I.
THE BLUE SCARAB
Medico-legal practice is largely concerned with crimes against the
person, the details of which are often sordid, gruesome and
unpleasant. Hence the curious and romantic case of the Blue Scarab
(though really outside our specialty) came as somewhat of a relief.
But to me it is of interest principally as illustrating two of those
remarkable gifts which made my friend, Thorndyke, unique as an
investigator: his uncanny power of picking out the one essential fact
at a glance, and his capacity to produce, when required, inexhaustible
stores of unexpected knowledge of the most out-of-the-way subjects.
It was late in the afternoon when Mr. James Blowgrave arrived, by
appointment, at our chambers, accompanied by his daughter, a rather
strikingly pretty girl of about twenty-two; and when we had mutually
introduced ourselves, the consultation began without preamble.
“I didn’t give any details in my letter to you,” said Mr. Blowgrave.
“I thought it better not to, for fear you might decline the case. It
is really a matter of a robbery, but not quite an ordinary robbery.
There are some unusual and rather mysterious features in the case. And
as the police hold out very little hope, I have come to ask if you
will give me your opinion on the case and perhaps look into it for me.
But first I had better tell you how the affair happened.
“The robbery occurred just a fortnight ago, about half-past nine
o’clock in the evening. I was sitting in my study with my daughter,
looking over some things that I had taken from a small deed-box, when
a servant rushed in to tell us that one of the outbuildings was on
fire. Now my study opens by a French window on the garden at the back,
and, as the outbuilding was in a meadow at the side of the garden, I
went out that way, leaving the French window open; but before going I
hastily put the things back in the deed-box and locked it.
“The building--which I used partly as a lumber store and partly as a
workshop--was well alight and the whole household was already on the
spot, the boy working the pump and the two maids carrying the buckets
and throwing water on the fire. My daughter and I joined the party and
helped to carry the buckets and take out what goods we could reach
from the burning building. But it was nearly half an hour before we
got the fire completely extinguished, and then my daughter and I went
to our rooms to wash and tidy ourselves up. We returned to the study
together, and when I had shut the French window my daughter proposed
that we should resume our interrupted occupation. Thereupon I took out
of my pocket the key of the deed-box and turned to the cabinet on
which the box always stood.
“But there was no deed-box there!
“For a moment I thought I must have moved it, and cast my eyes round
the room in search of it. But it was nowhere to be seen, and a
moment’s reflection reminded me that I had left it in its usual place.
The only possible conclusion was that during our absence at the fire,
somebody must have come in by the window and taken it. And it looked
as if that somebody had deliberately set fire to the outbuilding for
the express purpose of luring us all out of the house.”
“That is what the appearances suggest,” Thorndyke agreed. “Is the
study window furnished with a blind or curtains?”
“Curtains,” replied Mr. Blowgrave. “But they were not drawn. Any one
in the garden could have seen into the room; and the garden is easily
accessible to an active person who could climb over a low wall.”
“So far, then,” said Thorndyke, “the robbery might be the work of a
casual prowler who had got into the garden and watched you through the
window, and assuming that the things you had taken from the box were
of value, seized an easy opportunity to make off with them. Were the
things of any considerable value?”
“To a thief they were of no value at all. There were a number of share
certificates, a lease, one or two agreements, some family photographs
and a small box containing an old letter and a scarab. Nothing worth
stealing, you see, for the certificates were made out in my name and
were therefore unnegotiable.”
“And the scarab?”
“That may have been lapis lazuli, but more probably it was a blue
glass imitation. In any case it was of no considerable value. It was
about an inch and a half long. But before you come to any conclusion,
I had better finish the story. The robbery was on Tuesday, the 7th of
June. I gave information to the police, with a description of the
missing property, but nothing happened until Wednesday, the 15th, when
I received a registered parcel bearing the Southampton postmark. On
opening it I found, to my astonishment, the entire contents of the
deed-box, with the exception of the scarab, and this rather mysterious
communication.”
He took from his pocket-book and handed to Thorndyke an ordinary
envelope addressed in typewritten characters, and sealed with a large,
elliptical seal, the face of which was covered with minute
hieroglyphics.
“This,” said Thorndyke, “I take to be an impression of the scarab; and
an excellent impression it is.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Blowgrave, “I have no doubt that it is the scarab.
It is about the same size.”
Thorndyke looked quickly at our client with an expression of surprise.
“But,” he asked, “don’t you recognize the hieroglyphics on it?”
Mr. Blowgrave smiled deprecatingly. “The fact is,” said he, “I don’t
know anything about hieroglyphics, but I should say, as far as I can
judge, these look the same. What do you think, Nellie?”
Miss Blowgrave looked at the seal--rather vaguely--and replied, “I am
in the same position. Hieroglyphics are to me just funny-looking
things that don’t mean anything. But these look the same to me as
those on our scarab, though I expect any other hieroglyphics would,
for that matter.”
Thorndyke made no comment on this statement, but examined the seal
attentively through his lens. Then he drew out the contents of the
envelope, consisting of two letters, one typewritten and the other in
a faded brown handwriting. The former he read through and then
inspected the paper closely, holding it up to the light to observe the
watermark.
“The paper appears to be of Belgian manufacture,” he remarked, passing
it to me. I confirmed this observation and then read the letter, which
was headed “Southampton” and ran thus:--
_Dear old pal,_
_I am sending you back some trifles removed in error. The ancient
document is enclosed with this, but the curio is at present in the
custody of my respected uncle. Hope its temporary loss will not
inconvenience you, and that I may be able to return it to you later.
Meanwhile, believe me,_
_Your ever affectionate,
Rudolpho._
“Who is Rudolpho?” I asked.
“The Lord knows,” replied Mr. Blowgrave. “A pseudonym of our absent
friend, I presume. He seems to be a facetious sort of person.”
“He does,” agreed Thorndyke. “This letter and the seal appear to be
what the schoolboys would call a leg-pull. But still, this is all
quite normal. He has returned you the worthless things and has kept
the one thing that has any sort of negotiable value. Are you quite
clear that the scarab is not more valuable than you have assumed?”
“Well,” said Mr. Blowgrave, “I have had an expert opinion on it. I
showed it to M. Fouquet, the Egyptologist, when he was over here from
Brussels a few months ago, and his opinion was that it was a worthless
imitation. Not only was it not a genuine scarab, but the inscription
was a sham, too; just a collection of hieroglyphic characters jumbled
together without sense or meaning.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, taking another look at the seal through his
lens, “it would seem that Rudolpho, or Rudolpho’s uncle, has got a bad
bargain. Which doesn’t throw much light on the affair.”
At this point Miss Blowgrave intervened. “I think, father,” said she,
“you have not given Dr. Thorndyke quite all the facts about the
scarab. He ought to be told about its connection with Uncle Reuben.”
As the girl spoke Thorndyke looked at her with a curious expression of
suddenly awakened interest. Later I understood the meaning of that
look, but at the time there seemed to me nothing particularly
arresting in her words.
“It is just a family tradition,” Mr. Blowgrave said deprecatingly.
“Probably it is all nonsense.”
“Well, let us have it, at any rate,” said Thorndyke. “We may get some
light from it.”
Thus urged, Mr. Blowgrave hemmed a little shyly and began:
“The story concerns my great-grandfather, Silas Blowgrave, and his
doings during the war with France. It seems that he commanded a
privateer, of which he and his brother Reuben were the joint owners,
and that in the course of their last cruise, they acquired a very
remarkable and valuable collection of jewels. Goodness knows how they
got them; not very honestly, I suspect, for they appear to have been a
pair of precious rascals. Something has been said about the loot from
a South American church or cathedral, but there is really nothing
known about the affair. There are no documents. It is mere oral
tradition and very vague and sketchy. The story goes that when they
had sold off the ship, they came down to live at Shawstead in
Hertfordshire, Silas occupying the manor house--in which I live at
present--and Reuben a farm-house adjoining. The bulk of the loot they
shared out at the end of the cruise, but the jewels were kept apart to
be dealt with later--perhaps when the circumstances under which they
had been acquired had been forgotten. However, both men were
inveterate gamblers, and it seems--according to the testimony of a
servant of Reuben’s who overheard them--that on a certain night when
they had been playing heavily, they decided to finish up by playing
for the whole collection of jewels as a single stake. Silas, who had
the jewels in his custody, was seen to go to the manor house and
return to Reuben’s house carrying a small, iron-bound chest.
“Apparently they played late into the night, after every one else but
the servant had gone to bed, and the luck was with Reuben, though it
seems probable that he gave luck some assistance. At any rate, when
the play was finished and the chest handed over, Silas roundly accused
him of cheating, and we may assume that a pretty serious quarrel took
place. Exactly what happened is not clear, for when the quarrel began
Reuben dismissed the servant, who retired to her bedroom in a distant
part of the house. But in the morning it was discovered that Reuben
and the chest of jewels had both disappeared, and there were distinct
traces of blood in the room in which the two men had been playing.
Silas professed to know nothing about the disappearance; but a
strong--and probably just--suspicion arose that he had murdered his
brother and made away with the jewels. The result was that Silas also
disappeared, and for a long time his whereabouts was not known even by
his wife. Later it transpired that he had taken up his abode, under an
assumed name, in Egypt, and that he had developed an enthusiastic
interest in the then new science of Egyptology--the Rosetta Stone had
been deciphered only a few years previously. After a time he resumed
communication with his wife, but never made any statement as to the
mystery of his brother’s disappearance. A few months before his death
he visited his home in disguise and he then handed to his wife a
little sealed packet which was to be delivered to his only son,
William, on his attaining the age of twenty-one. That packet contained
the scarab and the letter which you have taken from the envelope.”
“Am I to read it?” asked Thorndyke.
“Certainly, if you think it worth while,” was the reply.
Thorndyke opened the yellow sheet of paper and, glancing through the
brown and faded writing, read aloud:
_Cairo_, 4_th March_, 1833.
_My dear Son,_
_I am sending you, as my last gift, a valuable scarab, and a few words
of counsel on which I would bid you meditate. Believe me, there is
much wisdom in the lore of Old Egypt. Make it your own. Treasure the
scarab as a precious inheritance. Handle it often but show it to none.
Give your Uncle Reuben Christian burial. It is your duty, and you will
have your reward. He robbed your father, but he shall make
restitution._
_Farewell!_
_Your affectionate father,
Silas Blowgrave._
As Thorndyke laid down the letter he looked inquiringly at our client.
“Well,” he said, “here are some plain instructions. How have they been
carried out?”
“They haven’t been carried out at all,” replied Mr. Blowgrave. “As to
his son William, my grandfather, he was not disposed to meddle in the
matter. This seemed to be a frank admission that Silas killed his
brother and concealed the body, and William didn’t choose to reopen
the scandal. Besides, the instructions are not so very plain. It is
all very well to say, ‘Give your Uncle Reuben Christian burial,’ but
where the deuce is Uncle Reuben?”
“It is plainly hinted,” said Thorndyke, “that whoever gives the body
Christian burial will stand to benefit, and the word ‘restitution’
seems to suggest a clue to the whereabouts of the jewels. Has no one
thought it worth while to find out where the body is deposited?”
“But how could they?” demanded Blowgrave. “He doesn’t give the
faintest clue. He talks as if his son knew where the body was. And
then, you know, even supposing Silas did not take the jewels with him,
there was the question, whose property were they? To begin with, they
were pretty certainly stolen property, though no one knows where they
came from. Then Reuben apparently got them from Silas by fraud, and
Silas got them back by robbery and murder. If William had discovered
them he would have had to give them up to Reuben’s sons, and yet they
weren’t strictly Reuben’s property. No one had an undeniable claim to
them, even if they could have found them.”
“But that is not the case now,” said Miss Blowgrave.
“No,” said Mr. Blowgrave, in answer to Thorndyke’s look of inquiry.
“The position is quite clear now. Reuben’s grandson, my cousin Arthur,
has died recently, and as he had no children, he has dispersed his
property. The old farm-house and the bulk of his estate he has left to
a nephew, but he made a small bequest to my daughter and named her as
the residuary legatee. So that whatever rights Reuben had to the
jewels are now vested in her, and on my death she will be Silas’s
heir, too. As a matter of fact,” Mr. Blowgrave continued, “we were
discussing this very question on the night of the robbery. I may as
well tell you that my girl will be left pretty poorly off when I go,
for there is a heavy mortgage on our property and mighty little
capital. Uncle Reuben’s jewels would have made the old home secure for
her if we could have laid our hands on them. However, I mustn’t take
up your time with our domestic affairs.”
“Your domestic affairs are not entirely irrelevant,” said Thorndyke.
“But what is it that you want me to do in the matter?”
“Well,” said Blowgrave, “my house has been robbed and my premises set
fire to. The police can apparently do nothing. They say there is no
clue at all unless the robbery was committed by somebody in the house,
which is absurd, seeing that the servants were all engaged in putting
out the fire. But I want the robber traced and punished, and I want to
get the scarab back. It may be intrinsically valueless, as M. Fouquet
said, but Silas’s testamentary letter seems to indicate that it had
some value. At any rate, it is an heirloom, and I am loath to lose it.
It seems a presumptuous thing to ask you to investigate a trumpery
robbery, but I should take it as a great kindness if you would look
into the matter.”
“Cases of robbery pure and simple,” replied Thorndyke, “are rather
alien to my ordinary practice, but in this one there are certain
curious features that seem to make an investigation worth while. Yes,
Mr. Blowgrave, I will look into the case, and I have some hope that we
may be able to lay our hands on the robber, in spite of the apparent
absence of clues. I will ask you to leave both these letters for me to
examine more minutely, and I shall probably want to make an inspection
of the premises--perhaps to-morrow.”
“Whenever you like,” said Blowgrave. “I am delighted that you are
willing to undertake the inquiry. I have heard so much about you from
my friend Stalker, of the Griffin Life Assurance Company, for whom you
have acted on several occasions.”
“Before you go,” said Thorndyke, “there is one point that we must
clear up. Who is there besides yourselves that knows of the existence
of the scarab and this letter and the history attaching to them?”
“I really can’t say,” replied Blowgrave. “No one has seen them but my
cousin Arthur. I once showed them to him, and he may have talked about
them in the family. I didn’t treat the matter as a secret.”
* * * * * * *
When our visitors had gone we discussed the bearings of the case.
“It is quite a romantic story,” said I, “and the robbery has its
points of interest, but I am rather inclined to agree with the
police--there is mighty little to go on.”
“There would have been less,” said Thorndyke, “if our sporting friend
hadn’t been so pleased with himself. That typewritten letter was a
piece of gratuitous impudence. Our gentleman overrated his security
and crowed too loud.”
“I don’t see that there is much to be gleaned from the letter, all the
same,” said I.
“I am sorry to hear you say that, Jervis,” he exclaimed, “because I
was proposing to hand the letter over to you to examine and report
on.”
“I was only referring to the superficial appearances,” I said hastily.
“No doubt a detailed examination will bring something more distinctive
into view.”
“I have no doubt it will,” he said, “and as there are reasons for
pushing on the investigation as quickly as possible, I suggest that
you get to work at once. I shall occupy myself with the old letter and
the envelope.”
On this I began my examination without delay, and as a preliminary I
proceeded to take a facsimile photograph of the letter by putting it
in a large printing-frame with a sensitive plate and a plate of clear
glass. The resulting negative showed not only the typewritten
lettering, but also the watermark and wire lines of the paper, and a
faint grease spot. Next I turned my attention to the lettering itself,
and here I soon began to accumulate quite a number of identifiable
peculiarities. The machine was apparently a Corona, fitted with the
small “Elite” type, and the alignment was markedly defective. The
“lower case”--or small--“a” was well below the line, although the
capital “A” appeared to be correctly placed; the “u” was slightly
above the line, and the small “m” was partly clogged with dirt.
Up to this point I had been careful to manipulate the letter with
forceps (although it had been handled by at least three persons, to my
knowledge), and I now proceeded to examine it for finger-prints. As I
could detect none by mere inspection, I dusted the back of the paper
with finely-powdered fuchsin, and distributed the powder by tapping
the paper lightly. This brought into view quite a number of
finger-prints, especially round the edges of the letter, and though
most of them were very faint and shadowy, it was possible to make out
the ridge pattern well enough for our purpose. Having blown off the
excess of powder, I took the letter to the room where the large
copying camera was set up, to photograph it before developing the
finger-prints on the front. But here I found our laboratory assistant,
Polton, in possession, with the sealed envelope fixed to the copying
easel.
“I shan’t be a minute, sir,” said he. “The doctor wants an enlarged
photograph of this seal. I’ve got the plate in.”
I waited while he made his exposure and then proceeded to take the
photograph of the letter, or rather of the finger-prints on the back
of it. When I had developed the negative I powdered the front of the
letter and brought out several more finger-prints--mostly thumbs this
time. They were a little difficult to see where they were imposed on
the lettering, but, as the latter was bright blue and the fuchsin
powder was red, this confusion disappeared in the photograph, in which
the lettering was almost invisible while the finger-prints were more
distinct than they had appeared to the eye. This completed my
examination, and when I had verified the make of typewriter by
reference to our album of specimens of typewriting, I left the
negatives for Polton to dry and print and went down to the
sitting-room to draw up my little report. I had just finished this and
was speculating on what had become of Thorndyke, when I heard his
quick step on the stair and a few moments later he entered with a roll
of paper in his hand. This he unrolled on the table, fixing it open
with one or two lead paper-weights, and I came round to inspect it,
when I found it to be a sheet of the Ordnance map on the scale of
twenty-five inches to the mile.
“Here is the Blowgraves’ place,” said Thorndyke, “nearly in the middle
of the sheet. This is his house--Shawstead Manor--and that will
probably be the outbuilding that was on fire. I take it that the house
marked Dingle Farm is the one that Uncle Reuben occupied.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “But I don’t see why you wanted this map if you
are going down to the place itself to-morrow.”
“The advantage of a map,” said Thorndyke, “is that you can see all
over it at once and get the lie of the land well into your mind; and
you can measure all distances accurately and quickly with a scale and
a pair of dividers. When we go down to-morrow, we shall know our way
about as well as Blowgrave himself.”
“And what use will that be?” I asked. “Where does the topography come
into the case?”
“Well, Jervis,” he replied, “there is the robber, for instance; he
came from somewhere and he went somewhere. A study of the map may give
us a hint as to his movements. But here comes Polton ‘with the
documents,’ as poor Miss Flite would say. What have you got for us,
Polton?”
“They aren’t quite dry, sir,” said Polton, laying four large bromide
prints on the table. “There’s the
image: img_017
caption:
Thorndyke’s tracing of the impression of the Scarab
enlargement of the seal--ten by eight, mounted--and three unmounted
prints of Dr. Jervis’s.”
Thorndyke looked at my photographs critically. “They’re excellent,
Jervis,” said he. “The finger-prints are perfectly legible, though
faint. I only hope some of them are the right ones. That is my left
thumb. I don’t see yours. The small one is presumably Miss
Blowgrave’s. We must take her finger-prints to-morrow, and her
father’s, too. Then we shall know if we have got any of the robber’s.”
He ran his eye over my report and nodded approvingly. “There is plenty
there to enable us to identify the typewriter if we can get hold of
it, and the paper is very distinctive. What do you think of the seal?”
he added, laying the enlarged photograph before me.
“It is magnificent,” I replied, with a grin. “Perfectly monumental.”
“What are you grinning at?” he demanded.
“I was thinking that you seem to be counting your chickens in pretty
good time,” said I. “You are making elaborate preparations to identify
the scarab, but you are rather disregarding the classical advice of
the prudent Mrs. Glasse.”
“I have a presentiment that we shall get that scarab,” said he. “At
any rate we ought to be in a position to identify it instantly and
certainly if we are able to get a sight of it.”
“We are not likely to,” said I. “Still, there is no harm in providing
for the improbable.”
This was evidently Thorndyke’s view, and he certainly made ample
provision for this most improbable contingency; for, having furnished
himself with a drawing-board and a sheet of tracing-paper, he pinned
the latter over the photograph on the board and proceeded, with a fine
pen and hectograph ink, to make a careful and minute tracing of the
intricate and bewildering hieroglyphic inscription on the seal. When
he had finished it he transferred it to a clay duplicator and took off
half a dozen copies, one of which he handed to me. I looked at it
dubiously and remarked: “You have said that the medical jurist must
make all knowledge his province. Has he got to be an Egyptologist,
too?”
“He will be the better medical jurist if he is,” was the reply, of
which I made a mental note for my future guidance. But meanwhile
Thorndyke’s proceedings were, to me, perfectly incomprehensible. What
was his object in making this minute tracing? The seal itself was
sufficient for identification. I lingered awhile hoping that some
fresh development might throw a light on the mystery. But his next
proceeding was like to have reduced me to stupefaction. I saw him go
to the bookshelves and take down a book. As he laid it on the table I
glanced at the title, and when I saw that it was Raper’s “Navigation
Tables” I stole softly out into the lobby, put on my hat and went for
a walk.
When I returned the investigation was apparently concluded, for
Thorndyke was seated in his easy chair, placidly reading “The Compleat
Angler.” On the table lay a large circular protractor, a
straight-edge, an architect’s scale and a sheet of tracing-paper on
which was a tracing in hectograph ink of Shawstead Manor.
“Why did you make this tracing?” I asked. “Why not take the map
itself?”
“We don’t want the whole of it,” he replied, “and I dislike cutting up
maps.”
By taking an informal lunch in the train, we arrived at Shawstead
Manor by half-past two. Our approach up the drive had evidently been
observed, for Blowgrave and his daughter were waiting at the porch to
receive us. The former came forward with outstretched hand, but a
distinctly woebegone expression, and exclaimed: “It is most kind of
you to come down; but alas! you are too late.”
“Too late for what?” demanded Thorndyke.
“I will show you,” replied Blowgrave, and seizing my colleague by the
arm, he strode off excitedly to a little wicket at the side of the
house, and, passing through it, hurried along a narrow alley that
skirted the garden wall and ended in a large meadow, at one end of
which stood a dilapidated windmill. Across this meadow he bustled,
dragging my colleague with him, until he reached a heap of
freshly-turned earth, where he halted and pointed tragically to a spot
where the turf had evidently been raised and untidily replaced.
“There!” he exclaimed, stooping to pull up the loose turfs and thereby
exposing what was evidently a large hole, recently and hastily filled
in. “That was done last night or early this morning, for I walked over
this meadow only yesterday evening and there was no sign of disturbed
ground then.”
Thorndyke stood looking down at the hole with a faint smile. “And what
do you infer from that?” he asked.
“Infer!” shrieked Blowgrave. “Why, I infer that whoever dug this hole
was searching for Uncle Reuben and the lost jewels!”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” Thorndyke said calmly. “He happened
to search in the wrong place, but that is his affair.”
“The wrong place!” Blowgrave and his daughter exclaimed in unison.
“How do you know it is the wrong place?”
“Because,” replied Thorndyke, “I believe I know the right place, and
this is not it. But we can put the matter to the test, and we had
better do so. Can you get a couple of men with picks and shovels? Or
shall we handle the tools ourselves?”
“I think that would be better,” said Blowgrave, who was quivering with
excitement. “We don’t want to take any one into our confidence if we
can help it.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “Then I suggest that you fetch the tools while
I locate the spot.”
Blowgrave assented eagerly and went off at a brisk trot, while the
young lady remained with us and watched Thorndyke with intense
curiosity.
“I mustn’t interrupt you with questions,” said she, “but I can’t
imagine how you found out where Uncle Reuben was buried.”
“We will go into that later,” he replied; “but first we have got to
find Uncle Reuben.” He laid his research-case down on the ground, and
opening it, took out three sheets of paper, each bearing a duplicate
of his tracing of the map; and on each was marked a spot on this
meadow from which a number of lines radiated like the spokes of a
wheel.
“You see, Jervis,” he said, exhibiting them to me, “the advantage of a
map. I have been able to rule off these sets of bearings regardless of
obstructions, such as those young trees, which have arisen since
Silas’s day, and mark the spot in its correct place. If the recent
obstructions prevent us from taking the bearings, we can still find
the spot by measurements with the land-chain or tape.”
“Why have you got three plans?” I asked.
“Because there are three imaginable places. No. 1 is the most likely;
No. 2 less likely, but possible; No. 3 is impossible. That is the one
that our friend tried last night. No. 1 is among those young trees,
and we will now see if we can pick up the bearings in spite of them.”
We moved on to the clump of young trees, where Thorndyke took from the
research-case a tall, folding camera-tripod and a large prismatic
compass with an aluminium dial. With the latter he took one or two
trial bearings and then, setting up the tripod, fixed the compass on
it. For some minutes Miss Blowgrave and I watched him as he shifted
the tripod from spot to spot, peering through the sight-vane of the
compass and glancing occasionally at the map. At length he turned to
us and said:
“We are in luck. None of these trees interferes with our bearings.” He
took from the research-case a surveyor’s arrow, and sticking it in the
ground under the tripod, added: “That is the spot. But we may have to
dig a good way round it, for a compass is only a rough instrument.”
At this moment Mr. Blowgrave staggered up, breathing hard, and flung
down on the ground three picks, two shovels and a spade. “I won’t
hinder you, Doctor, by asking for explanations,” said he, “but I am
utterly mystified. You must tell us what it all means when we have
finished our work.”
This Thorndyke promised to do, but meanwhile he took off his coat, and
rolling up his shirt sleeves, seized the spade and began cutting out a
large square of turf. As the soil was uncovered, Blowgrave and I
attacked it with picks and Miss Blowgrave shovelled away the loose
earth.
“Do you know how far down we have to go?” I asked.
“The body lies six feet below the surface,” Thorndyke replied; and as
he spoke he laid down his spade, and taking a telescope from the
research-case, swept it round the margin of the meadow and finally
pointed it at a farm-house some six hundred yards distant, of which he
made a somewhat prolonged inspection, after which he took the
remaining pick and fell to work on the opposite corner of the exposed
square of earth.
For nearly half an hour we worked on steadily, gradually eating our
way downwards, plying pick and shovel alternately, while Miss
Blowgrave cleared the loose earth away from the edges of the deepening
pit. Then a halt was called and we came to the surface, wiping our
faces.
“I think, Nellie,” said Blowgrave, divesting himself of his waistcoat,
“a jug of lemonade and four tumblers would be useful, unless our
visitors would prefer beer.”
We both gave our votes for lemonade, and Miss Nellie tripped away
towards the house, while Thorndyke, taking up his telescope, once more
inspected the farm-house.
“You seem greatly interested in that house,” I remarked.
“I am,” he replied, handing me the telescope. “Just take a look at the
window in the right hand gable, but keep under the tree.”
I pointed the telescope at the gable and there observed an open window
at which a man was seated. He held a binocular glass to his eyes and
the instrument appeared to be directed at us.
“We are being spied on, I fancy,” said I, passing the telescope to
Blowgrave, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is your land, isn’t
it?”
“Yes,” replied Blowgrave, “but still, we didn’t want any spectators.
That is Harold Bowker,” he added, steadying the telescope against a
tree, “my cousin Arthur’s nephew, whom I told you about as having
inherited the farm-house. He seems mighty interested in us; but small
things interest one in the country.”
Here the appearance of Miss Nellie, advancing across the meadow with
an inviting looking basket, diverted our attention from our
inquisitive watcher. Six thirsty eyes were riveted on that basket
until it drew near and presently disgorged a great glass jug and four
tumblers, when we each took off a long and delicious draught and then
jumped down into the pit to resume our labours.
Another half-hour passed. We had excavated in some places to nearly
the full depth and were just discussing the advisability of another
short rest when Blowgrave, who was working in one corner, uttered a
loud cry and stood up suddenly, holding something in his fingers. A
glance at the object showed it to be a bone, brown and earth-stained,
but evidently a bone. Evidently, too, a human bone, as Thorndyke
decided when Blowgrave handed it to him triumphantly.
“We have been very fortunate,” said he, “to get so near at the first
trial. This is from the right great toe, so we may assume that the
skeleton lies just outside this pit, but we had better excavate
carefully in your corner and see exactly how the bones lie.” This he
proceeded to do himself, probing cautiously with the spade and
clearing the earth away from the corner. Very soon the remaining bones
of the right foot came into view and then the ends of the two
leg-bones and a portion of the left foot.
“We can see now,” said he, “how the skeleton lies, and all we have to
do is to extend the excavation in that direction. But there is only
room for one to work down here. I think you and Mr. Blowgrave had
better dig down from the surface.”
On this, I climbed out of the pit, followed reluctantly by Blowgrave,
who still held the little brown bone in his hand and was in a state of
wild excitement and exultation that somewhat scandalized his daughter.
“It seems rather ghoulish,” she remarked, “to be gloating over poor
Uncle Reuben’s body in this way.”
“I know,” said Blowgrave, “it isn’t reverent. But I didn’t kill Uncle
Reuben, you know, whereas--well it was a long time ago.” With this
rather inconsequent conclusion he took a draught of lemonade, seized
his pick and fell to work with a will. I, too, indulged in a draught
and passed a full tumbler down to Thorndyke. But before resuming my
labours I picked up the telescope and once more inspected the
farm-house. The window was still open, but the watcher had apparently
become bored with the not very thrilling spectacle. At any rate he had
disappeared.
From this time onward every few minutes brought some discovery. First,
a pair of deeply rusted steel shoe buckles; then one or two buttons,
and presently a fine gold watch with a fob-chain and a bunch of seals,
looking uncannily new and fresh and seeming more fraught with tragedy
than even the bones themselves. In his cautious digging, Thorndyke was
careful not to disturb the skeleton; and looking down into the narrow
trench that was growing from the corner of the pit, I could see both
legs, with only the right foot missing, projecting from the miniature
cliff. Meanwhile our part of the trench was deepening rapidly, so that
Thorndyke presently warned us to stop digging and bade us come down
and shovel away the earth as he disengaged it.
At length the whole skeleton, excepting the head, was uncovered,
though it lay undisturbed as it might have lain in its coffin. And
now, as Thorndyke picked away the earth around the head, we could see
that the skull was propped forward as if it rested on a high pillow. A
little more careful probing with the pick-point served to explain this
appearance. For as the earth fell away and disclosed the grinning
skull, there came into view the edge and iron-bound corners of a small
chest.
It was an impressive spectacle; weird, solemn and rather dreadful.
There for over a century the ill-fated gambler had lain, his
mouldering head pillowed on the booty of unrecorded villainy, booty
that had been won by fraud, retrieved by violence, and hidden at last
by the final winner with the witness of his crime.
“Here is a fine text for a moralist who would preach on the vanity of
riches,” said Thorndyke.
We all stood silent for a while, gazing, not without awe, at the stark
figure that lay guarding the ill-gotten treasure. Miss Blowgrave--who
had been helped down when we descended--crept closer to her father and
murmured that it was “rather awful”; while Blowgrave himself displayed
a queer mixture of exultation and shuddering distaste.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a voice from above, and we all
looked up with a start. A youngish man was standing on the brink of
the pit, looking down on us with very evident disapproval.
“It seems that I have come just in the nick of time,” observed the
new-comer. “I shall have to take possession of that chest, you know,
and of the remains, too, I suppose. That is my ancestor, Reuben
Blowgrave.”
“Well, Harold,” said Blowgrave, “you can have Uncle Reuben if you want
him. But the chest belongs to Nellie.”
Here Mr. Harold Bowker--I recognized him now as the watcher from the
window--dropped down into the pit and advanced with something of a
swagger.
“I am Reuben’s heir,” said he, “through my Uncle Arthur, and I take
possession of this property and the remains.”
“Pardon me, Harold,” said Blowgrave, “but Nellie is Arthur’s residuary
legatee, and this is the residue of the estate.”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Bowker. “By the way, how did you find out where
he was buried?”
“Oh, that was quite simple,” replied Thorndyke with unexpected
geniality. “I’ll show you the plan.” He climbed up to the surface and
returned in a few moments with the three tracings and his letter-case.
“This is how we located the spot.” He handed the plan marked No. 3 to
Bowker, who took it from him and stood looking at it with a puzzled
frown.
“But this isn’t the place,” he said at length.
“Isn’t it?” queried Thorndyke. “No, of course; I’ve given you the
wrong one. This is the plan.” He handed Bowker the plan marked No. 1,
and took the other from him, laying it down on a heap of earth. Then,
as Bowker pored gloomily over No. 1, he took a knife and a pencil from
his pocket, and with his back to our visitor, scraped the lead of the
pencil, letting the black powder fall on the plan that he had just
laid down. I watched him with some curiosity; and when I observed that
the black scrapings fell on two spots near the edges of the paper, a
sudden suspicion flashed into my mind, which was confirmed when I saw
him tap the paper lightly with his pencil, gently blow away the
powder, and quickly producing my photograph of the typewritten letter
from his case, hold it for a moment beside the plan.
“This is all very well,” said Bowker, looking up from the plan, “but
how did you find out about these bearings?”
Thorndyke swiftly replaced the letter in his case, and turning round,
replied, “I am afraid I can’t give you any further information.”
“Can’t you, indeed!” Bowker exclaimed insolently. “Perhaps I shall
compel you to. But, at any rate, I forbid any of you to lay hands on
my property.”
Thorndyke looked at him steadily and said in an ominously quiet tone:
“Now, listen to me, Mr. Bowker. Let us have an end of this nonsense.
You have played a risky game and you have lost. How much you have lost
I can’t say until I know whether Mr. Blowgrave intends to prosecute.”
“To prosecute!” shouted Bowker. “What the deuce do you mean by
prosecute?”
“I mean,” said Thorndyke, “that on the 7th of June, after nine o’clock
at night, you entered the dwelling-house of Mr. Blowgrave and stole
and carried away certain of his goods and chattels. A part of them you
have restored, but you are still in possession of some of the stolen
property, to wit, a scarab and a deed-box.”
As Thorndyke made this statement in his calm, level tones, Bowker’s
face blanched to a tallowy white, and he stood staring at my
colleague, the very picture of astonishment and dismay. But he fired a
last shot.
“This is sheer midsummer madness,” he exclaimed huskily; “and you know
it.”
Thorndyke turned to our host. “It is for you to settle, Mr.
Blowgrave,” said he. “I hold conclusive evidence that Mr. Bowker stole
your deed-box. If you decide to prosecute I shall produce that
evidence in court and he will certainly be convicted.”
Blowgrave and his daughter looked at the accused man with an
embarrassment almost equal to his own.
“I am astounded,” the former said at length; “but I don’t want to be
vindictive. Look here, Harold, hand over the scarab and we’ll say no
more about it.”
“You can’t do that,” said Thorndyke. “The law doesn’t allow you to
compound a robbery. He can return the property if he pleases and you
can do as you think best about prosecuting. But you can’t make
conditions.”
There was silence for some seconds; then, without another word, the
crestfallen adventurer turned, and scrambling up out of the pit, took
a hasty departure.
It was nearly a couple of hours later that, after a leisurely wash and
a hasty, nondescript meal, we carried the little chest from the
dining-room to the study. Here, when he had closed the French window
and drawn the curtains, Mr. Blowgrave produced a set of tools and we
fell to work on the iron fastenings of the chest. It was no light
task, though a century’s rust had thinned the stout bands, but at
length the lid yielded to the thrust of a long case-opener and rose
with a protesting creak. The chest was lined with a double thickness
of canvas, apparently part of a sail, and contained a number of small
leathern bags, which, as we lifted them out, one by one, felt as if
they were filled with pebbles. But when we untied the thongs of one
and emptied its contents into a wooden bowl, Blowgrave heaved a sigh
of ecstasy and Miss Nellie uttered a little scream of delight. They
were all cut stones, and most of them of exceptional size; rubies,
emeralds, sapphires, and a few diamonds. As to their value, we could
form but the vaguest guess; but Thorndyke, who was a fair judge of
gem-stones, gave it as his opinion that they were fine specimens of
their kind, though roughly cut, and that they had probably formed the
enrichment of some shrine.
“The question is,” said Blowgrave, gazing gloatingly on the bowl of
sparkling gems, “what are we to do with them?”
“I suggest,” said Thorndyke, “that Dr. Jervis stays here to-night to
help you to guard them and that in the morning you take them up to
London and deposit them at your bank.”
Blowgrave fell in eagerly with this suggestion, which I seconded.
“But,” said he, “that chest is a queer-looking package to be carrying
abroad. Now, if we only had that confounded deed-box----”
“There’s a deed-box on the cabinet behind you,” said Thorndyke.
Blowgrave turned round sharply. “God bless us!” he exclaimed. “It has
come back the way it went. Harold must have slipped in at the window
while we were at tea. Well, I’m glad he has made restitution. When I
look at that bowl and think what he must have narrowly missed, I don’t
feel inclined to be hard on him. I suppose the scarab is inside--not
that it matters much now.”
The scarab was inside in an envelope; and as Thorndyke turned it over
in his hand and examined the hieroglyphics on it through his lens,
Miss Blowgrave asked: “Is it of any value, Dr. Thorndyke? It can’t
have any connection with the secret of the hiding-place, because you
found the jewels without it.
“By the way, Doctor, I don’t know whether it is permissible for me to
ask, but how on earth _did_ you find out where the jewels were hidden?
To me it looks like black magic.”
Thorndyke laughed in a quiet, inward fashion. “There is nothing
magical about it,” said he. “It was a perfectly simple,
straightforward problem. But Miss Nellie is wrong. We had the scarab;
that is to say we had the wax impression of it, which is the same
thing. And the scarab was the key to the riddle. You see,” he
continued, “Silas’s letter and the scarab formed together a sort of
intelligence test.”
“Did they?” said Blowgrave. “Then he drew a blank every time.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “His descendants were certainly a little lacking
in enterprise,” he admitted. “Silas’s instructions were perfectly
plain and explicit. Whoever would find the treasure must first acquire
some knowledge of Egyptian lore and must study the scarab attentively.
It was the broadest of hints, but no one--excepting Harold Bowker, who
must have heard about the scarab from his Uncle Arthur--seems to have
paid any attention to it.
“Now it happens that I have just enough elementary knowledge of the
hieroglyphic characters to enable me to spell them out when they are
used alphabetically; and as soon as I saw the seal, I could see that
these hieroglyphics formed English words. My attention was first
attracted by the second group of signs, which spelled the word
‘Reuben,’ and then I saw that the first group spelled ‘Uncle.’ Of
course, the instant I heard Miss Nellie speak of the connection
between the scarab and Uncle Reuben, the murder was out. I saw at a
glance that the scarab contained all the required information. Last
night I made a careful tracing of the hieroglyphics and then rendered
them into our own alphabet. This is the result.”
He took from his letter-case and spread out on the table a duplicate
of the tracing which I had seen him make, and of which he had given me
a copy. But since I had last seen it, it had received an addition;
under each group of signs the equivalents in modern Roman lettering
had been written, and these made the following words:
“UNKL RUBN IS IN TH MILL FIELD SKS FT DOWN CHURCH SPIR NORTH TEN
THIRTY EAST DINGL SOUTH GABL NORTH ATY FORTY FIF WST GOD SAF KING
JORJ.”
image: img_035
caption:
The transliteration of the hieroglyphics.
Our two friends gazed at Thorndyke’s transliteration in blank
astonishment. At length Blowgrave remarked: “But this translation must
have demanded a very profound knowledge of the Egyptian writing.”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “Any intelligent person could master
the Egyptian alphabet in an hour. The language, of course, is quite
another matter. The spelling of this is a little crude, but it is
quite intelligible and does Silas great credit, considering how little
was known in his time.”
“How do you suppose M. Fouquet came to overlook this?” Blowgrave
asked.
“Naturally enough,” was the reply. “He was looking for an Egyptian
inscription. But this is not an Egyptian inscription. Does he speak
English?”
“Very little. Practically not at all.”
“Then, as the words are English words and imperfectly spelt, the
hieroglyphics must have appeared to him mere nonsense. And he was
right as to the scarab being an imitation.”
“There is another point,” said Blowgrave. “How was it that Harold made
that extraordinary mistake about the place? The directions are clear
enough. All you had to do was to go out there with a compass and take
the bearings just as they were given.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “that is exactly what he did, and hence the
mistake. He was apparently unaware of the phenomenon known as the
Secular Variation of the Compass. As you know, the compass does
not--usually--point to true north, but to the Magnetic North; and the
Magnetic North is continually changing its position. When Reuben was
buried--about 1810--it was twenty-four degrees, twenty-six minutes
west of true north; at the present time it is fourteen degrees,
forty-eight minutes west of true north. So Harold’s bearings would be
no less than ten degrees out, which, of course, gave him a totally
wrong position. But Silas was a ship-master, a navigator, and of
course, knew all about the vagaries of the compass; and, as his
directions were intended for use at some date unknown to him, I
assumed that the bearings that he gave were true bearings--that when
he said ‘north’ he meant true north, which is always the same; and
this turned out to be the case. But I also prepared a plan with
magnetic bearings corrected up to date. Here are the three plans: No.
1--the one we used--showing true bearings; No. 2, showing corrected
magnetic bearings which might have given us the correct spot; and No.
3, with uncorrected magnetic bearings, giving us the spot where Harold
dug, and which could not possibly have been the right spot.”
On the following morning I escorted the deed-box, filled with the
booty and tied up and sealed with the scarab, to Mr. Blowgrave’s bank.
And that ended our connection with the case; excepting that, a month
or two later, we attended by request the unveiling in Shawstead
churchyard of a fine monument to Reuben Blowgrave. This took the
slightly inappropriate form of an obelisk, on which were cut the name
and approximate dates, with the added inscription: “Cast thy bread
upon the waters and it shall return after many days”; concerning which
Thorndyke remarked dryly that he supposed the exhortation applied
equally even if the bread happened to belong to some one else.
II.
THE CASE OF THE WHITE FOOT-PRINTS
“Well,” said my friend Foxton, pursuing a familiar and apparently
inexhaustible topic, “I’d sooner have your job than my own.”
“I’ve no doubt you would,” was my unsympathetic reply. “I never met a
man who wouldn’t. We all tend to consider other men’s jobs in terms of
their advantages and our own in terms of their drawbacks. It is human
nature.”
“Oh, it’s all very well for you to be so beastly philosophical,”
retorted Foxton. “You wouldn’t be if you were in my place. Here, in
Margate, it’s measles, chicken-pox and scarlatina all the summer, and
bronchitis, colds and rheumatism all the winter. A deadly monotony.
Whereas you and Thorndyke sit there in your chambers and let your
clients feed you up with the raw material of romance. Why, your life
is a sort of everlasting Adelphi drama.”
“You exaggerate, Foxton,” said I. “We, like you, have our routine
work, only it is never heard of outside the Law Courts; and you, like
every other doctor, must run up against mystery and romance from time
to time.”
Foxton shook his head as he held out his hand for my cup. “I don’t,”
said he. “My practice yields nothing but an endless round of dull
routine.”
And then, as if in commentary on this last statement, the housemaid
burst into the room and, with hardly dissembled agitation, exclaimed:
“If you please, sir, the page from Beddingfield’s Boarding House says
that a lady has been found dead in her bed and would you go round
there immediately.”
“Very well, Jane,” said Foxton, and as the maid retired, he
deliberately helped himself to another fried egg and, looking across
the table at me, exclaimed: “Isn’t that always the way? Come
immediately--now--this very instant, although the patient may have
been considering for a day or two whether he’ll send for you or not.
But directly he decides, you must spring out of bed, or jump up from
your breakfast, and run.”
“That’s quite true,” I agreed; “but this really does seem to be an
urgent case.”
“What’s the urgency?” demanded Foxton. “The woman is already dead. Any
one would think she was in imminent danger of coming to life again and
that my instant arrival was the only thing that could prevent such a
catastrophe.”
“You’ve only a third-hand statement that she is dead,” said I. “It is
just possible that she isn’t; and even if she is, as you will have to
give evidence at the inquest, you don’t want the police to get there
first and turn out the room before you’ve made your inspection.”
“Gad!” exclaimed Foxton. “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes. You’re right.
I’ll hop round at once.”
He swallowed the remainder of the egg at a single gulp and rose from
the table. Then he paused and stood for a few moments looking down at
me irresolutely.
“I wonder, Jervis,” he said, “if you would mind coming round with me.
You know all the medico-legal ropes, and I don’t. What do you say?”
I agreed instantly, having, in fact, been restrained only by delicacy
from making the suggestion myself; and when I had fetched from my room
my pocket camera and telescopic tripod, we set forth together without
further delay.
Beddingfield’s Boarding House was but a few minutes’ walk from
Foxton’s residence, being situated near the middle of Ethelred Road,
Cliftonville, a quiet, suburban street which abounded in similar
establishments, many of which, I noticed, were undergoing a
spring-cleaning and renovation to prepare them for the approaching
season.
“That’s the house,” said Foxton, “where that woman is standing at the
front door. Look at the boarders, collected at the dining-room window.
There’s a rare commotion in that house, I’ll warrant.”
Here, arriving at the house, he ran up the steps and accosted in
sympathetic tones the elderly woman who stood by the open street door.
“What a dreadful thing this is, Mrs. Beddingfield! Terrible! Most
distressing for you!”
“Ah, you’re right, Dr. Foxton,” she replied. “It’s an awful affair.
Shocking. So bad for business, too. I do hope and trust there won’t be
any scandal.”
“I’m sure I hope not,” said Foxton. “There shan’t be if I can help it.
And as my friend, Dr. Jervis, who is staying with me for a few days,
is a lawyer as well as a doctor, we shall have the best advice. When
was the affair discovered?”
“Just before I sent for you, Dr. Foxton. The maid noticed that Mrs.
Toussaint--that is the poor creature’s name--had not taken in her hot
water, so she knocked at the door. As she couldn’t get any answer, she
tried the door and found it bolted on the inside, and then she came
and told me. I went up and knocked loudly, and then, as I couldn’t get
any reply, I told our boy, James, to force the door open with a
case-opener, which he did quite easily as the bolt was only a small
one. Then I went in, all of a tremble, for I had a presentiment that
there was something wrong; and there she was, lying stone dead, with a
most ’orrible stare on her face and an empty bottle in her hand.”
“A bottle, eh!” said Foxton.
“Yes. She’d made away with herself, poor thing; and all on account of
some silly love affair--and it was hardly even that.”
“Ah,” said Foxton. “The usual thing. You must tell us about that
later. Now we’d better go up and see the patient--at least
the--er--perhaps you’ll show us the room, Mrs. Beddingfield.”
The landlady turned and preceded us up the stairs to the first-floor
back, where she paused, and softly opening a door, peered nervously
into the room. As we stepped past her and entered, she seemed inclined
to follow, but, at a significant glance from me, Foxton persuasively
ejected her and closed the door. Then we stood silent for a while and
looked about us.
In the aspect of the room there was something strangely incongruous
with the tragedy that had been enacted within its walls; a mingling of
the commonplace and the terrible that almost amounted to anticlimax.
Through the wide-open window the bright spring sunshine streamed in on
the garish wall-paper and cheap furniture; from the street below, the
periodic shouts of a man selling “sole and mack-ro!” broke into the
brisk staccato of a barrel-organ and both sounds mingled with a
raucous voice close at hand, cheerfully trolling a popular song, and
accounted for by a linen-clad elbow that bobbed in front of the window
and evidently appertained to a house painter on an adjacent ladder.
It was all very commonplace and familiar and discordantly out of
character with the stark figure that lay on the bed like a waxen
effigy symbolic of tragedy. Here was none of that gracious somnolence
in which death often presents itself with a suggestion of eternal
repose. This woman was dead; horribly, aggressively dead. The thin,
sallow face was rigid as stone, the dark eyes stared into infinite
space with a horrid fixity that was quite disturbing to look on. And
yet the posture of the corpse was not uneasy, being, in fact, rather
curiously symmetrical, with both arms outside the bed-clothes and both
hands closed, the right grasping, as Mrs. Beddingfield had said, an
empty bottle.
“Well,” said Foxton, as he stood looking down on the dead woman, “it
seems a pretty clear case. She appears to have laid herself out and
kept hold of the bottle so that there should be no mistake. How long
do you suppose this woman has been dead, Jervis?”