndyke; “and then I propose to have

a look at the place where the body was found.”

“In that case,” our client said, “I will go down to the Station Hotel

and wait for you. We may as well travel up to town together, and you

can then tell me if you have seen any further light on the mystery.”

As soon as he was gone, Dr. Parton advanced, tying the string of the

parcel which once more enclosed the jar of ditch-water.

“I heard you say, sir, that you would like to inspect the body,” said

he. “If you like, I will show you the way to the mortuary. The

sergeant will let us in, won’t you, sergeant? This gentleman is a

doctor as well as a lawyer.”

“Bless you, sir,” said the sergeant, “I know who Dr. Thorndyke is, and

I shall feel it an honour to show him anything he wishes to see.”

Accordingly we set forth together, Dr. Parton and Thorndyke leading

the way.

“The coroner and the jury didn’t seem to appreciate my exhibit,” the

former remarked with a faint grin, tapping the parcel as he spoke.

“No,” Thorndyke agreed; “and it is hardly reasonable to expect a

layman to share our own matter-of-fact outlook. But you were quite

right to produce the specimen. That ditch-water furnishes conclusive

evidence on a vitally material question. Further, I would advise you

to preserve that jar for the present, well covered and under lock and

key.”

Parton looked surprised.

“Why?” he asked. “The inquest is over and the verdict pronounced.”

“Yes, but it was an open verdict, and an open verdict leaves the case

in the air. The inquest has thrown no light on the question as to how

Cyrus Pedley came by his death.”

“There doesn’t seem to me much mystery about it,” said the doctor.

“Here is a man found drowned in a shallow ditch which he could easily

have got out of if he had fallen in by accident. He was not drunk.

Apparently he was not in a fit of any kind. There are no marks of

violence and no signs of a struggle, and the man is known to have been

in an extremely depressed state of mind. It looks like a clear case of

suicide, though I admit that the jury were quite right, in the absence

of direct evidence.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “it will be my duty to contest that view if

the insurance company dispute the claim on those grounds.”

“I can’t think what you will have to offer in answer to the suggestion

of suicide,” said Parton.

“Neither can I, at present,” replied Thorndyke. “But the case doesn’t

look to me quite so simple as it does to you.”

“You think it possible that an analysis of the contents of this jar

may be called for?”

“That is a possibility,” replied Thorndyke. “But I mean that the case

is obscure, and that some further inquiry into the circumstances of

this man’s death is by no means unlikely.”

“Then,” said Parton, “I will certainly follow your advice and lock up

this precious jar. But here we are at the mortuary. Is there anything

in particular that you want to see?”

“I want to see all that there is to see,” Thorndyke replied. “The

evidence has been vague enough so far. Shall we begin with that bruise

or mark that you mentioned?”

Dr. Parton advanced to the grim, shrouded figure that lay on the

slate-topped table, like some solemn effigy on an altar tomb, and drew

back the sheet that covered it. We all approached, stepping softly,

and stood beside the table, looking down with a certain awesome

curiosity at the still, waxen figure that, but a few hours since, had

been a living man like ourselves. The body was that of a good-looking,

middle-aged man with a refined, intelligent face--slightly disfigured

by a scar on the cheek--now set in the calm, reposeful expression that

one so usually finds on the faces of the drowned; with drowsy,

half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips that revealed a considerable

gap in the upper front teeth.

Thorndyke stood awhile looking down on the dead man with a curious

questioning expression. Then his eye travelled over the body, from the

placid face to the marble-like torso and the hand which, though now

relaxed, still lightly grasped a tuft of water-weed. The latter

Thorndyke gently disengaged from the limp hand, and, after a glance at

the dark green, feathery fronds, laid it down and stooped to examine

the right arm at the spot above the elbow that Parton had spoken of.

“Yes,” he said, “I think I should call it a bruise, though it is very

faint. As you say, it might have been produced by a blow with a stick

or rod. I notice that there are some teeth missing. Presumably he wore

a plate?”

“Yes,” replied Parton; “a smallish gold plate with four teeth on

it--at least, so his brother told me. Of course, it fell out when he

was in the water, but it hasn’t been found; in fact, it hasn’t been

looked for.”

Thorndyke nodded and then turned to the sergeant.

“Could I see what you found in the pockets?” he asked.

The sergeant complied readily, and my colleague watched his orderly

procedure with evident approval. The collection of envelopes was

produced from an attaché-case and conveyed to a side table, where the

sergeant emptied out the contents of each into a little heap, opposite

which he placed the appropriate envelope with its written description.

Thorndyke ran his eye over the collection--which was commonplace

enough--until he came to the tobacco pouch, from which protruded the

corner of a scrap of crumpled paper. This he drew forth and smoothed

out the creases, when it was seen to be a railway receipt for an

excess fare.

“Seems to have lost his ticket or travelled without one,” the sergeant

remarked. “But not on this line.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke. “It is the Tilbury and Southend line. But you

notice the date. It is the 18th; and the body was found on the morning

of Wednesday, the 19th. So it would appear that he must have come into

this neighbourhood in the evening; and that he must have come either

by way of London or by a very complicated cross-country route. I

wonder what brought him here.”

He produced his note-book and was beginning to copy the receipt when

the sergeant said:

“You had better take the paper, sir. It is of no use to us now, and it

isn’t very easy to make out.”

Thorndyke thanked the officer, and, handing me the paper, asked:

“What do you make of it, Jervis?”

I scrutinized the little crumpled scrap and deciphered with difficulty

the hurried scrawl, scribbled with a hard, ill-sharpened pencil.

“It seems to read Ldn to ‘C.B. or S.B., Hlt’--that is some ‘Halt,’ I

presume. But the amount, 4/9, is clear enough, and that will give us a

clue if we want one.” I returned the paper to Thorndyke, who bestowed

it in his pocket-book and then remarked:

“I don’t see any keys.”

“No, sir,” replied the sergeant, “there aren’t any. Rather queer,

that, for he must have had at least a latch-key. They must have fallen

out into the water.”

“That is possible,” said Thorndyke, “but it would be worth while to

make sure. Is there anyone who could show us the place where the body

was found?”

“I will walk up there with you myself, sir, with pleasure,” said the

sergeant, hastily repacking the envelopes. “It is only a quarter of an

hour’s walk from here.”

“That is very good of you, sergeant,” my colleague responded; “and as

we seem to have seen everything here, I propose that we start at once.

You are not coming with us, Parton?”

“No,” the doctor replied. “I have finished with the case and I have

got my work to do.” He shook hands with us heartily and watched

us--with some curiosity, I think--as we set forth in company with the

sergeant.

His curiosity did not seem to me to be unjustified. In fact, I shared

it. The presence of the police officer precluded discussion, but as we

took our way out of the town I found myself speculating curiously on

my colleague’s proceedings. To me, suicide was written plainly on

every detail of the case. Of course, we did not wish to take that

view, but what other was possible? Had Thorndyke some alternative

theory? Or was he merely, according to his invariable custom, making

an impartial survey of everything, no matter how apparently trivial,

in the hope of lighting on some new and informative fact?

The temporary absence of the sergeant, who had stopped to speak to a

constable on duty, enabled me to put the question.

“Is this expedition intended to clear up anything in particular?”

“No,” he replied, “excepting the keys, which ought to be found. But

you must see for yourself that this is not a straightforward case.

That man did not come all this way merely to drown himself in a ditch.

I am quite in the dark at present, so there is nothing for it but to

examine everything with our own eyes and see if there is anything that

has been overlooked that may throw some light on either the motive or

the circumstances. It is always desirable to examine the scene of a

crime or a tragedy.”

Here the return of the sergeant put a stop to the discussion and we

proceeded on our way in silence. Already we had passed out of the

town, and we now turned out of the main road into a lane or by-road,

bordered by meadows and orchards and enclosed by rather high

hedgerows.

“This is Ponder’s Road,” said the sergeant. “It leads to Renham, a

couple of miles farther on, where it joins the Aylesbury Road. The

cart track is on the left a little way along.”

A few minutes later we came to our turning, a narrow and rather muddy

lane, the entrance to which was shaded by a grove of tall elms.

Passing through this shady avenue, we came out on a grass-covered

track, broken by deep wagon-ruts and bordered on each side by a ditch,

beyond which was a wide expanse of marshy meadows.

“This is the place,” said the sergeant, halting by the side of the

right-hand ditch and indicating a spot where the rushes had been

flattened down. “It was just as you see it now, only the feet were

just visible sticking out of the duck-weed, which had drifted back

after Moffet had disturbed it.”

We stood awhile looking at the ditch, with its thick mantle of bright

green, spotted with innumerable small dark objects and showing here

and there a faint track where a water-vole had swum across.

“Those little dark objects are water-snails, I suppose,” said I, by

way of making some kind of remark.

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “the common Amber shell, I think--_Succinea

putris_.” He reached out his stick and fished up a sample of the

duck-weed, on which one or two of the snails were crawling. “Yes,” he

repeated. “_Succinea putris_ it is; a queer little left-handed shell,

with the spire, as you see, all lop-sided. They have a habit of

swarming in this extraordinary way. You notice that the ditch is

covered with them.”

I had already observed this, but it hardly seemed to be worth

commenting on under the present circumstances--which was apparently

the sergeant’s view also, for he looked at Thorndyke with some

surprise, which developed into impatience when my colleague proceeded

further to expand on the subject of natural history.

“These water-weeds,” he observed, “are very remarkable plants in their

various ways. Look at this duck-weed, for instance. Just a little

green oval disc with a single root hanging down into the water, like a

tiny umbrella with a long handle; and yet it is a complete plant, and

a flowering plant, too.” He picked a specimen off the end of his stick

and held it up by its root to exhibit its umbrella-like form; and as

he did so, he looked in my face with an expression that I felt to be

somehow significant; but of which I could not extract the meaning. But

there was no difficulty in interpreting the expression on the

sergeant’s face. He had come here on business and he wanted to “cut

the cackle and get to the hosses.”

“Well, sergeant,” said Thorndyke, “there isn’t much to see, but I

think we ought to have a look for those keys. He must have had keys of

some kind, if only a latch-key; and they must be in this ditch.”

The sergeant was not enthusiastic. “I’ve no doubt you are right, sir,”

said he; “but I don’t see that we should be much forrarder if we found

them. However, we may as well have a look, only I can’t stay more than

a few minutes. I’ve got my work to do at the station.”

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “let us get to work at once. We had better

hook out the weed and look it over; and if the keys are not in that,

we must try to expose the bottom where the body was lying. You must

tell us if we are working in the right place.”

With this he began, with the crooked handle of his stick, to rake up

the tangle of weed that covered the bottom of the ditch and drag the

detached masses ashore, piling them on the bank and carefully looking

them through to see if the keys should chance to be entangled in their

meshes. In this work I took my part under the sergeant’s direction,

raking in load after load of the delicate, stringy weed, on the pale

green ribbon-like leaves of which multitudes of the water-snails were

creeping; and sorting over each batch in hopeless and fruitless search

for the missing keys. In about ten minutes we had removed the entire

weedy covering from the bottom of the ditch over an area of from eight

to nine feet--the place which, according to the sergeant, the body had

occupied; and as the duck-weed had been caught by the tangled masses

of water-weed that we had dragged ashore, we now had an uninterrupted

view of the cleared space save for the clouds of mud that we had

stirred up.

“We must give the mud a few minutes to settle,” said Thorndyke.

“Yes,” the sergeant agreed, “it will take some time; and as it doesn’t

really concern me now that the inquest is over, I think I will get

back to the station if you will excuse me.”

Thorndyke excused him very willingly, I think, though politely and

with many thanks for his help. When he had gone I remarked:

“I am inclined to agree with the sergeant. If we find the keys we

shan’t be much forrarder.”

“We shall know that he had them with him,” he replied. “Though, of

course, if we don’t find them, that will not prove that they are not

here. Still, I think we should try to settle the question.”

His answer left me quite unconvinced; but the care with which he

searched the ditch and sorted out the weed left me in no doubt that,

to him, the matter seemed to be of some importance. However, nothing

came of the search. If the keys were there they were buried in the

mud, and eventually we had to give up the search and make our way back

towards the station.

As we passed out of the lane into Ponder’s Road, Thorndyke stopped at

the entrance, under the trees, by a little triangle of turf which

marked the beginning of the lane, and looked down at the muddy ground.

“Here is quite an interesting thing, Jervis,” he remarked, “which

shows us how standardized objects tend to develop an individual

character. These are the tracks of a car, or more probably a

tradesman’s van, which was fitted with Barlow tyres. Now there must be

thousands of vans fitted with these tyres; they are the favourite type

for light covered vans, and when new they are all alike and

indistinguishable. Yet this tyre--of the off hind-wheel--has acquired

a character which would enable one to pick it out with certainty from

ten thousand others. First, you see, there is a deep cut in the tyre

at an angle of forty-five, then a kidney-shaped ‘Blakey’ has stuck in

the outer tyre without puncturing the inner; and finally some adhesive

object--perhaps a lump of pitch from a newly-mended road--has become

fixed on just behind the ‘Blakey.’ Now, if we make a rough sketch of

those three marks and indicate their distance apart, thus”--here he

made a rapid sketch in his note-book, and wrote in the intervals in

inches--“we have the means of swearing to the identity of a vehicle

which we have never seen.”

“And which,” I added, “had for some reason swerved over to the wrong

side of the road. Yes, I should say that tyre is certainly unique. But

surely most tyres are identifiable when they have been in use for some

time.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “That was my point. The standardized thing is

devoid of character only when it is new.”

It was not a very subtle point, and as it was fairly obvious I made no

comment, but presently reverted to the case of Pedley deceased.

“I don’t quite see why you are taking all this trouble. The insurance

claim is not likely to be contested. No one can prove that it was a

case of suicide, though I should think no one will feel any doubt that

it was, at least that is my own feeling.”

Thorndyke looked at me with an expression of reproach.

“I am afraid that my learned friend has not been making very good use

of his eyes,” said he. “He has allowed his attention to be distracted

by superficial appearances.”

“You don’t think that it was suicide, then?” I asked, considerably

taken aback.

“It isn’t a question of thinking,” he replied. “It was certainly not

suicide. There are the plainest indications of homicide; and, of

course, in the particular circumstances, homicide means murder.”

I was thunderstruck. In my own mind I had dismissed the case somewhat

contemptuously as a mere commonplace suicide. As my friend had truly

said, I had accepted the obvious appearances and let them mislead me,

whereas Thorndyke had followed his golden rule of accepting nothing

and observing everything. But what was it that he had observed? I knew

that it was useless to ask, but still I ventured on a tentative

question.

“When did you come to the conclusion that it was a case of homicide?”

“As soon as I had had a good look at the place where the body was

found,” he replied promptly.

This did not help me much, for I had given very little attention to

anything but the search for the keys. The absence of those keys was,

of course, a suspicious fact, if it was a fact. But we had not proved

their absence; we had only failed to find them.

“What do you propose to do next?” I asked.

“Evidently,” he answered, “there are two things to be done. One is to

test the murder theory--to look for more evidence for or against it;

the other is to identify the murderer, if possible. But really the two

problems are one, since they involve the questions, Who had a motive

for killing Cyrus Pedley? and Who had the opportunity and the means?”

Our discussion brought us to the station, where, outside the hotel, we

found Mr. Pedley waiting for us.

“I am glad you have come,” said he. “I was beginning to fear that we

should lose this train. I suppose there is no new light on this

mysterious affair?”

“No,” Thorndyke replied. “Rather there is a new problem. No keys were

found in your brother’s pockets, and we have failed to find them in

the ditch; though, of course, they may be there.”

“They must be,” said Pedley. “They must have fallen out of his pocket

and got buried in the mud, unless he lost them previously, which is

most unlikely. It is a pity, though. We shall have to break open his

cabinets and drawers, which he would have hated. He was very

fastidious about his furniture.”

“You will have to break into his flat, too,” said I.

“No,” he replied, “I shan’t have to do that. I have a duplicate of his

latch-key. He had a spare bedroom which he let me use if I wanted to

stay in town.” As he spoke, he produced his key-bunch and exhibited a

small Chubb latch-key. “I wish we had the others, though,” he added.

Here the up-train was heard approaching and we hurried on to the

platform, selecting an empty first-class compartment as it drew up. As

soon as the train had started, Thorndyke began his inquiries, to which

I listened attentively.

“You said that your brother had been anxious and depressed lately. Was

there anything more than this? Any nervousness or foreboding?”

“Well, yes,” replied Pedley. “Looking back, I seem to see that the

possibility of death was in his mind. A week or two ago he brought his

will to me to see if it was quite satisfactory to me as the principal

beneficiary; and he handed to me his last receipt for the insurance

premium. That looks a little suggestive.”

“It does,” Thorndyke agreed. “And as to his occupation and his

associates, what do you know about them?”

“His private friends are mostly my own, but of his official associates

I know nothing. He was connected with the Foreign Office; but in what

capacity I don’t know at all. He was extremely reticent on the

subject. I only know that he travelled about a good deal, presumably

on official business.”

This was not very illuminating, but it was all our client had to tell;

and the conversation languished somewhat until the train drew up at

Marylebone, when Thorndyke said, as if by an after-thought:

“You have your brother’s latch-key. How would it be if we just took a

glance at the flat? Have you time now?”

“I will make time,” was the reply, “if you want to see the flat. I

don’t see what you could learn from inspecting it; but that is your

affair. I am in your hands.”

“I should like to look round the rooms,” Thorndyke answered; and as

our client assented, we approached a taxi-cab and entered while Pedley

gave the driver the necessary directions. A quarter of an hour later

we drew up opposite a tall block of buildings, and Mr. Pedley, having

paid off the cab, led the way to the lift.

The dead man’s flat was on the third floor, and, like the others, was

distinguished only by the number on the door. Mr. Pedley inserted the

key into the latch, and having opened the door, preceded us across the

small lobby into the sitting-room.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, as he entered, “this solves your problem.” As he

spoke, he pointed to the table, on which lay a small bunch of keys,

including a latch-key similar to the one that he had shown us.

“But,” he continued, “it is rather extraordinary. It just shows what a

very disturbed state his mind must have been in.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, looking critically about the room; “and as

the latch-key is there, it raises the question whether the keys may

have been out of his possession. Do you know what the various locked

receptacles contain?”

“I know pretty well what is in the bureau; but as to the cupboard

above it, I have never seen it open and don’t know what he kept in it.

I always assumed that he reserved it for his official papers. I will

just see if anything seems to have been disturbed.”

He unlocked and opened the flap of the old-fashioned bureau and pulled

out the small drawers one after the other, examining the contents of

each. Then he opened each of the larger drawers and turned over the

various articles in them. As he closed the last one, he reported:

“Everything seems to be in order--cheque-book, insurance policy, a few

share certificates, and so on. Nothing seems to have been touched. Now

we will try the cupboard, though I don’t suppose its contents would be

of much interest to anyone but himself. I wonder which is the key.”

He looked at the keyhole and made a selection from the bunch, but it

was evidently the wrong key. He tried another and yet another with a

like result, until he had exhausted the resources of the bunch.

“It is very remarkable,” he said. “None of these keys seems to fit. I

wonder if he kept this particular key locked up or hidden. It wasn’t

in the bureau. Will you try what you can do?”

He handed the bunch to Thorndyke, who tried all the keys in succession

with the same result. None of them was the key belonging to the lock.

At length, having tried them all, he inserted one and turned it as far

as it would go. Then he gave a sharp pull; and immediately the door

came open.

“Why, it was unlocked after all!” exclaimed Mr. Pedley. “And there is

nothing in it. That is why there was no key on the bunch. Apparently

he didn’t use the cupboard.”

Thorndyke looked critically at the single vacant shelf, drawing his

finger along it in two places and inspecting his finger-tips. Then he

turned his attention to the lock, which was of the kind that is

screwed on the inside of the door, leaving the bolt partly exposed. He

took the bolt in his fingers and pushed it out and then in again; and

by the way it moved I could see that the spring was broken. On this he

made no comment, but remarked:

“The cupboard has been in use pretty lately. You can see the trace of

a largish volume--possibly a box-file--on the shelf. There is hardly

any dust there, whereas the rest of the shelf is fairly thickly

coated. However, that does not carry us very far; and the appearance

of the rooms is otherwise quite normal.”

“Quite,” agreed Pedley. “But why shouldn’t it be? You didn’t

suspect----”

“I was merely testing the suggestion offered by the absence of the

keys,” said Thorndyke. “By the way, have you communicated with the

Foreign Office?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I suppose I ought to. What had I better say

to them?”

“I should merely state the facts in the first instance. But you can,

if you like, say that I definitely reject the idea of suicide.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” said Pedley. “Can I give any reasons

for your opinion?”

“Not in the first place,” replied Thorndyke. “I will consider the case

and let you have a reasoned report in a day or two, which you can show

to the Foreign Office and also to the insurance company.”

Mr. Pedley looked as if he would have liked to ask some further

questions, but as Thorndyke now made his way to the door, he followed

in silence, pocketing the keys as we went out. He accompanied us down

to the entry and there we left him, setting forth in the direction of

South Kensington Station.

“It looked to me,” said I, as soon as we were out of ear-shot, “as if

that lock had been forced. What do you think?”

“Well,” he answered, “locks get broken in ordinary use, but taking all

the facts together, I think you are right. There are too many

coincidences for reasonable probability. First, this man leaves his

keys, including his latch-key, on the table, which is an extraordinary

thing to do. On that very occasion, he is found dead under

inexplicable circumstances. Then, of all the locks in his rooms, the

one which happens to be broken is the one of which the key is not on

the bunch. That is a very suspicious group of facts.”

“It is,” I agreed. “And if there is, as you say--though I can’t

imagine on what grounds--evidence of foul play, that makes it still

more suspicious. But what is the next move? Have you anything in

view?”

“The next move,” he replied, “is to clear up the mystery of the dead

man’s movements on the day of his death. The railway receipt shows

that on that day he travelled down somewhere into Essex. From that

place, he took a long, cross-country journey of which the destination

was a ditch by a lonely meadow in Buckinghamshire. The questions that

we have to answer are, What was he doing in Essex? Why did he make

that strange journey? Did he make it alone? and, if not, Who

accompanied him?

“Now, obviously, the first thing to do is to locate that place in

Essex; and when we have done that, to go down there and see if we can

pick up any traces of the dead man.”

“That sounds like a pretty vague quest,” said I; “but if we fail, the

police may be able to find out something. By the way, we want a new

_Bradshaw_.”

“An excellent suggestion, Jervis,” said he. “I will get one as we go

into the station.”

A few minutes later, as we sat on a bench waiting for our train, he

passed to me the open copy of _Bradshaw_, with the crumpled railway

receipt.

“You see,” said he, “it was apparently ‘G.B.Hlt.’ and the fare from

London was four and ninepence. Here is Great Buntingfield Halt, the

fare to which is four and ninepence. That must be the place. At any

rate, we will give it a trial. May I take it that you are coming to

lend a hand? I shall start in good time to-morrow morning.”

I assented emphatically. Never had I been more completely in the dark

than I was in this case, and seldom had I known Thorndyke to be more

positive and confident. Obviously, he had something up his sleeve; and

I was racked with curiosity as to what that something was.

On the following morning we made a fairly early start, and half-past

ten found us seated in the train, looking out across a dreary waste of

marshes, with the estuary of the Thames a mile or so distant. For the

first time in my recollection Thorndyke had come unprovided with his

inevitable “research case,” but I noted that he had furnished himself

with a botanist’s vasculum--or tin collecting-case--and that his

pocket bulged as if he had some other appliances concealed about his

person. Also that he carried a walking-stick that was strange to me.

“This will be our destination, I think,” he said, as the train slowed

down; and sure enough it presently came to rest beside a little

makeshift platform on which was displayed the name “Great Buntingfield

Halt.” We were the only passengers to alight, and the guard, having

noted the fact, blew his whistle and dismissed the little station with

a contemptuous wave of his flag.

Thorndyke lingered on the platform after the train had gone, taking a

general survey of the country. Half a mile away to the north a small

village was visible; while to the south the marshes stretched away to

the river, their bare expanse unbroken save by a solitary building

whose unredeemed hideousness proclaimed it a factory of some kind.

Presently the station-master approached deferentially, and as we

proffered our tickets, Thorndyke remarked:

“You don’t seem overburdened with traffic here.”

“No, sir. You’re right,” was the emphatic reply. “’Tis a dead-alive

place. Excepting the people at the Golomite Works and one now and then

from the village, no one uses the halt. You’re the first strangers

I’ve seen for more than a month.”

“Indeed,” said Thorndyke. “But I think you are forgetting one. An

acquaintance of mine came here last Tuesday--and by the same token, he

hadn’t got a ticket and had to pay his fare.”

“Oh, I remember,” the station-master replied. “You mean a gentleman

with a scar on his cheek. But I don’t count him as a stranger. He has

been here before; I think he is connected with the works, as he always

goes up their road.”

“Do you happen to remember what time he came back?” Thorndyke asked.

“He didn’t come back at all,” was the reply. “I am sure of that,

because I work the halt and level crossing by myself. I remember

thinking it queer that he didn’t come back, because the ticket that he

had lost was a return. He must have gone back in the van belonging to

the works--that one that you see coming towards the crossing.”

As he spoke, he pointed to a van that was approaching down the factory

road--a small covered van with the name “Golomite Works” painted, not

on the cover, but on a board that was attached to it. The

station-master walked towards the crossing to open the gates, and we

followed; and when the van had passed, Thorndyke wished our friend

“Good morning,” and led the way along the road, looking about him with

lively interest and rather with the air of one looking for something

in particular.

We had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the factory when

the road approached a wide ditch; and from the attention with which my

friend regarded it, I suspected that this was the something for which

he had been looking. It was, however, quite unapproachable, for it was

bordered by a wide expanse of soft mud thickly covered with rushes and

trodden deeply by cattle. Nevertheless, Thorndyke followed its margin,

still looking about him keenly, until, about a couple of hundred yards

from the factory, I observed a small decayed wooden staging or quay,

apparently the remains of a vanished footbridge. Here Thorndyke

halted, and unbuttoning his coat, began to empty out his pockets,

producing first the vasculum, then a small case containing three

wide-mouthed bottles--both of which he deposited on the ground--and

finally a sort of miniature landing-net, which he proceeded to screw

on to the ferrule of his stick.

“I take it,” said I, “that these proceedings are a blind to cover some

sort of observations.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “We are engaged in the study of pond and

ditch natural history, and a most fascinating and instructive study it

is. The variety of forms is endless. This ditch, you observe, like the

one at Bantree, is covered with a dense growth of duck-weed: but

whereas that ditch was swarming with succineæ, here there is not a

single succinea to be seen.”

I grunted a sulky assent, and watched suspiciously as he filled the

bottles with water from the ditch and then made a preliminary sweep

with his net.

“Here is a trial sample,” said he, holding the loaded net towards me.

“Duck-weed, horn-weed, Planorbis nautileus, but no succineæ. What do

you think of it, Jervis?”

I looked distastefully at the repulsive mess, but yet with attention,

for I realized that there was a meaning in his question. And then,

suddenly, my attention sharpened. I picked out of the net a strand of

dark green, plumy weed and examined it.

“So this is horn-weed,” I said. “Then it was a piece of horn-weed that

Cyrus Pedley held grasped in his hand; and now I come to think of it,

I don’t remember seeing any horn-weed in the ditch at Bantree.”

He nodded approvingly. “There wasn’t any,” said he.

“And these little ammonite-like shells are just like those that I

noticed at the bottom of Dr. Parton’s jar. But I don’t remember seeing

any in the Bantree ditch.”

“There were none there,” said he. “And the duck-weed?”

“Oh, well,” I replied, “duck-weed is duck-weed, and there’s an end of

it.”

He chuckled aloud at my answer, and quoting:

“_A primrose by the river’s brim_

_A yellow primrose was to him_,”

bestowed a part of the catch in the vasculum, then turned once more to

the ditch and began to ply his net vigorously, emptying out each

netful on the grass, looking it over quickly and then making a fresh

sweep, dragging the net each time through the mud at the bottom. I

watched him now with a new and very lively interest; for enlightenment

was dawning, mingled with some self-contempt and much speculation as

to how Thorndyke had got his start in this case.

But I was not the only interested watcher. At one of the windows of

the factory I presently observed a man who seemed to be looking our

way. After a few seconds’ inspection he disappeared, to reappear

almost immediately with a pair of field-glasses, through which he took

a long look at us. Then he disappeared again, but in less than a

minute I saw him emerge from a side door and advance hurriedly towards

us.

“We are going to have a notice of ejectment served on us, I fancy,”

said I.

Thorndyke glanced quickly at the approaching stranger but continued to

ply his net, working, as I noticed, methodically from left to right.

When the man came within fifty yards he hailed us with a brusque

inquiry as to what our business was. I went forward to meet him and,

if possible, to detain him in conversation; but this plan failed, for

he ignored me and bore straight down on Thorndyke.

“Now, then,” said he, “what’s the game? What are you doing here?”

Thorndyke was in the act of raising his net from the water, but he now

suddenly let it fall to the bottom of the ditch while he turned to

confront the stranger.

“I take it that you have some reason for asking,” said he.

“Yes, I have,” the other replied angrily and with a slight foreign

accent that agreed with his appearance--he looked like a Slav of some

sort. “This is private land. It belongs to the factory. I am the

manager.”

“The land is not enclosed,” Thorndyke remarked.

“I tell you the land is private land,” the fellow retorted excitedly.

“You have no business here. I want to know what you are doing.”

“My good sir,” said Thorndyke, “there is no need to excite yourself.

My friend and I are just collecting botanical and other specimens.”

“How do I know that?” the manager demanded. He looked round

suspiciously and his eye lighted on the vasculum. “What have you got

in that thing?” he asked.

“Let him see what is in it,” said Thorndyke, with a significant look

at me.

Interpreting this as an instruction to occupy the man’s attention for

a few moments, I picked up the vasculum and placed myself so that he

must turn his back to Thorndyke to look into it. I fumbled awhile with

the catch, but at length opened the case and began to pick out the

weed strand by strand. As soon as the stranger’s back was turned

Thorndyke raised his net and quickly picked out of it something which

he slipped into his pocket. Then he advanced towards us, sorting out

the contents of his net as he came.

“Well,” he said, “you see we are just harmless naturalists. By the

way, what did you think we were looking for?”

“Never mind what I thought,” the other replied fiercely. “This is

private land. You have no business here, and you have got to clear

out.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “As you please. There are plenty of other

ditches.” He took the vasculum and the case of bottles, and having put

them in his pocket, unscrewed his net, wished the stranger “Good

morning,” and turned back towards the station. The man stood watching

us until we were near the level crossing, when he, too, turned back

and retired to the factory.

“I saw you take something out of the net,” said I. “What was it?”

He glanced back to make sure that the manager was out of sight. Then

he put his hand in his pocket, drew it out closed, and suddenly opened

it. In his palm lay a small gold dental plate with four teeth on it.

“My word!” I exclaimed; “this clenches the matter with a vengeance.

That is certainly Cyrus Pedley’s plate. It corresponds exactly to the

description.”

“Yes,” he replied, “it is practically a certainty. Of course, it will

have to be identified by the dentist who made it. But it is a foregone

conclusion.”

I reflected as we walked towards the station on the singular sureness

with which Thorndyke had followed what was to me an invisible trail.

Presently I said:

“What is puzzling me is how you got your start in this case. What gave

you the first hint that it was homicide and not suicide or

misadventure?”

“It was the old story, Jervis,” he replied; “just a matter of

observing and remembering apparently trivial details. Here, by the

way, is a case in point.”

He stopped and looked down at a set of tracks in the soft, earth

road--apparently those of the van which we had seen cross the line. I

followed the direction of his glance and saw the clear impression of a

Blakey’s protector, preceded by that of a gash in the tyre and

followed by that of a projecting lump.

“But this is astounding!” I exclaimed. “It is almost certainly the

same track that we saw in Ponder’s Road.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I noticed it as we came along.” He brought out his

spring-tape and note-book, and handing the latter to me, stooped and

measured the distances between the three impressions. I wrote them

down as he called them out, and then we compared them with the note

made in Ponder’s Road. The measurements were identical, as were the

relative positions of the impressions.

“This is an important piece of evidence,” said he. “I wish we were

able to take casts, but the notes will be pretty conclusive. And now,”

he continued as we resumed our progress towards the station, “to

return to your question. Parton’s evidence at the inquest proved that

Cyrus Pedley was drowned in water which contained duck-weed. He

produced a specimen and we both saw it. We saw the duck-weed in it and

also two Planorbis shells. The presence of those two shells proved

that the water in which he was drowned must have swarmed with them. We

saw the body, and observed that one hand grasped a wisp of horn-weed.

Then we went to view the ditch and we examined it. That was when I

got, not a mere hint, but a crucial and conclusive fact. The ditch was

covered with duck-weed, as we expected. _But it was the wrong

duck-weed._”

“The wrong duck-weed!” I exclaimed. “Why, how many kinds of duck-weed

are there?”

“There are four British species,” he replied. “The Greater Duck-weed,

the Lesser Duck-weed, the Thick Duck-weed, and the Ivy-leaved

Duck-weed. Now the specimens in Parton’s jar I noticed were the

Greater Duck-weed, which is easily distinguished by its roots, which

are multiple and form a sort of tassel. But the duck-weed on the

Bantree ditch was the Lesser Duck-weed, which is smaller than the

other, but is especially distinguished by having only a single root.

It is impossible to mistake one for the other.

“Here, then, was practically conclusive evidence of murder. Cyrus

Pedley had been drowned in a pond or ditch. But not in the ditch in

which his body was found. Therefore his dead body had been conveyed

from some other place and put into this ditch. Such a proceeding

furnishes _prima facie_ evidence of murder. But as soon as the

question was raised, there was an abundance of confirmatory evidence.

There was no horn-weed or Planorbis shells in the ditch, but there

were swarms of succineæ, some of which would inevitably have been

swallowed with the water. There was an obscure linear pressure mark on

the arm of the dead man, just above the elbow: such a mark as might be

made by a cord if a man were pinioned to render him helpless. Then the

body would have had to be conveyed to this place in some kind of

vehicle; and we found the traces of what appeared to be a motor-van,

which had approached the cart-track on the wrong side of the road, as

if to pull up there. It was a very conclusive mass of evidence; but it

would have been useless but for the extraordinarily lucky chance that

poor Pedley had lost his railway ticket and preserved the receipt; by

which we were able to ascertain where he was on the day of his death

and in what locality the murder was probably committed. But that is

not the only way in which Fortune has favoured us. The

station-master’s information was, and will be, invaluable. Then it was

most fortunate for us that there was only one ditch on the factory

land; and that that ditch was accessible at only one point, which must

have been the place where Pedley was drowned.”

“The duck-weed in this ditch is, of course, the Greater Duck-weed?”

“Yes. I have taken some specimens as well as the horn-weed and

shells.”

He opened the vasculum and picked out one of the tiny plants,

exhibiting the characteristic tassel of roots.

“I shall write to Parton and tell him to preserve the jar and the

horn-weed if it has not been thrown away. But the duck-weed alone,

produced in evidence, would be proof enough that Pedley was not

drowned in the Bantree ditch; and the dental plate will show where he

was drowned.”

“Are you going to pursue the case any farther?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “I shall call at Scotland Yard on my way home and

report what I have learned and what I can prove in court. Then I shall

have finished with the case. The rest is for the police, and I imagine

they won’t have much difficulty. The circumstances seem to tell their

own story. Pedley was employed by the Foreign Office, probably on some

kind of secret service. I imagine that he discovered the existence of

a gang of evil-doers--probably foreign revolutionaries, of whom we may

assume that our friend the manager of the factory is one; that he

contrived to associate himself with them and to visit the factory

occasionally to ascertain what was made there besides Golomite--if

Golomite is not itself an illicit product. Then I assume that he was

discovered to be a spy, that he was lured down here; that he was

pinioned and drowned some time on Tuesday night and his body put into

the van and conveyed to a place miles away from the scene of his

death, where it was deposited in a ditch apparently identical in

character with that in which he was drowned. It was an extremely

ingenious and well-thought-out plan. It seemed to have provided for

every kind of inquiry, and it very narrowly missed being successful.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But it didn’t provide for Dr. John Thorndyke.”

“It didn’t provide for a searching examination of all the details,” he

replied; “and no criminal plan that I have ever met has done so. The

completeness of the scheme is limited by the knowledge of the

schemers, and, in practice, there is always something overlooked. In

this case, the criminals were unlearned in the natural history of

ditches.”

Thorndyke’s theory of the crime turned out to be substantially

correct. The Golomite Works proved to be a factory where high

explosives were made by a gang of cosmopolitan revolutionaries who

were all known to the police. But the work of the latter was

simplified by a detailed report which the dead man had deposited at

his bank and which was discovered in time to enable the police to raid

the factory and secure the whole gang. When once they were under lock

and key, further information was forthcoming; for a charge of murder

against them jointly soon produced King’s Evidence sufficient to

procure a conviction of the three actual perpetrators of the murder.

V.

MR. PONTING’S ALIBI

Thorndyke looked doubtfully at the pleasant-faced, athletic-looking

clergyman who had just come in, bearing Mr. Brodribb’s card as an

explanatory credential.

“I don’t quite see,” said he, “why Mr. Brodribb sent you to me. It

seems to be a purely legal matter which he could have dealt with

himself, at least as well as I can.”

“He appeared to think otherwise,” said the clergyman. (“The Revd.

Charles Meade” was written on the card.) “At any rate,” he added with

a persuasive smile, “here I am, and I hope you are not going to send

me away.”

“I shouldn’t offer that affront to my old friend Brodribb,” replied

Thorndyke, smiling in return; “so we may as well get to business,

which, in the first place, involves the setting out of all the

particulars. Let us begin with the lady who is the subject of the

threats of which you spoke.”

“Her name,” said Mr. Meade, “is Miss Millicent Fawcett. She is a

person of independent means, which she employs in works of charity.

She was formerly a hospital sister, and she does a certain amount of

voluntary work in the parish as a sort of district nurse. She has been

a very valuable help to me and we have been close friends for several

years; and I may add, as a very material fact, that she has consented

to marry me in about two months’ time. So that, you see, I am properly

entitled to act on her behalf.”

“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “You are an interested party. And now, as to

the threats. What do they amount to?”

“That,” replied Meade, “I can’t tell you. I gathered quite by chance

from some words that she dropped, that she had been threatened. But

she was unwilling to say more on the subject, as she did not take the

matter seriously. She is not at all nervous. However, I told her I was

taking advice; and I hope you will be able to extract more details

from her. For my own part, I am decidedly uneasy.”

“And as to the person or persons who have uttered the threats. Who are

they? and out of what circumstances have the threats arisen?”

“The person is a certain William Ponting, who is Miss Fawcett’s

step-brother--if that is the right term. Her father married, as his

second wife, a Mrs. Ponting, a widow with one son. This is the son.

His mother died before Mr. Fawcett, and the latter, when he died, left

his daughter, Millicent, sole heir to his property. That has always

been a grievance to Ponting. But now he has another. Miss Fawcett made

a will some years ago by which the bulk of her rather considerable

property is left to two cousins, Frederick and James Barnett, the sons

of her father’s sister. A comparatively small amount goes to Ponting.

When he heard this he was furious. He demanded a portion at least

equal to the others, and has continued to make this demand from time

to time. In fact, he has been extremely troublesome, and appears to be

getting still more so. I gathered that the threats were due to her

refusal to alter the will.”

“But,” said I, “doesn’t he realize that her marriage will render that

will null and void?”

“Apparently not,” replied Meade; “nor, to tell the truth, did I

realize it myself. Will she have to make a new will?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “And as that new will may be expected to be

still less favourable to him, that will presumably be a further

grievance.”

“One doesn’t understand,” said Thorndyke, “why he should excite

himself so much about her will. What are their respective ages?”

“Miss Fawcett is thirty-six and Ponting is about forty.”

“And what kind of man is he?” Thorndyke asked.

“A very unpleasant kind of man, I am sorry to say. Morose, rude, and

violent-tempered. A spendthrift and a cadger. He has had quite a lot

of money from Miss Fawcett--loans, which, of course, are never repaid.

And he is none too industrious, though he has a regular job on the

staff of a weekly paper. But he seems to be always in debt.”

“We may as well note his address,” said Thorndyke.

“He lives in a small flat in Bloomsbury--alone, now, since he

quarrelled with the man who used to share it with him. The address is

12 Borneo House, Devonshire Street.”

“What sort of terms is he on with the cousins, his rivals?”

“No sort of terms now,” replied Meade. “They used to be great friends.

So much so that he took his present flat to be near them--they live in

the adjoining flat, number 12 Sumatra House. But since the trouble

about the will, he is hardly on speaking terms with them.”

“They live together, then?”

“Yes, Frederick and his wife and James, who is unmarried. They are

rather a queer lot, too. Frederick is a singer on the variety stage,

and James accompanies him on various instruments. But they are both

sporting characters of a kind, especially James, who does a bit on the

turf and engages in other odd activities. Of course, their musical

habits are a grievance to Ponting. He is constantly making complaints

of their disturbing him at his work.”

Mr. Meade paused and looked wistfully at Thorndyke, who was making

full notes of the conversation.

“Well,” said the latter, “we seem to have got all the facts excepting

the most important--the nature of the threats. What do you want us to

do?”

“I want you to see Miss Fawcett--with me, if possible--and induce her

to give you such details as would enable you to put a stop to the

nuisance. You couldn’t come to-night, I suppose? It is a beast of a

night, but I would take you there in a taxi--it is only to Tooting

Bec. What do you say?” he added eagerly, as Thorndyke made no

objection. “We are sure to find her in, because her maid is away on a

visit to her home and she is alone in the house.”

Thorndyke looked reflectively at his watch.

“Half-past eight,” he remarked, “and half an hour to get there. These

threats are probably nothing but ill-temper. But we don’t know. There

may be something more serious behind them; and, in law as in medicine,

prevention is better than a post-mortem. What do you say, Jervis?”

What could I say? I would much sooner have sat by the fire with a book

than turn out into the murk of a November night. But I felt it

necessary, especially as Thorndyke had evidently made up his mind.

Accordingly I made a virtue of necessity; and a couple of minutes

later we had exchanged the cosy room for the chilly darkness of Inner

Temple Lane, up which the gratified parson was speeding ahead to

capture a taxi. At the top of the Lane we perceived him giving

elaborate instructions to a taxi-driver as he held the door of the cab

open; and Thorndyke, having carefully disposed of his

research-case--which, to my secret amusement, he had caught up, from

mere force of habit, as we started--took his seat, and Meade and I

followed.

As the taxi trundled smoothly along the dark streets, Mr. Meade filled

in the details of his previous sketch, and, in a simple, manly,

unaffected way dilated upon his good fortune and the pleasant future

that lay before him. It was not, perhaps, a romantic marriage, he

admitted; but Miss Fawcett and he had been faithful friends for years,

and faithful friends they would remain till death did them part. So he

ran on, now gleefully, now with a note of anxiety, and we listened by

no means unsympathetically, until at last the cab drew up at a small,

unpretentious house, standing in its own little grounds in a quiet

suburban road.

“She is at home, you see,” observed Meade, pointing to a lighted

ground-floor window. He directed the taxi-driver to wait for the

return journey, and striding up the path, delivered a characteristic

knock at the door. As this brought no response, he knocked again and

rang the bell. But still there was no answer, though twice I thought I

heard the sound of a bolt being either drawn or shot softly. Again Mr.

Meade plied the knocker more vigorously, and pressed the push of the

bell, which we could hear ringing loudly within.

“This is very strange,” said Meade, in an anxious tone, keeping his

thumb pressed on the bell-push. “She can’t have gone out and left the

electric light on. What had we better do?”

“We had better enter without more delay,” Thorndyke replied. “There

were certainly sounds from within. Is there a side gate?”

Meade ran off towards the side of the house, and Thorndyke and I

glanced at the lighted window, which was slightly open at the top.

“Looks a bit queer,” I remarked, listening at the letter-box.

Thorndyke assented gravely, and at this moment Meade returned,

breathing hard.

“The side gate is bolted inside,” said he; and at this I recalled the

stealthy sound of the bolt that I had heard. “What is to be done?”

Without replying, Thorndyke handed me his research-case, stepped

across to the window, sprang up on the sill, drew down the upper sash

and disappeared between the curtains into the room. A moment later the

street door opened and Meade and I entered the hall. We glanced

through the open doorway into the lighted room, and I noticed a heap

of needlework thrown hastily on the dining table. Then Meade switched

on the hall light, and Thorndyke walked quickly past him to the

half-open door of the next room. Before entering, he reached in and

switched on the light; and as he stepped into the room he partly

closed the door behind him.

“Don’t come in here, Meade!” he called out. But the parson’s eye, like

my own, had seen something before the door closed: a great, dark stain

on the carpet just within the threshold. Regardless of the admonition,

he pushed the door open and darted into the room. Following him, I saw

him rush forward, fling his arms up wildly, and with a dreadful,

strangled cry, sink upon his knees beside a low couch on which a woman

was lying.

“Merciful God!” he gasped. “She is dead! Is she dead, doctor? Can

nothing be done?”

Thorndyke shook his head. “Nothing,” he said in a low voice. “She is

dead.”

Poor Meade knelt by the couch, his hands clutching at his hair and his

eyes riveted on the dead face, the very embodiment of horror and

despair.

“God Almighty!” he exclaimed in the same strangled undertone. “How

frightful! Poor, poor Millie! Dear, sweet friend!” Then

suddenly--almost savagely--he turned to Thorndyke. “But it can’t be,

doctor! It is impossible--unbelievable. That, I mean!” and he pointed

to the dead woman’s right hand, which held an open razor.

Our poor friend had spoken my own thought. It was incredible that this

refined, pious lady should have inflicted those savage wounds that

gaped scarlet beneath the waxen face. There, indeed, was the razor

lying in her hand. But what was its testimony worth? My heart rejected

it; but yet, unwillingly, I noted that the wounds seemed to support

it; for they had been made from left to right, as they would have been

if self-inflicted.

“It is hard to believe,” said Thorndyke, “but there is only one

alternative. Someone should acquaint the police at once.”

“I will go,” exclaimed Meade, starting up. “I know the way and the cab

is there.” He looked once more with infinite pity and affection at the

dead woman. “Poor, sweet girl!” he murmured. “If we can do no more for

you, we can defend your memory from calumny and call upon the God of

Justice to right the innocent and punish the guilty.”

With these words and a mute farewell to his dead friend, he hurried

from the room, and immediately afterwards we heard the street door

close.

As he went out, Thorndyke’s manner changed abruptly. He had been

deeply moved--as who would not have been--by this awful tragedy that

had in a moment shattered the happiness of the genial, kindly parson.

Now he turned to me with a face set and stern.

“This is an abominable affair, Jervis,” he said in an ominously quiet

voice.

“You reject the suggestion of suicide, then?” said I, with a feeling

of relief that surprised me.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Murder shouts at us from everything that

meets our eye. Look at this poor woman, in her trim nurse’s dress,

with her unfinished needlework lying on the table in the next room and

that preposterous razor loose in her limp hand. Look at the savage

wounds. Four of them, and the first one mortal. The great bloodstain

by the door, the great blood-stain on her dress from the neck to the

feet. The gashed collar, the cap-string cut right through. Note that

the bleeding had practically ceased when she lay down. That is a group

of visible facts that is utterly inconsistent with the idea of

suicide. But we are wasting time. Let us search the premises

thoroughly. The murderer has pretty certainly got away, but as he was

in the house when we arrived, any traces will be quite fresh.”

As he spoke he took his electric lamp from the research-case and

walked to the door.

“We can examine this room later,” he said, “but we had better look

over the house. If you will stay by the stairs and watch the front and

back doors, I will look through the upper rooms.”

He ran lightly up the stairs while I kept watch below, but he was

absent less than a couple of minutes.

“There is no one there,” he reported, “and as there is no basement we

will just look at this floor and then examine the grounds.”

After a rapid inspection of the ground-floor rooms, including the

kitchen, we went out by the back door, which was unbolted, and

inspected the grounds. These consisted of a largish garden with a

small orchard at the side. In the former we could discover no traces

of any kind, but at the end of the path that crossed the orchard we

came on a possible clue. The orchard was enclosed by a five-foot

fence, the top of which bristled with hooked nails; and at the point

opposite to the path, Thorndyke’s lantern brought into view one or two

wisps of cloth caught on the hooks.

“Someone has been over here,” said Thorndyke, “but as this is an

orchard, there is nothing remarkable in the fact. However, there is no

fruit on the trees now, and the cloth looks fairly fresh. There are

two kinds, you notice: a dark blue and a black and white mixture of

some kind.”

“Corresponding, probably, to the coat and trousers,” I suggested.

“Possibly,” he agreed, taking from his pocket a couple of the little

seed-envelopes of which he always carried a supply. Very delicately he

picked the tiny wisps of cloth from the hooks and bestowed each kind

in a separate envelope. Having pocketed these, he leaned over the

fence and threw the light of his lamp along the narrow lane or alley

that divided the orchard from the adjoining premises. It was

ungravelled and covered with a growth of rank grass, which suggested

that it was little frequented. But immediately below was a small patch

of bare earth, and on this was a very distinct impression of a foot,

covering several less distinct prints.

“Several people have been over here at different times,” I remarked.

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “But that sharp footprint belongs to the last

one over, and he is our concern. We had better not confuse the issues

by getting over ourselves. We will mark the spot and explore from the

other end.” He laid his handkerchief over the top of the fence and we

then went back to the house.

“You are going to take a plaster cast, I suppose?” said I; and as he

assented, I fetched the research-case from the drawing-room. Then we

fixed the catch of the front-door latch and went out, drawing the door

to after us.

We found the entrance to the alley about sixty yards from the gate,

and entering it, walked slowly forwards, scanning the ground as we

went. But the bright lamp-light showed nothing more than the vague

marks of trampling feet on the grass until we came to the spot marked

by the handkerchief on the fence.

“It is a pity,” I remarked, “that this footprint has obliterated the

others.”

“On the other hand,” he replied, “this one, which is the one that

interests us, is remarkably clear and characteristic: a circular heel

and a rubber sole of a recognizable pattern mended with a patch of

cement paste. It is a footprint that could be identified beyond a

doubt.”

As he was speaking, he took from the research-case the water-bottle,

plaster-tin, rubber mixing-bowl and spoon, and a piece of canvas with

which to “reinforce” the cast. Rapidly, he mixed a bowlful--extra

thick, so that it should set quickly and hard--dipped the canvas into

it, poured the remainder into the footprint, and laid the canvas on

it.

“I will get you to stay here, Jervis,” said he, “until the plaster has

set. I want to examine the body rather more thoroughly before the

police arrive, particularly the back.”

“Why the back?” I asked.

“Did not the appearance of the body suggest to you the advisability of

examining the back?” he asked, and then, without waiting for a reply,

he went off, leaving the inspection-lamp with me.

His words gave me matter for profound thought during my short vigil. I

recalled the appearance of the dead woman very vividly--indeed, I am

not likely ever to forget it--and I strove to connect that appearance

with his desire to examine the back of the corpse. But there seemed to

be no connexion at all. The visible injuries were in front, and I had

seen nothing to suggest the existence of any others. From time to time

I tested the condition of the plaster, impatient to rejoin my

colleague but fearful of cracking the thin cast by raising it

prematurely. At length the plaster seemed to be hard enough, and

trusting to the strength of the canvas, I prised cautiously at the

edge, when, to my relief, the brittle plate came up safely and I

lifted it clear. Wrapping it carefully in some spare rag, I packed it

in the research-case, and then, taking this and the lantern, made my

way back to the house.

When I had let down the catch and closed the front door, I went into

the drawing-room, where I found Thorndyke stooping over the dark stain

at the threshold and scanning the floor as if in search of something.

I reported the completion of the cast and then asked him what he was

looking for.

“I am looking for a button,” he replied. “There is one missing from

the back; the one to which the collar was fastened.”

“Is it of any importance?” I asked.

“It is important to ascertain when and where it became detached,” he

replied. “Let us have the inspection-lamp.”

I gave him the lamp, which he placed on the floor, turning it so that

its beam of light travelled along the surface. Stooping to follow the

light, I scrutinized the floor minutely but in vain.

“It may not be here at all,” said I; but at that moment the bright

gleam, penetrating the darkness under a cabinet, struck a small object

close to the wall. In a moment I had thrown myself prone on the

carpet, and reaching under the cabinet, brought forth a largish

mother-of-pearl button.

“You notice,” said Thorndyke, as he examined it, “that the cabinet is

near the window, at the opposite end of the room to the couch. But we

had better see that it is the right button.”

He walked slowly towards the couch, still stooping and searching the

floor with the light. The corpse, I noticed, had been turned on its

side, exposing the back and the displaced collar. Through the strained

button-hole of the latter Thorndyke passed the button without

difficulty.

“Yes,” he said, “that is where it came from. You will notice that

there is a similar one in front. By the way,” he continued, bringing

the lamp close to the surface of the grey serge dress, “I picked off

one or two hairs--animal hairs; cat and dog they looked like. Here are

one or two more. Will you hold the lamp while I take them off?”

“They are probably from some pets of hers,” I remarked, as he picked

them off with his forceps and deposited them in one of the invaluable

seed-envelopes. “Spinsters are a good deal addicted to pets,

especially cats and dogs.”

“Possibly,” he replied. “But I could see none in front, where you

would expect to find them, and there seem to be none on the carpet.

Now let us replace the body as we found it and just have a look at our

material before the police arrive. I expected them here before this.”

We turned the body back into its original position, and taking the

research-case and the lamp, went into the dining-room. Here Thorndyke

rapidly set up the little travelling microscope, and bringing forth

the seed-envelopes, began to prepare slides from the contents of some

while I prepared the others. There was time only for a very hasty

examination, which Thorndyke made as soon as the specimens were

mounted.

“The clothing,” he reported, with his eye at the microscope, “is

woollen in both cases. Fairly good quality. The one a blue serge,

apparently indigo dyed; the other a mixture of black and white, no

other colour. Probably a fine tabby or a small shepherd’s plaid.”

“Serge coat and shepherd’s plaid trousers,” I suggested. “Now see what

the hairs are.” I handed him the slide, on which I had roughly mounted

the collection in oil of lavender, and he placed it on the stage.

“There are three different kinds of hairs here,” he reported, after a

rapid inspection. “Some are obviously from a cat--a smoky Persian.

Others are long, rather fine tawny hairs from a dog. Probably a

Pekinese. But there are two that I can’t quite place. They look like

monkey’s hairs, but they are a very unusual colour. There is a

perceptible greenish tint, which is extremely uncommon in mammalian

hairs. But I hear the taxi approaching. We need not be expansive to

the local police as to what we have observed. This will probably be a

case for the C.I.D.”

I went out into the hall and opened the door as Meade came up the

path, followed by two men; and as the latter came into the light, I

was astonished to recognize in one of them our old friend,

Detective-Superintendent Miller, the other being, apparently, the

station superintendent.

“We have kept Mr. Meade a long time,” said Miller, “but we knew you

were here, so the time wouldn’t be wasted. Thought it best to get a

full statement before we inspected the premises. How do, doctor,” he

added, shaking hands with Thorndyke. “Glad to see you here. I suppose

you have got all the facts. I understood so from Mr. Meade.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “we have all the antecedents of the case,

and we arrived within a few minutes of the death of the deceased.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Miller. “Did you? And I expect you have formed an

opinion on the question as to whether the injuries were

self-inflicted?”

“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be best to act on the

assumption that they were not--and to act promptly.”

“Pre--cisely,” Miller agreed emphatically. “You mean that we had

better find out at once where a certain person was at--what time did

you arrive here?”

“It was two minutes to nine when the taxi stopped,” replied Thorndyke;

“and, as it is now only twenty-five minutes to ten, we have good time

if Mr. Meade can spare us the taxi. I have the address.”

“The taxi is waiting for you,” said Mr. Meade, “and the man has been

paid for both journeys. I shall stay here in case the superintendent

wants anything.” He shook our hands warmly, and as we bade him

farewell and noted the dazed, despairing expression and lines of grief

that had already eaten into the face that had been so blithe and

hopeful, we both thought bitterly of the few fatal minutes that had

made us too late to save the wreckage of his life.

We were just turning away when Thorndyke paused and again faced the

clergyman.

“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether Miss Fawcett had any pets? Cats,

dogs, or other animals?”

Meade looked at him in surprise, and Superintendent Miller seemed to

prick up his ears. But the former answered simply: “No. She was not

very fond of animals; she reserved her affections for men and women.”

Thorndyke nodded gravely, and picking up the research-case walked

slowly out of the room, Miller and I following.

As soon as the address had been given to the driver and we had taken

our seats in the taxi, the superintendent opened the

examination-in-chief.

“I see you have got your box of magic with you, doctor,” he said,

cocking his eye at the research-case. “Any luck?”

“We have secured a very distinctive footprint,” replied Thorndyke,

“but it may have no connexion with the case.”