The Will
He came to himself slowly and confusedly. A strong light was glaring
into his eyes, and he could hear voices, voices which he did not
recognize, all about him. He seemed to be lying on the floor, his
shoulders supported in somebody’s arms.
Gradually he began to distinguish words and sentences. “This one’s
coming round, I believe.” “All right, the doctor’ll be here in a
minute.” “T’other one’s gone, I’m afraid. I can’t feel his pulse at
all.” “Here, help me to clear this plaster off him, somebody. The
explosion seems to have brought the ceiling down. It’s a wonder it
didn’t blow the roof off. Have you got that gas turned off at the main
yet?” “Ah, here’s the doctor. Been a bit of a smash here, doctor. Gas
explosion, from what I can see of it. Two hurt, one of ’em killed, I
fancy. Take this one first, will you?”
The Professor saw a face peering into his own. “Well, my friend,
what’s happened to you? Blown up, eh? Let’s have a look at you. Any
bones broken? Doesn’t look like it. Can you move your legs? Good. Any
pain anywhere?”
“No. I was stunned, I think, when the explosion took place.” Dr.
Priestley’s senses were returning rapidly. The whole scene flashed
back to him, the feeble glimmer of the little hand-lamp, the figure of
the Black Sailor, formidable, immense, swaying towards him——
Before the supporting arms could prevent him, he had struggled to his
feet. Something about his head felt unfamiliar, and he passed his hand
over it. Every particle of hair had disappeared. He was bald,
clean-shaven, without eyebrows or eyelashes.
“Steady, steady,” came a voice soothingly. “We’ll soon get you out of
this. Here, sit down in this chair, or what remains of it.”
He let himself be guided to the chair. The outlines of the room,
illuminated by the rays of two or three bulls-eye lanterns, began to
be visible to him. He hardly recognized it. Everything it had
contained was swept into inextricable confusion, as though a tornado
had passed through it. Where the window had been was a square of dim
grey light, the distant reflection of a street lamp. A whitish gritty
dust covered everything, the debris of the fallen ceiling. And
stretched out in front of the fireplace was the dim outline of a man’s
figure, prone and motionless.
One of the men in the room came up to him. “Feeling better, eh? Narrow
shave you’ve had, I should say. Do you remember who you are?”
“I am Dr. Priestley, of Westbourne Terrace,” replied the Professor.
The man gave a low whistle of incredulity. “Dr. Priestley? Well, you
don’t look it.”
“I have letters in my pocket which will serve to identify me,” replied
the Professor shortly.
He put his hand in his pocket and produced a packet of papers. The man
took them, glanced through them and handed them back. “I beg your
pardon, sir,” he said respectfully. “But—I didn’t know you without
your hair, and with your face blackened like that. Perhaps you could
tell us who this is, sir?”
He flashed his lamp upon the features of the figure lying upon the
floor. The Professor leant forward in his chair and gazed at them in
silence. This man, too, was hairless as he was himself, as though he
had been shaved by some expert barber. Beneath the grime which covered
his face, beneath the lines which age and suffering had graven upon
him, the Professor recognized the features which had graven themselves
upon his memory so many years ago. He saw again the prisoner in the
dock, the handsome clean-shaven face with its look of awful anxiety.
And he knew where he had seen before those eyes which had stared into
his before he had lost consciousness.
“That is Dr. Morlandson,” he replied gravely.
Dr. Priestley was removed to Westbourne Terrace, at his own urgent
request, but it was a couple of days before his doctor would allow him
to receive visitors. He was pretty badly shaken, and the poison which
he had inhaled was having its usual after effects. But his brain was
as active as ever, and he insisted that Hanslet, who had been waiting
with what patience he could summon, should be admitted without further
delay.
“Well, sir, you seem to have been right as usual,” he said. “But I
don’t profess to begin to understand, although I have a document here
which clears up a good many points. If you feel well enough, I should
be very glad if you would tell me what happened in that room. I’ve
arranged for the inquest on this Dr. Morlandson to be adjourned until
you are well enough to attend. As a matter of fact, I don’t see how an
inquest is going to be held at all. There’s been one already, on the
same man, at Corfe Castle, years ago.”
The Professor told his story as simply as possible, outlining his
actions and repeating the Black Sailor’s story, up to the moment when
it had occurred to him that his only chance of escape was to produce
an explosion. “It could not make things any worse, as far as I was
concerned,” he said. “I was bound to be overcome by the gas in a very
few minutes. But I had to wait until I judged the mixture of gas and
air to be correct, and I was very doubtful whether this would take
place before I became unconscious. I guessed that I should feel the
force of the explosion least by lying on the floor, and, as it proved,
that saved me. Morlandson, who was standing up when the explosion took
place, bore the full brunt of it, and it killed him.”
“Well, it’s a most extraordinary case altogether,” replied Hanslet, as
the Professor concluded his account. “This man Morlandson, or Ludgrove
as we called him, displayed the most amazing ingenuity, and there was
no reason why we should ever have suspected him, any more than we
suspected anybody else in the neighbourhood. And the way he gradually
concentrated our attention on poor Copperdock was masterly.
“No doubt you will like to hear our side of the story. It’s fairly
simple. About ten minutes before midnight the constable on duty
outside Ludgrove’s shop heard a terrific crash and a noise of breaking
glass. He hammered at the door, and, getting no reply, had the sense
to make his way round to the back, eventually reaching the place by
much the same route as the Black Sailor used, according to what you
have just told me. He found the window blown out of the back room, a
terrible mess inside, and a jet of burning gas coming out of the
broken bracket. He blew his whistle, and by the time that two or three
of our fellows had got inside, you came to, Professor.
“Of course, when I heard that you had identified the dead man as Dr.
Morlandson, I thought you were still dizzy with the shock. We couldn’t
make out who he was; he was dressed as a sailor, but we couldn’t
recognize his face, black and with all the hair burnt off. It couldn’t
be Ludgrove, yet, if it wasn’t, what had become of the old herbalist?
“We next set to work to search the house. The first thing we found,
lying on the dressing table, was a most interesting document, which I
should like you to read, Professor. It was in a sealed envelope,
addressed ‘To all whom it may concern.’”
Hanslet produced a sheet of paper, covered with writing which the
Professor recognized as being the same as that of the letter which
Ludgrove had sent him. He beckoned to Harold, who had been listening
from the further end of the room. “Read that to me, my boy,” he said.
Harold took the paper and opened it. It contained no heading, but
started abruptly.
“I, known now as Elmer Ludgrove, and practising as a herbalist in
Praed Street, am in reality Ernest Morlandson, late a Doctor of
Medicine, found guilty in the year 1906 of murdering Lord Whatley by
the administration of an overdose of morphia. This statement can be
verified by an examination of my finger-prints, and by a comparison
of certain marks upon my body with Dr. Morlandson’s record, in the
possession of the prison authorities.
“I was found guilty, by a jury of men incapable of appreciating my
motives, of wilful murder. My defence is that put forward at the
time of my trial, that I believe, and do still believe, that my
action was one of mercy rather than crime. As to the motives imputed
to me, I affirm that, until shortly before my trial, I had no
knowledge that my name had any place in Lord Whatley’s will.
“I have spent fourteen years in a convict prison, and have seen all
that I loved and honoured languish and die, my beloved wife, my
professional status, my good name. I have descended to the uttermost
depths, I have drunk the cup of bitterness of its dregs. The iron
has entered into my soul. I was condemned to death for an act of
mercy; I have lived for an act of justice.
“Justice has no quarrel with those who prosecuted me. They did their
duty. Nor is her sword pointed against the judge who sentenced me,
or the prison authorities who held me in durance. They too but did
their duty. It is upon those who condemned me, who, ignorant and
careless, disregarded justice as a thing of no account, that the
sword of justice has been turned. I have been her swordbearer.
“Prison has been to me a hard and bitter school, a grinding
University of crime. Here I have learnt the thousand devices by
which men deceive their neighbours, the change of appearance, of
voice, of character; the discarding of one personality and the
assumption of another. I left prison fully prepared to execute the
design which I had formed during the long horror of seclusion.
“As Dr. Morlandson, I lived in seclusion upon my release. My plans
were made; I had leisure and means in which to carry them out. Dr.
Morlandson must die, and another must take his place. I sold most of
my former possessions, and carried to my retreat only the few things
I still required. Among these was a skeleton, which I had acquired
many years before. I built my laboratory, and filled it with highly
combustible substances. And meanwhile I experimented with new and
hitherto unheard-of drugs.
“When I was ready, I staged my own death. I entered my laboratory,
locked the door on the inside, and arranged the skeleton in such a
way that it would become a mere charred collection of bones, but
would not be utterly consumed. With it I placed all the
incombustible means of identification that I could find, chief among
them a gold ring. Then, having lit a fuse, and placed my
combustibles round it, I made my escape by a ladder through the
skylights of the laboratory. I should add that I had collected a
quantity of meat from the butcher and placed it where the fire would
reach it. The smell of burning flesh was a useful element of
suggestion.
“My plan succeeded. Dr. Morlandson died and was buried. I retired to
a hiding-place which I had prepared and provisioned, a disused
clay-working 846 yards South 23 degrees East (true) from my
laboratory. My hair had turned white during my imprisonment. I had
only to allow my beard to grow, and I became the venerable
herbalist, Elmer Ludgrove, seeking premises in which to practise his
trade.
“By the time that the contents of this letter become public, the
justice of which I shall have been the instrument will be
accomplished. This is my last will and testament, given before my
appearance at the Court of the Eternal Judge, Who has greater mercy
than any earthly jury. The remains of my fortune are contained, in
the form of Bank of England notes to the value of fifteen thousand
pounds, in a tin box deposited in the clay-workings whose position I
have already indicated.
“I have wielded unsparingly the sword of justice. But true justice
makes amends to the innocent at the same time as it punishes the
guilty. I therefore bequeath all my possessions to the relatives of
those who have fallen by my hand, to be apportioned in such shares
as the Public Trustee, whom I hereby appoint as my trustee, shall
decide.”
“The work of a madman,” commented Hanslet, as Harold finished his
reading.
“A madman? I wonder,” replied the Professor slowly. “If a man who gets
a fixed idea into his head, and pursues it through every difficulty,
is a madman, then I agree. But in that case some of the greatest names
in history must be convicted of madness. I believe that Morlandson
really believed that he was executing justice. Perhaps he was. Is that
document valid, Inspector?”
“I suppose so,” replied Hanslet. “It is signed, and witnessed. The
signature is ‘Ernest Morlandson,’ and below that ‘Elmer Ludgrove.’ The
witnesses’ signatures are opposite the latter, and the paper has been
folded, so that the witnesses could see nothing but the Ludgrove
signature.”
“And who are the witnesses?” asked the Professor.
Hanslet smiled. “One of them is Elizabeth Cooper, his charwoman. The
other is Samuel Copperdock; the document is dated a week before that
unfortunate man’s death. I think you will agree that this last touch
was typical of the methods of the Black Sailor.”
A few weeks later, when the Professor had sufficiently recovered to
resume his normal occupations, Mary the parlourmaid announced to him
that a lady and gentleman wished to see him on business.
They proved to be Ted and Ivy, very shy, and apparently wholly unable
to express the object of their visit. At last, by strenuous efforts,
the Professor and Harold between them got Ted to the point.
“It’s like this, sir,” he said. “You know all about that will of Mr.
Lud——, Dr. Morlandson’s, I should say, sir.”
“Yes, I know all about it,” replied the Professor. “I must
congratulate you upon receiving some compensation at least for that
man’s crimes.”
“I’m sure it’s very good of you, sir,” said Ted, obviously ill at
ease. “We were wondering—that is, Miss Tovey and myself, sir, seeing
that we’re not so to speak familiar with these lawyer folk—if you’d be
so good as to help us, sir.”
“Help you? Of course I will help you to the best of my ability,”
replied the Professor heartily. “What is it that you want me to do for
you?”
The direct question was too much for Ted, who flushed scarlet and
stammered feebly. It was Ivy who stepped into the breach.
“We want to arrange that our shares should be put together in one
lump, Dr. Priestley,” she said. “We don’t either of us quite know how
to ask about it. I think it could be managed, don’t you?”
The Professor’s eyes twinkled. “I feel sure it could,” he replied.
“That is, of course, if there were a sufficiently good reason for such
a procedure.”
Ivy suddenly became intensely interested in the pattern of the carpet.
“There is a—a very good reason,” she said, in a voice hardly above a
whisper.
The Professor glanced from one to the other and smiled with the smile
of an old man who has not yet lost his sympathy with the dreams of
youth.
“Will you tell me the reason, Miss Tovey?” he asked.
“We’re going to get married,” replied Ivy, blushing prettily.
The End
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the edition published by A. L.
Burt Company in 1928. The following alterations have been made to
correct what are believed to be unambiguous printing errors:
* Five occurrences of invalid quotation marks have been corrected;
* “Cooperdock” has been changed to “Copperdock” (Chapter IV);
* “pleny” has been changed to “plenty” (Chapter VI);
* “antangible” has been changed to “intangible” (Chapter IX);
* “his his” has been changed to “his” (Chapter IX);
* “might might” has been changed to “might” (Chapter XVII);
* “conemned” has been changed to “condemned” (Chapter XXIII).