A Discovery
It was quite evident to the Professor that since his presence upon the
Isle of Purbeck was known to his mysterious acquaintance of the
previous evening, there was no further need for secrecy as to his
movements. As soon as he had breakfasted on Sunday, he put a trunk
call through to London, and very shortly had Harold on the end of the
wire.
“Yes, it is Dr. Priestley speaking,” he said. “The asp has struck,
Cleopatra. Does that satisfy you? Yes, yes, I know, but circumstances
have made it necessary for me to change my plans. Now listen. Put
another short paragraph in the papers, to the effect that domestic
reasons have made it impossible for Dr. Priestley to carry out his
projected lecture tour in Australia. He was recalled by telegram from
Paris, where he stopped on his way to join the _Oporto_ at Marseilles,
and will shortly return to London. Having done that, get in touch with
Inspector Hanslet, and bring him to Corfe Castle by the train leaving
Waterloo at 2.30 this afternoon. I will explain the reasons for asking
him to come when I see him. I will meet the train at Corfe Castle
station. Is that clear?”
Apparently it was, for after a further word or two the Professor laid
the instrument down. He spent the day within the portals of the inn,
to all appearances studying the contents of the Sunday papers, but
actually trying to solve some of the problems suggested by his
incredible meeting with the Black Sailor.
The train came in to time, and out of it stepped Inspector Hanslet and
Harold. They glanced at the Professor enquiringly as they greeted him,
but asked no questions until they were outside the station. And even
then it was the Professor who spoke first.
“I am Mr. Deacon here, to the landlord of the inn, at least,” he said.
“I will take you there and you can leave your suit-cases. Register in
any names you like, but do not divulge your connection with the
police, Inspector. It would attract undesirable attention.”
Hanslet nodded, and the Professor introduced the two to the landlord
as the friends he had been expecting. They left their suit-cases, and
then followed the Professor out into the village street.
“This is a most interesting country,” he said conversationally. “I
should like to show you the Purbeck Hills from the distance. We have,
I think, time for a walk before dinner.”
Hanslet nodded. “I should be glad of a stroll after sitting in the
train,” he replied. “Lead on, Mr. Deacon. You know the way.”
The Professor took the lane which led towards the railway line. It was
not until they were well beyond the outskirts of the village that he
spoke.
“I must apologize for my recent actions,” he said at last to Hanslet.
“I think you will understand them when I have explained my reasons to
you. I was anxious to come here without anybody suspecting my
presence. I had formed a theory as to the motive of the murders in
Praed Street. Harold, my boy, tell Inspector Hanslet, as concisely as
you can, the facts about the arrest and trial of Dr. Morlandson.”
Harold obeyed, and as he finished Hanslet nodded. “I remember the case
vaguely,” he said. “But I don’t see——”
The Professor interrupted him. “I happened to be the foreman of the
jury. When you mentioned the name of Copperdock the other night, I
fancied that it was familiar to me. Eventually I remembered that a man
of that name had been one of the jurymen. More out of curiosity than
anything else, I took steps to discover the names of the remainder of
the panel. They were Tovey, Colburn, Pargent, Martin, Goodwin, and
five others, whom I am informed have since died.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Hanslet. “Then you mean that this
Morlandson, who was released from gaol after serving his sentence, is
the murderer! Why on earth didn’t you tell me so before, Dr.
Priestley? It will be simple enough to trace him. Our people at the
Yard will know all about him.”
“They do,” replied the Professor drily. “They have a completely
authenticated record of his death, which occurred five years ago. In
fact, I am now taking you to the place where it happened.”
“But he can’t have died five years ago if he murdered Copperdock only
last week!” exclaimed Hanslet in bewilderment. “There’s some mistake.
There must have been two Morlandsons and you’ve got hold of the wrong
man.”
The Professor shrugged his shoulders. “Ask our landlord, when we
return to the inn,” he replied. “He is a most communicative man, and
will, no doubt, be delighted to tell you the story, as he told it to
me. I had the same doubts as you have expressed, and it was these
doubts which brought me down here. I enquired for Morlandson’s history
as tactfully as I could, and I examined the scene of his death, as I
shall ask you to.”
“I am quite prepared to accept your statement, Professor,” said
Hanslet. “How did it happen?”
The Professor recounted the facts of Morlandson’s life on the Isle of
Purbeck, and the circumstances under which he met his death. “All
these things can of course be verified,” he said, as he came to the
end of his story. “It was while I was engaged in verifying them
yesterday evening that I met with an adventure which can only be
described as amazing. You will remember the man described as the Black
Sailor, first seen by Wal Snyder at the time of the murder of Tovey
the greengrocer, and subsequently by Copperdock?”
“The man Whyland was persuaded to issue a reward for?” replied Hanslet
with a smile. “Yes, I remember. We seem pretty generally agreed that
he was a myth.”
For a moment the Professor made no reply. They had by this time
reached the spot where the track from Morlandson’s cottage crossed the
railway line. The Professor stopped, and turned to Hanslet
impressively. “I met him last night, about three hundred yards from
this spot,” he said simply.
Hanslet stared at him in amazement. “You met him!” he exclaimed. “You
mean you saw someone who looked like him, I suppose?”
“No, I met him, and had a most interesting conversation with him,”
replied the Professor. “He was riding a bicycle, and since there has
been no rain since last night, you will see the tracks in a few
minutes. Further, he gave me this.” The Professor produced his
handkerchief, unrolled it, and handed Hanslet the numbered counter.
“Good Lord, this beats anything I ever heard of!” exclaimed Hanslet.
“What did the man say to you?”
The Professor gave a careful and detailed account of his adventures on
the previous evening, to which Hanslet and Harold listened in silence.
He finished by explaining that he had thought it useless to set the
local police on the Black Sailor’s track, and Hanslet agreed.
“The fellow would have been miles away before you had got them to
move,” he said. “Of course, I shall have to circulate his description
again, in case anybody else saw him. But he can’t have gone about
openly, with a reward on his head like that. Somebody would have been
bound to have spotted him. It’s the most amazing story I ever heard.
You don’t suppose he was pulling your leg, do you?”
“How did he know my name, and the names of the jurymen who served with
me?” replied the Professor.
“Well, this case is full of most extraordinary contradictions. We’d
better have a look at these bicycle tracks you speak of, it’s just
possible we may be able to find out the direction in which he went
off. Where did he mount his bicycle and ride away, Professor?”
“About a quarter of a mile along this path. Lead the way along,
Inspector, and I will stop you when we reach the spot.”
They proceeded in single file, Inspector Hanslet leading. After about
five minutes the Professor spoke. “It was just where you are standing,
Inspector.”
The party halted, and Hanslet bent down to examine the path. The sand
was in admirable condition to receive and retain an impression; firm
enough to resist the force of the wind, yet not too hard to take even
the lightest imprints. Hanslet, kneeling in the heather by the side of
the path, looked at it closely.
“You’ve mistaken the spot, Professor,” he said at last. “There are no
tracks here. It doesn’t look as if anybody had passed along here for a
long time.”
The Professor frowned. “I do not usually mistake a spot which I wish
to remember,” he replied. “However, it was nearly dark when I left it,
and I may have made an error of a few yards. As you can see, this
track leads straight to those ruined walls, which are the remains of
Morlandson’s laboratory. It was in that direction that the man made
off. If you follow the path, you are sure to find the tracks further
along.”
They resumed their way, Hanslet examining every foot of the path as
they proceeded. It was not until they reached the ruined posts which
had marked the limits of the front garden that Hanslet turned and
looked anxiously at the Professor.
“You are quite sure that this was the path he followed?” he asked. “I
can’t see any tracks along it at all, either of your feet or of the
bicycle.”
“Perfectly certain,” replied the Professor stiffly. “I am not likely
to mistake it, especially as it would appear to be the only path in
the vicinity.”
Hanslet nodded, and made his way through the tangled vegetation
towards the ruins of the cottage. He walked carefully round the mound,
then proceeded to the broken walls of the laboratory. He gazed at
these for a minute or two, then turned towards his companions, who had
remained on the path.
“I wish you would come here a minute, will you, Mr. Merefield?” he
called.
Harold obeyed his summons, and Hanslet led him round an angle of the
walls, out of sight of the Professor. “Has he been overdoing it a bit
lately?” he asked in a low tone. “Overworking himself, or anything
like that, I mean? I thought he looked pretty well done up when I
first saw him the other evening.”
“Well, he’s hardly been outside the house for the last six months,”
replied Harold. “He’s been busy with a new book, and I think it took
it out of him a good deal. Why?”
“You heard that extraordinary yarn he spun us just now, about the
Black Sailor and his bicycle. If the tracks showed anywhere, it would
be on that path. Now here, all round this place, you can see the
Professor’s footmarks. He was here all right last night, as he says.
But it’s odd we can’t find traces of the other fellow. You don’t think
he can have dreamt it, do you?”
“It would be most unlike him,” replied Harold. “Why should he imagine
such a thing, anyhow?”
“Well, you see, if this jury business is correct, he is the only
survivor. You remember his telling us the other day in town that there
would be one more murder? He meant that his own life was threatened,
and I expect it’s been preying on his mind. It’s the only way I can
account for this business.”
Harold shook his head. “It is true that he hasn’t been quite himself
lately,” he replied. “But I don’t think he’s got to the stage of
seeing things. Anyhow, how do you account for the counter he gave you
just now?”
“How do you account for anything in this blessed case?” retorted
Hanslet. “I believe the devil’s at the bottom of it, if you ask me. I
wish you would follow up that path in the opposite direction for a
bit, while I poke about here. If you find the marks of a bicycle
wheel, don’t touch ’em, but come back and tell me.”
Harold followed the path for half a mile or so in the direction of the
Studland road, and returned shaking his head. Hanslet had by this time
finished his inspection of the ruins. He turned to the Professor, who
had joined him. “Well, there’s nothing very definite to be seen here,”
he said, with his usual cheerful smile. “What do you suggest we do
next, Professor?”
“Return to the inn for dinner,” replied Dr. Priestley. “To-morrow, if
you agree, I propose to return to London by an early train.”
“I think that will certainly be the best course,” agreed Hanslet. “I
will just run round to the local police station after dinner, and have
a chat with whoever’s in charge. We must certainly follow up this
valuable clue of yours.”
They returned to the inn, and after dinner Hanslet went round to the
police station. The superintendent who had been in charge at the time
of Morlandson’s death had since been promoted and had left the
district, but Hanslet had no difficulty in verifying the story as told
by the landlord. He had disclosed his identity, and explained that he
had come down in connection with a case in which he was interested,
without however mentioning the Praed Street murders. In the course of
conversation with the sergeant in charge he elicited the information
that no strangers had recently been heard of in the district, and
certainly nobody in any way resembling the Black Sailor.
“There’s a few foreigners and the like comes in to Poole, sir,” the
sergeant had explained. “But they never comes over this way. The
barges what goes up to Goathorn are all local craft, and there’s never
a stranger among them. If any stranger was wandering about the heath,
we’d get to hear of it, sharp enough. Why, it’s an event in the lives
of these clay-workers if they see a strange face.”
“Well, if you should hear of a strange man with a bicycle having been
seen, you might let me know,” said Hanslet. “Good night, sergeant, I
won’t trouble you any further.”
Hanslet left the police station, more convinced than ever that the
Professor was suffering from some temporary aberration. He had known
such cases before, where overwork had caused the queerest effects. It
was quite understandable. The Professor had certainly discovered the
motive for the murders; it could not be a coincidence that all the men
who had died had served on this particular jury and had been the
victims of this mysterious murderer. But, having discovered this, and
realizing that he was the only survivor, the Professor must have
received a shock which had unduly stimulated his imagination. This was
all that Hanslet could make of it. Meanwhile he determined to keep a
very close watch over the Professor, for, if his theory was correct,
his life was undoubtedly threatened, Black Sailor or no Black Sailor.
The party returned to London on the Monday morning, and Hanslet
immediately went to see Whyland, whom he had left in charge during his
absence. At the police station he was told that he had gone to see Mr.
Ludgrove, and thither Hanslet followed him.
He found Whyland and Ludgrove seated in the latter’s sanctum, and the
herbalist greeted him warmly on his entrance. “Come in, Inspector,” he
said. “Mr. Whyland and I are talking about the death of Mr.
Copperdock. As you see, I am still alive, in spite of my numbered
counter.”
“So I see,” replied Hanslet. “You’ve seen or heard of nothing
suspicious, I suppose, Whyland?”
“Not a thing,” replied Whyland. “Mr. Ludgrove and I set a little trap,
but nothing came of it.”
“Oh, what was that?” enquired Hanslet. “Did you wander about Praed
Street with counters stuck on your backs, or what?”
“Better than that,” said Mr. Ludgrove with a smile. “Of course, you
realize that five out of six of these deaths have taken place in Praed
Street, don’t you? Well, another thing is that they have taken place
during the week-end. It was a fair inference that if my life was to be
attempted, it would be during the week-end, and in Praed Street. Do
you agree?”
“Well, it sounds reasonable, anyhow,” replied Hanslet. “What about
it?”
“I felt as though a breath of country air would do me good,” continued
the herbalist. “As Inspector Whyland may have told you, I usually try
to spend a week-end out of London at least once every three weeks. For
one thing it does me good, and for another my business obliges me to
collect herbs from time to time. And I happen to have heard of some
particularly fine colchicums growing near Dorchester.”
“Mr. Ludgrove told me this, and I thought it wouldn’t do him any harm
to go and look for these collycums, or whatever he calls them,” broke
in Whyland. “Besides, his suggestion gave me an idea. So we smuggled
him off to Paddington, where two of my plain clothes men saw him into
a train on Saturday morning. I reckoned he’d be safe enough out of
London. Then I stayed here, being careful to keep a light burning in
the shop, so as people would think Mr. Ludgrove was in residence. Then
we met Mr. Ludgrove’s train at Paddington yesterday, evening, and
brought him back. But, as I say, nothing happened. I only had one
visitor all the time, and that was young Copperdock, on Sunday
morning. I explained to him that Mr. Ludgrove was upstairs, and he
said he would look in again later. But he never came, at least while I
was here.”
“Well, it wasn’t a bad notion, certainly,” said Hanslet. “I don’t
think I should go about alone too much, if I were you, Mr. Ludgrove.”
The herbalist smiled. “I hardly get the chance,” he replied. “I have a
habit of taking a brisk walk in the neighbourhood every evening.
During this last week I have never gone more than a few steps before
being accosted by a charming and talkative individual who insists upon
accompanying me. I am not complaining, I have found his conversation
most interesting.”
“And he yours, Mr. Ludgrove,” laughed Whyland. “I’m sorry, but what
can we do? I don’t want to alarm you, but you know there is the chance
that an attack might be made upon you. And that attack would give us
the clue we want.”
“I see. I am to be used as a stalking-horse,” said Mr. Ludgrove.
“Well, I have no objection. I am only too glad to be of service in
unravelling this terrible mystery.”
Hanslet, who had been silent for a moment or two, suddenly turned
towards Whyland. “You say that nobody came near you while you were
alone here but young Copperdock. What did he want, I wonder? Have you
seen him since you came back from your herbalizing expedition, Mr.
Ludgrove?”
A grave expression spread over the herbalist’s face. “I have,” he
replied. “It was for this reason that I asked Inspector Whyland to
come here and see me. I was about to tell him the story when you came
in, and I realized that it would be better if you heard it together.
Ted Copperdock came here yesterday evening, about an hour after my
return.”
“Oh, he did, did he!” exclaimed Hanslet. “What did he want?”
“He told me he had come round in the morning to ask me if I would go
through his father’s belongings with him. Finding me busy, as he
supposed, he went back home, and started to go through them by
himself. He spent the whole afternoon sorting out Mr. Copperdock’s
papers, and it was not until late that he began to look over his
clothes. In the pocket of one of his coats he discovered something
which, as he himself said, terrified him. He came to me at once, and
begged me to come back with him. He was so insistent that I broke the
promise which I had made to Inspector Whyland, not to go alone into
any house in Praed Street, and went upstairs with him into his
father’s bedroom. There he showed me an overcoat hanging in a
cupboard, and in the pocket of it—this!”
The herbalist rose, walked to the bench at the far end of the room,
and pointed to an object wrapped loosely in paper. Hanslet and Whyland
followed him, and the former unwrapped the paper carefully. As the
object appeared, they both uttered a startled exclamation. It was the
blade of a knife, and with it a long wooden handle, with a hole
running the whole of its length, and fitted with a set-screw.
Whyland bent over it with a look of triumph. “I knew it, all along!”
he exclaimed. “Look at this blade! It is exactly similar to the ones
found in the bodies of Tovey and Pargent. You see the dodge, don’t
you? This blade just fits the hole in the handle. It’s meant to be
pushed through and gripped by the set-screw. But, if you tighten the
screw as far as it will go first, then put the blade in, it is held
lightly, just by its very end. Now, if you stab a man with the blade
fixed like that, what happens? The blade goes in all right, and there
it stays, while you walk away with the handle. It’s beautifully
simple, and you leave no finger-marks behind you.”
But Hanslet stared at the knife in silence, his brain a whirl of
conflicting theories. If the Professor was correct in his assumption,
Copperdock was a victim of the unknown assassin. How did this knife,
which, as Whyland said, was exactly similar to those with which Tovey
and Pargent had been killed, come into his possession? On the other
hand, if Copperdock had been the murderer, what became of the
Professor’s theory? Why should one of the jurymen wish to murder his
colleagues? The problem became more complicated with every fresh
discovery.
“This blessed case would drive an archangel to drink,” he observed
disgustedly, as he wrapped up the knife again and put it in his
pocket. “Well, we’d better go across and see what young Copperdock has
to say about this, eh, Whyland?”