In Which John Rodney Is Convinced
Once more, as Thorndyke concluded, there was a long, uncomfortable
silence, during which the two brothers cogitated profoundly and with a
very disturbed expression. At length Rodney spoke.
“There is no denying, Thorndyke, that the body of circumstantial
evidence that you have produced, and expounded so skilfully and
lucidly, is extraordinarily complete. Of course it is subject to your
being able to prove that Varney’s reports as to Purcell’s appearance
at Falmouth and Ipswich were false reports and that the letters which
purported to be written and sent by Purcell were in fact not written
or sent by him. If you can prove those assertions there will
undoubtedly be a very formidable case against Varney, because those
reports and those letters would then be evidence that some one was
endeavouring to prove—falsely—that Purcell is alive. But this would
amount to presumptive evidence that he is not alive and that some one
has reasons for concealing the fact of his death. But we must look to
you to prove what you have asserted. You could hardly suggest that we
should charge a highly respectable gentleman of our acquaintance with
having murdered his friend and made away with the body—for that is
obviously your meaning—on a mass of circumstantial evidence which is,
you must admit, rather highly theoretical.”
“I agree with you completely,” replied Thorndyke. “The evidence
respecting the reports and the letters is obviously essential. But in
the meantime it is of the first importance that we carry this
investigation to an absolute finish. It is not merely a question of
justice or our duty on grounds of public policy to uncover a crime and
secure the punishment of the criminal. There are individual rights and
interests to be guarded; those, I mean, of the missing man’s wife. If
her husband is dead, common justice to her demands that his death
should be proved and placed on public record.”
“Yes, indeed!” Rodney agreed, heartily. “If Purcell is dead, then she
is a widow and the petition becomes unnecessary. By the way, I
understand now why you were always so set against the private
detective; but what I don’t understand is why you put in that
advertisement.”
“It is quite simple,” was the reply. “I wanted another forged letter,
written in terms dictated by myself—and I got it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Rodney. And now, for the first time, he began to
understand how Thorndyke had got his great reputation.
“You spoke just now,” Rodney continued, “of carrying this
investigation to a finish. Haven’t you done so? Is there anything more
to investigate?”
“We have not yet completed our examination of the yacht,” replied
Thorndyke. “The facts that we have elicited enable us to make certain
inferences concerning the circumstances of Purcell’s death—assuming
his death to have occurred. We infer, for instance, that he did not
fall overboard, nor was he pushed overboard. He met his death on the
yacht and it was his dead body which was cast into the sea with the
sinker attached to it. That we may fairly infer. But we have, at
present, no evidence as to the way in which he came by his death.
Possibly a further examination of the yacht may show some traces from
which we may form an opinion. By the way, I have been looking at that
revolver that is hanging from the beam. Was that on board at the
time?”
“Yes,” answered Rodney. “It was hanging on the cabin bulkhead. Be
careful,” he added, as Thorndyke lifted it from its hook. “I don’t
think it has been unloaded.”
Thorndyke opened the breech of the revolver, and, turning out the
cartridges into his hand, peered down the barrel and into each chamber
separately. Then he looked at the cartridges in his hand.
“This seems a little odd,” he remarked. “The barrel is quite clean and
so is one chamber, but the other five chambers are extremely foul. And
I notice that the cartridges are not all alike. There are five Eleys
and one Curtis and Harvey. That is quite a suggestive coincidence.”
Phillip looked with a distinctly startled expression at the little
heap of cartridges in Thorndyke’s hand, and, picking out the odd one,
examined it with knitted brows.
“When did you fire the revolver last, Jack?” he asked, looking up at
his brother.
“On the day when we potted at those champagne bottles,” was the reply.
Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Then,” said he, “this is a very
remarkable affair. I distinctly remember on that occasion, when we had
sunk all the bottles, reloading the revolver with Eleys, and that
there were then three cartridges left over in the bag. When I had
loaded, I opened the new box of Curtis and Harveys, tipped them into
the bag and threw the box overboard.”
“Did you clean the revolver?” asked Thorndyke.
“No, I didn’t. I meant to clean it later, but forgot to.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “it has undoubtedly been cleaned, and very
thoroughly as to the barrel and one chamber. Shall we check the
cartridges in the bag? There ought to be forty-nine Curtis and Harveys
and three Eleys if what you have told us is correct.”
Phillip searched among the raffle on the bench and presently unearthed
a small linen bag. Untying the string, he shot out on the bench a heap
of cartridges which he counted one by one. There were fifty-two in
all, and three of them were Eleys.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “it comes to this: since you used that
revolver it has been used by some one else. That some one fired only a
single shot, after which he carefully cleaned the barrel and the empty
chamber and reloaded. Incidentally, he seems to have known where the
cartridge bag was kept, but he did not know about the change in the
make of cartridges or that the revolver had not been cleaned. You
notice, Rodney,” he added, “that the circumstantial evidence
accumulates.”
“I do, indeed,” Rodney replied, gloomily. “Is there anything else that
you wish to examine?”
“Yes. There is the sail. Phillip mentioned a stain on the jib. Shall
we see if we can make anything of that?”
“I don’t think you will make much of it,” said Phillip. “It is very
faint. However, you shall see it and judge for yourself.” He picked
out one of the bundles of white duck, and, while he was unfolding it,
Thorndyke dragged an empty bench into the middle of the floor under
the skylight. Over this the sail was spread so that the mysterious
mark was in the middle of the bench. It was very inconspicuous; just a
faint grey-green, wavy line like the representation of an island on a
map. The three men looked at it curiously for a few moments; then
Thorndyke asked: “Would you mind if I made a further stain on the
sail? I should like to apply some reagents.”
“Of course you must do what is necessary,” said Rodney. “The evidence
is more important than the sail.”
On this Thorndyke opened his research case and brought forth the two
bottles that Polton had procured from the Borough; of which one was
labelled “Tinct. Guiaci Dil.” and the other “Æther Ozon.” As they
emerged from the case Phillip read the labels with evident surprise,
remarking:
“I shouldn’t have thought that the guiacum test would be of any use
after all these months, especially as the sail seems to have been
scrubbed.”
“It will act, I think, if the pigment or its derivatives are there,”
said Thorndyke; and, as he spoke, he poured a quantity of the tincture
on the middle of the stained area. The pool of liquid rapidly spread
considerably beyond the limits of the stain, growing paler as it
extended. Then Thorndyke cautiously dropped small quantities of the
ozonic ether at various points around the stained area and watched
closely as the two liquids mingled in the fabric of the sail.
Gradually the ether spread towards the stain, and, first at one point
and then at another, approached and finally crossed the wavy grey
line; and at each point the same change occurred: first the faint grey
line turned into a strong blue line and then the colour extended to
the enclosed space until the entire area of the stain stood out a
conspicuous blue patch. Phillip and Thorndyke looked at one another
significantly and the latter said: “You understand the meaning of this
reaction, Rodney; this is a blood stain; and a very carefully washed
blood stain.”
“So I supposed,” Rodney replied; and for a while no one spoke.
There was something very dramatic and solemn, they all felt, in the
sudden appearance of this staring blue patch on the sail with the
sinister message that it brought. But what followed was more dramatic
still. As they stood silently regarding the blue stain, the mingled
liquids continued to spread; and suddenly, at the extreme edge of the
wet area, they became aware of a new spot of blue. At first a mere
speck, it grew slowly, as the liquid spread over the canvas, into a
small oval, and then a second spot appeared by its side. At this point
Thorndyke poured out a fresh charge of the tincture, and when it had
soaked into the cloth, cautiously applied a sprinkling of ether.
Instantly the blue spots began to elongate; fresh spots and patches
appeared, and as they ran together there sprang out of the blank
surface the clear impression of a hand—a left hand, complete in all
its details excepting the third finger, which was represented by a
round spot at some two thirds of its length.
The dreadful significance of this apparition and the uncanny and
mysterious manner of its emergence from the white surface produced a
most profound impression on all the observers, but especially on
Rodney, who stared at it with an expression of the utmost horror, but
spoke not a word. His brother was hardly less appalled, and when he at
length spoke it was in a hushed voice that was little above a whisper.
“It is horrible!” he murmured. “It seems almost supernatural, that
accusing hand springing into existence out of the blank surface after
all this time. I wonder,” he added after a pause, “why the third
finger made no mark, seeing that the others are so distinct.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that the impression is there. That small
round spot looks like the mark of a finger-tip, and its position
rather suggests a finger with a stiff joint.”
As he made this statement, both brothers simultaneously uttered a
smothered exclamation.
“It is Varney’s hand!” gasped Phillip. “You recognize it, Jack, don’t
you? That is just where the tip of his stiff finger would come. Have
you ever noticed Varney’s left hand, Thorndyke?”
“You mean the ankylosed third finger? Yes; and I agree with you that
this is undoubtedly the print of Varney’s hand.”
“Then,” said Rodney, “the case is complete. There is no need for any
further investigation. On the evidence that is before us, to say
nothing of the additional evidence that you can produce, there cannot
be the shadow of a doubt that Purcell was murdered by Varney and his
body sunk in the sea. You agree with me, I am sure, Thorndyke?”
“Certainly,” was the reply. “I consider the evidence so far conclusive
that I have not the slightest doubt on the subject.”
“Very well,” said Rodney. “Then the next question is, what is to be
done? Shall I lay a sworn information, or will you? Or had we better
go to the police together and make a joint statement?”
“Whatever we do,” replied Thorndyke, “don’t let us be premature. The
evidence, as you say, is perfectly convincing. It leaves us with no
doubt as to what happened on that day last June. It would probably be,
in an intellectual sense, quite convincing to a judge. It might even
be to a jury. But would it be sufficient to secure a conviction? I
think it extremely doubtful.”
“Do you really?” exclaimed Phillip. “I should have thought it
impossible that any one who had heard the evidence could fail to come
to the inevitable conclusion.”
“You are probably right,” said Thorndyke. “But a jury who are trying
an accused person on a capital charge have got to arrive at something
more than a belief that the accused is guilty. They have got to be
convinced that there is, humanly speaking, no possible doubt as to the
prisoner’s guilt. No jury would give an adverse verdict on a balance
of probabilities, nor would any judge encourage them to do so.”
“But surely,” said Phillip, “this is something more than a mere
balance of probabilities. The evidence all points in the same
direction and there is nothing to suggest a contrary conclusion.”
Thorndyke smiled drily. “You might think differently after you have
heard a capable counsel for the defence. But the position is this: we
are dealing with a charge of murder. Now in order to prove that a
particular person is guilty of murder it is necessary first to
establish the _corpus delicti_, as the phrase goes; that is, to prove
that a murder has been committed by some one. But the proof that a
person has been murdered involves the antecedent proof that he is
dead. If there is any doubt that the alleged deceased is dead, no
murder charge can be sustained. But proof of death usually involves
the production of the body or of some identifiable part of it, or, at
least, the evidence of some person who has seen it and can swear to
its identity. There are exceptional cases, of course, and this might
be accepted as one. But you can take it that the inability of the
prosecution to produce the body or any part of it, or any witness who
can testify to having seen it, or any direct evidence that the person
alleged to have been murdered is actually dead, would make it
extremely difficult to secure the conviction of the accused.”
“Yes, I see that,” said Phillip. “But, after all, that is not our
concern. If we give the authorities all the information that we
possess, we shall have done our duty as citizens. As to the rest, we
must leave the Court to convict or acquit according to its judgment.”
“Not at all,” Thorndyke dissented. “You are losing sight of our
position in the case. There are two different issues, which are,
however, inseparably connected. One is the fact of Purcell’s death;
the other is Varney’s part in compassing it. Now it is the first issue
that concerns us; or, at least, concerns me. If we could prove that
Purcell is dead without bringing Varney into it at all, I should be
willing to do so; for I strongly suspect that there were extenuating
circumstances.”
“So do I,” said Rodney. “Purcell was a brute, whereas Varney has
always seemed to be a perfectly decent, gentlemanly fellow.”
“That is the impression that I have received,” said Thorndyke, “and I
feel no satisfaction in proceeding against Varney. My purpose, all
along, has been, not to convict Varney but to prove that Purcell is
dead. And that is what we have to do now, for Margaret Purcell’s sake.
But we cannot leave Varney out of the case. For if Purcell is dead, he
is dead because Varney killed him; and our only means of proving his
death is to charge Varney with having murdered him. But if we charge
Varney, we must secure a conviction. We cannot afford to fail. If the
Court is convinced that Purcell is dead, it will convict Varney; for
the evidence of his death is evidence of his murder; but if the Court
acquits Varney, it can do so only on the ground that there is no
conclusive evidence that Purcell is dead. Varney’s acquittal would
therefore leave Margaret Purcell still bound by law to a hypothetical
husband, with the insecure chance of obtaining her release at some
future time either by divorce or presumption of death. That would not
be fair to her. She is a widow and she is entitled to have her status
acknowledged.”
Rodney nodded gloomily. A consciousness of what he stood to gain by
Varney’s conviction lent an uncomfortable significance to Thorndyke’s
words.
“Yes,” he agreed, half reluctantly, “there is no denying the truth of
what you say, but I wish it might have been the other way about. If
Purcell had murdered Varney I could have raised the hue and cry with a
good deal more enthusiasm. I knew both the men well, and I liked
Varney but detested Purcell. Still, one has to accept the facts.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, who had realized and sympathized with
Rodney’s qualms. “The position is not of our creating; and whatever
our private sentiments may be, the fact remains that a man who elects
to take the life of another must accept the consequences. That is
Varney’s position so far as we can see; and if he is innocent it is
for him to clear himself.”
“Yes, of course,” Rodney agreed; “but I wish the accusation had come
through different channels.”
“So do I,” said Phillip. “It is horrible to have to denounce a man
with whom one has been on terms of intimate friendship. But apparently
Thorndyke considers that we should not denounce him at present. That
is what I don’t quite understand. You seemed to imply, Thorndyke, that
the case was not complete enough to warrant our taking action, and
that some further evidence ought to be obtained in order to make sure
of a conviction. But what further evidence is it possible to obtain?”
“My feeling,” replied Thorndyke, “is that the case is at present, as
your brother expressed it just now, somewhat theoretical—or rather
hypothetical. The evidence is circumstantial from beginning to end.
There is not a single item of direct evidence to furnish a
starting-point. It would be insisted by the defence that Purcell’s
death is a matter of mere inference and that you cannot convict a man
of the murder of another who may conceivably be still alive. We ought,
if possible, to put Purcell’s death on the basis of demonstrable
fact.”
“But how is that possible?” demanded Phillip.
“The conclusive method of proving the death of a person is, as I have
said, to produce that person’s body, or some recognizable part of it.”
“But Purcell’s body is at the bottom of the sea!”
“True. But we know its whereabouts. It is a small area, with the
lighthouse as a landmark. If that area were systematically worked over
with a trawl or dredge, or, better still, with a set of creepers
attached to a good-sized spar, there should be a very fair chance of
recovering the body, or, at least, the clothing and the weight.”
Phillip reflected for a few moments. “I think you are right,” he said,
at length. “The body appears, from what you say, to be quite close to
the Wolf Rock, and almost certainly on the east side. With a good
compass and the lighthouse as a sailing mark, it would be possible to
ply up and down and search every inch of the bottom in the
neighbourhood of the rock.”
“There is only one difficulty,” said Rodney. “Your worm-tube was
composed entirely of fragments of the rock. But how large an area of
the sea-bottom is covered with those fragments? We should have to
ascertain that if we are to work over the whole of it.”
“It would not be difficult to ascertain,” replied Thorndyke. “If we
take soundings with a hand-lead as we approach the rock, the samples
that come up on the arming of the lead will tell us when we are over a
bottom covered with phonolite debris.”
“Yes,” Rodney agreed, “that will answer if the depth is within the
range of a hand-lead. If it isn’t we shall have to rig the tackle for
a deep-sea lead. It will be rather a gruesome quest. Do I gather that
you are prepared to come down with us and lend a hand? I hope you
are.”
“So do I!” exclaimed Phillip. “We shall be quite at home with the
navigation, but if—er—if anything comes up on the creepers, it will be
a good deal more in your line than ours.”
“I should certainly wish to come,” said Thorndyke, “and, in fact, I
think it rather desirable that I should, as Phillip suggests. But I
can’t get away from town just at present, nor, I imagine, can you. We
had better postpone the expedition for a week or so until the
commencement of the spring vacation. That will give us time to make
the necessary arrangements, to charter a suitable boat and so forth.
And in any case we shall have to pick our weather, having regard to
the sort of sea that one may encounter in the neighbourhood of the
Wolf.”
“Yes,” agreed Phillip, “it will have to be a reasonably calm day when
we make the attempt; so I suggest that we put it off until you and
Jack are free; and meanwhile I will get on with the preliminary
arrangements, the hiring of the boat and getting together the
necessary gear.”
While they had been talking, the evening had closed in and the
workshop was now almost in darkness. It being too late for the
brothers to carry out the business that had brought them to the wharf,
even if they had been in a state of mind suitable to the checking of
inventories, they postponed the survey to a later date, locked up the
workshop, and, in company with Thorndyke, made their way homeward.