when he pleased, and practically take possession of the house. I
couldn’t keep him away; and he drove away my other lodgers.” She
suddenly fired up again. “Wasn’t that enough to make anybody
desperate? Can you wonder at anything?”
She quieted again by a quick effort, and Hewitt and the inspector
exchanged glances.
“Let me see, he was captain of the sailing ship _Egret,_ wasn’t he?”
Hewitt asked. “Lost in the Pacific a year or more ago?”
“Yes.”
“If I remember the story of the loss aright, he and one native
hand--a Kanaka boy--were the only survivors?”
“Yes, they were the only two. He was the only one that came back to
England.”
“Just so. And there _were_ rumours, I believe, that after all he
wasn’t altogether a loser by that wreck? Mind, I only say there were
rumours; there may have been nothing in them.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, “I know all about that. They said the
ship had been cast away purposely, for the sake of the insurance. But
there was no truth in that, else why did the underwriters pay? And
besides, from what I know privately, it couldn’t have been. Abel
Pullin was a reckless scoundrel enough, I know, but he would have
taken good care to be paid well for any villainy of that sort.”
“Yes, of course. But it was suggested that he was.”
“No, nothing of the sort. He came here, as usual, as soon as he got
home, and until he got another ship he hadn’t a penny. I had to keep
him, so I know. And he was sober almost all the time from want of
money. Do you mean to say, if the common talk were true, that he
would have remained like that without getting money of the owners,
his accomplices, and at least making them give him another ship? Not
he. I know him too well.”
“Yes, no doubt. He was just now back from his next voyage after
that, I take it?”
“Yes, in the _Iolanthe_ brig. A smaller ship than he has been used
to, and belonging to different owners.”
“Had he much money this time?”
“No. He had bought himself a gold watch and chain abroad, and he had
a ring and a few pounds in money, and some instruments; that was all,
I think, in addition to his clothes.”
“Well, they’ve all been stolen now,” the inspector said. “Have you
missed anything yourself?”
“No.”
“Nor the other lodgers, so far as you know?”
“No, neither of them.”
“Very well, Mrs. Beckle. We’ll have a word or two with the servant
now, and then I’ll get you to come over the house with us.”
Sarah Taffs was the servant’s name. She seemed to have got over her
agitation, and was now sullen and uncommunicative. She would say
nothing. “You said I needn’t say nothin’ if I didn’t want to, and I
won’t.” That was all she would say, and she repeated it again and
again. Once, however, in reply to a question as to Foster, she
flashed out angrily, “If it’s Mr. Foster you’re after you won’t find
’im. ’E’s a gentleman, ’e is, and I ain’t goin’ to tell you nothin’.”
But that was all.
Then Mrs. Beckle showed the inspector, the surgeon, and Hewitt over
the house. Everything was in perfect order on the ground floor and on
the stairs. The stairs, it appeared, had been swept before the
discovery was made. Nevertheless, Hewitt and the inspector
scrutinised them narrowly. The top floor consisted of two small rooms
only, used as bedrooms by Mrs. Beckle and Sarah Taffs respectively.
Nothing was missing, and everything was in order there.
The one floor between contained the dead man’s room, Miss Walker’s,
and Foster’s. Miss Walker’s room they had already seen, and now they
turned into Foster’s.
The place seemed to betray careless habits on the part of its
tenant, and was everywhere in slovenly confusion. The bedclothes were
flung anyhow on the floor, and a chair was overturned. Hewitt looked
round the room, and remarked that there seemed to be no clothes
hanging about, as might have been expected.
“No,” Mrs. Beckle replied; “he has taken to keeping them all in his
boxes lately.”
“How many boxes has he?” asked the inspector. “Only these two?”
“That is all.”
The inspector stooped and tried the lids.
“Both locked,” he said. “I think we’ll take the liberty of a peep
into these boxes.”
He produced a bunch of keys and tried them all, but none fitted.
Then Hewitt felt about inside the locks very carefully with a match,
and then taking a button-hook from his pocket, after a little careful
“humouring” work, turned both the locks, one after another, and
lifted the lids.
Mrs. Beckle uttered an exclamation of dismay, and the inspector
looked at her rather quizzically. The boxes contained nothing but
bricks.
[Illustration: “THE BOXES CONTAINED NOTHING BUT BRICKS.”]
“Ah,” said the inspector, “I’ve seen that sort of suits o’ clothes
before. People have ’em who don’t pay hotel bills and such like.
You’re a very good pick-lock, by the way, Mr. Hewitt. I never saw
anything quicker and neater.”
“But I _know_ he had a lot of clothes,” Mrs. Beckle protested. “I’ve
seen them.”
“Very likely--very likely indeed,” the inspector answered. “But
they’re gone now, and Mr. Foster’s gone with ’em.”
“But--but the girl didn’t say he had any bundles with him when he
went out?”
“No, she didn’t; and she didn’t say he hadn’t, did she? She won’t
say anything about him, and she says she won’t, plump. Even supposing
he _hadn’t_ got them with him this morning, that signifies nothing.
The clothes are gone, and anybody intending a job of _that_
sort”--the inspector jerked his thumb significantly towards the
skipper’s room--“would get his things away quietly first, so as to
have no difficulty about getting away himself afterwards. No; the
thing’s pretty plain now, I think; and I’m afraid Mr. Foster’s a
pretty bad lot. Anyway, I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”
“Nor I,” Hewitt assented. “Evidence of that sort isn’t easy to get
over.”
“Come, Mrs. Beckle,” the inspector said, “do you mind coming into
the front room with us? The body’s covered over with a rug.”
The landlady disliked going, it was plain to see, but presently she
pulled herself together and followed the men. She peeped once
distrustfully round the door to where the body lay, and then
resolutely turned her back on it.
“His watch and chain are gone, and whatever else he had in his
pockets,” the inspector said. “I think you said he had a ring?”
“Yes, one--a thick gold one.”
“Then that’s gone too. Everything’s turned upside down, and probably
other things are stolen too. Do you miss any?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, looking round, but avoiding with her
eyes the rug-covered heap near the fireplace. “There was a sextant on
the mantel-piece: it was his; and he kept one or two other
instruments in that drawer”--pointing to one which had been turned
out--“but they seem to be gone now. And there was a small ship,
carved in ivory, and worth money, I believe--that’s gone. I don’t
know about his clothes; some of them may be stolen or they may not.”
She stepped to the bed and turned back the coverlet. “Oh,” she added,
“the sheets are gone from the bed too!”
“Usual thing,” the inspector remarked; “wrap up the swag in a sheet,
you know--makes a convenient bundle. Nothing else missing?”
The landlady took one more look round and said doubtfully, “No, no,
I don’t think so. Oh, but yes,” she suddenly added, “uncle’s hook.”
“Oh,” remarked the inspector with dismal jocularity, “he’s took
uncle’s hook as well as his own, has he? What was uncle’s hook like?”
“It wasn’t of much value,” Mrs. Beckle explained; “but I kept it as
a memorial. My great-uncle, who died many years ago, was a
sea-captain too, and had lost his left hand by accident. He wore a
hook in its place--a hook made for him on board his vessel. It was an
iron hook screwed into a wooden stock. He had it taken off in his
last illness, and gave it to me to mind against his recovery. But he
never got well, so I’ve kept it over since. It used to hang on a nail
at the side of the chimney-breast.”
“No wounds about the body that might have been made with a hook like
that, doctor, were there?” the inspector asked.
“No, no wounds at all but the one.”
“Well, well,” the inspector said, moving toward the door, “we’ve got
to find Foster now, that’s plain. I’ll see about it. You’ve sent to
the mortuary, you say, doctor? All right. You’ve no particular reason
for sending the girl out of doors to-day, I suppose, Mrs. Beckle?”
“I _can_ keep her in, of course,” the landlady answered. “It will be
inconvenient, though.”
“Ah, then keep her in, will you? We mustn’t lose sight of her. I’ll
leave a couple of men here, of course, and I’ll tell them she mustn’t
be allowed out.”
Hewitt and the surgeon went downstairs and parted at the door. “I
shall be over again to-morrow morning,” Hewitt said, “about that
other matter I was speaking of. Shall I find you in?”
“Well,” the doctor answered, “at any rate they will tell you where I
am. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” Hewitt answered, and then stopped. “I’m obliged for
being allowed to look about upstairs here,” he said. “I’m not sure
what the inspector has in his mind, by the way; but I should think
whatever I noticed would be pretty plain to him, though naturally he
would be cautious about talking of it before others, as I was myself.
That being the case, it might seem rather presumptuous in me to make
suggestions, especially as he seems fairly confident. But if you have
a chance presently of giving him a quiet hint, you might draw his
special attention to two things--the charred paper that I took from
the fireplace and the missing hook. There is a good deal in that, I
fancy. I shall have an hour or two to myself, I expect, this
afternoon, and I’ll make a small inquiry or two on my own account in
town. If anything comes of them I’ll let you know to-morrow when I
see you.”
“Very well, I shall expect you. Goodbye.”
Hewitt did not go straight away from the house to the railway
station. He took a turn or two about the row of houses, and looked up
each of the paths leading from them across the surrounding marshy
fields. Then he took the path for the station. About a hundred yards
along, the path reached a deep, muddy ditch with a high hedge behind
it, and then lay by the side of the ditch for some little distance
before crossing it. Hewitt stopped and looked thoughtfully at the
ditch for a few moments before proceeding, and then went briskly on
his way.
That evening’s papers were all agog with the mysterious murder of a
ship’s captain at West Ham, and in next morning’s papers it was
announced that Henry Foster, a seafaring man, and lately mate of a
trading ship, had been arrested in connection with the crime.
II
That morning Hewitt was at the surgeon’s house early. The surgeon
was in, and saw him at once. His own immediate business being
transacted, Hewitt learned particulars of the arrest of Foster. “The
man actually came back of his own accord in the afternoon,” the
surgeon said. “Certainly he was drunk, but that seems a very reckless
sort of thing, even for a drunken man. One rather curious thing was
that he asked for Pullin as soon as he arrived, and insisted on going
to him to borrow half a sovereign. Of course he was taken into
custody at once, and charged, and that seemed to sober him very
quickly. He seemed dazed for a bit, and then, when he realised the
position he was in, refused to say a word. I saw him at the station.
He had certainly been drinking a good deal; but a curious thing was
that he hadn’t a cent of money on him. He’d soon got rid of it all,
anyhow.”
“Did you say anything to the inspector as to the things I mentioned
to you?”
“Yes, but he didn’t seem to think a great deal of them. He took a
look at the charred paper, and saw that one piece had evidently been
a cheque on the Eastern Consolidated Bank, but the other he couldn’t
see any sort of sign upon. As to the hook, he seemed to take it that
that was used to fasten in the knot of the bundle, to carry it the
more easily.”
“Well,” Hewitt said, “I think I told you yesterday that I should
make an inquiry or two myself? Yes, I did. I’ve made those inquiries,
and now I think I can give the inspector some help. What is his name,
by the way?”
“Truscott. He’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”
“Very well. Shall I find him at the station?”
“Probably, unless he’s off duty; that I don’t know about. But I
should call at the house first, I think, if I were you. That is much
nearer than the station, and he might possibly be there. Even if he
isn’t, there will be a constable, and he can tell you where to find
Truscott.”
Hewitt accordingly made for the house, and had the good fortune to
overtake Truscott on his way there. “Good-morning, inspector,” he
called cheerily. “I’ve got some information for you, I think.”
“Oh, good-morning. What is it?”
“It’s in regard to _that_ business,” Hewitt replied, indicating by a
nod the row of houses a hundred yards ahead. “But it will be clearer
if we go over the whole thing together and take what I have found out
in its proper place. You’re not altogether satisfied with your
capture of Foster, are you?”
“Well, I mustn’t say, of course. Perhaps not. We’ve traced his
doings yesterday after he left the house, and _perhaps_ it doesn’t
help us much. But what do you know?”
“I’ll tell you. But first can you get hold of such a thing as a
boat-hook? Any long pole with a hook on the end will do.”
“I don’t know that there’s one handy. Perhaps they’ll have a garden
rake at the house, if that’ll do?”
“Excellently, I should think, if it’s fairly long. We will ask.”
The garden rake was forthcoming at once, and with it Hewitt and the
inspector made their way along the path that led towards the railway
station and stopped where it came by the ditch.
“I’ve brought you here purely on a matter of conjecture,” Hewitt
said, “and there may be nothing in it; but if there is it will help
us. This is a very muddy ditch, with a soft bottom many feet deep
probably, judging from the wet nature of the soil hereabout.”
He took the rake and plunged it deep into the ditch, dragging it
slowly back up the side. It brought up a tangle of duckweed and
rushes and slimy mud, with a stick or two among it.
“Do you think the knife’s been thrown here?” asked the inspector.
“Possibly, and possibly something else. We’ll see.” And Hewitt made
another dive. They went along thus very thoroughly and laboriously,
dragging every part of the ditch as they went, it being frequently
necessary for both to pull together to get the rake through the
tangle of weed and rubbish. They had worked through seven or eight
yards from the angle of the path where it approached the ditch, when
Hewitt stopped, with the rake at the bottom.
“Here is something that feels a little different,” he said. “I’ll
get as good a hold as I can, and then we’ll drag it up slowly and
steadily together.”
He gave the rake a slight twist, and then the two pulled steadily.
Presently the sunken object came away suddenly, as though mud-suction
had kept it under, and rose easily to the surface. It was a muddy
mass, and they had to swill it to and fro a few times in the clearer
upper water before it was seen to be a linen bundle. They drew it
ashore and untied the thick knot at the top. Inside was an Indian
shawl, also knotted, and this they opened also. There within, wet and
dirty, lay a sextant, a chronometer in a case, a gold watch and
chain, a handful of coins, a thick gold ring, a ship carved in ivory,
with much of the delicate work broken, a sealskin waistcoat, a door
key, a seaman’s knife, and an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock.
[Illustration: “THEY HAD TO SWILL IT BEFORE IT WAS SEEN TO BE A LINEN
BUNDLE”]
“Lord!” exclaimed Inspector Truscott, “what’s this? It’s a queer
place to hide swag of this sort. Why, that watch and those
instruments must be ruined.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Hewitt answered. “You see, the things are
wrapped in the sheets, just as you expected. But those sheets mean
something more. There are _two,_ you notice.”
“Yes, of course; but I don’t see what it points to. The whole
thing’s most odd. Foster certainly would have been a fool to hide the
things here; he’s a sailor himself, and knows better than to put away
chronometers and sextants in a wet ditch--unless he got frightened,
and put the things there out of sight because the murder was
discovered.”
“But you say you have traced his movements after he left. If he had
come near here while the police were about, he would have been seen
from the house. No, you’ve got the wrong prisoner. The person who put
those things there didn’t want them again.”
“Then do you think robbery wasn’t the motive, after all?”
“Yes, it was; but not _this_ robbery. Come, we’ll talk it over in
the house. Let us take these things with us.”
Arrived at the house, Hewitt immediately locked, bolted, and barred
the front door. Then he very carefully and gently unfastened each
lock, bolt, and bar in order, pressing the door with his hand and
taking every precaution to avoid noise. Nevertheless the noise was
considerable. There was a sad lack of oil everywhere, and all the
bolts creaked; the lock in particular made a deal of noise, and when
the key was half turned its bolt shot back with a loud thump.
“Anybody who had once heard that door fastened or unfastened,” said
Hewitt, “would hesitate about opening it in the dead of night after
committing murder. He would remember the noise. Do you mind taking
the things up to the room--_the_ room--upstairs? I will go and ask
Mrs. Beckle a question.”
Truscott went upstairs, and presently Hewitt followed. “I have just
asked Mrs. Beckle,” he said, “whether or not the captain went to the
front door for any purpose on the evening before his death. She says
he stood there for some half an hour or so smoking his pipe before he
went to bed. We shall see what that means presently, I think. Now we
will go into the thing in the light of what I have found out.”
[Illustration: “‘HE STOOD THERE FOR SOME HALF AN HOUR OR SO SMOKING
HIS PIPE BEFORE HE WENT TO BED.’”]
“Yes, tell me that.”
“Very well. I think it will make the thing plainer if I summarise
separately all my conclusions from the evidence as a whole, from the
beginning. Perhaps the same ideas struck you, but I’m sure you’ll
excuse my going over them. Now here was a man undoubtedly murdered,
and the murderer was gone from the room. There were two ways by which
he could have gone--the door and the window. If he went by the
window, then he was somebody who did not live in the place, since
nobody seemed to have been missing when the girl came down, though,
mind you, it was necessary to avoid relying on all she said, in view
of her manner, and her almost acknowledged determination not to
incriminate Foster. It seemed at first sight probable that the
murderer had gone out by the door, because the key was gone entirely,
and if he had left by the window he would probably have left the key
in the lock to hinder anybody who attempted to get in with another
key, or to peep. But then the blind was _up,_ and was found so in the
morning. It would probably be pulled down at dark, and the murderer
would be unlikely to raise it except to go out that way. But then the
casement was shut and fastened. Just so; but can’t it be as easily
shut and fastened from the outside as from the in? The catch is very
loose, and swings by itself. True, this _prevents_ the casement
shutting when it is just carelessly banged to, but see here.” He rose
and went to the window. “Anybody from outside who cared to hold the
catch back with his finger till the casement was shut as far as the
frame could then shut the window completely, and the catch would
simply swing into its appointed groove.
[Illustration: “‘THE CATCH WOULD SIMPLY SWING INTO ITS APPOINTED
GROOVE.’”]
“And now see something more. You and I both looked at the sill
outside. It is a smooth new sill--the house itself is almost new; but
probably you saw in one place a sharply marked pit or depression.
Look, it seems to have been drilled with a sharp steel point. It was
absolutely new, for there was the powder of the stone about the mark.
The wind has since blown the powder away. Now if a man had descended
from that sill by means of a rope with a hook at the end, that was
just the sort of mark I should expect him to leave behind. So that at
any rate the balance of probability was that the murderer had left by
the window. But there is another thing which confirms this. You will
remember that when Mrs. Beckle mentioned that the sheets were gone
from the bed you concluded that they had been taken to carry the
swag.”
“Yes, and so they were, as we have seen here in the bundle.”
“Just so; but why _both_ sheets? One would be ample. And since you
allude to the bundle, why both sheets as well as the Indian shawl?
This last, by the way, is a thing Mrs. Beckle seems not to have
missed in the confusion, or perhaps she didn’t know that Pullin
possessed it. Why all these wrappings, and moreover, _why the hook?_
The presumption is clear. The bundle was already made up in the
Indian shawl, and required no more wrapping. The two sheets were
wanted to tie together to enable the criminal to descend from the
window, and the hook was the very thing to hold this rope with at the
top. It was not necessary to tie it to anything, and it would not
prevent the shutting of the window behind. Moreover, when the descent
had been made, a mere shake of the rope of sheets would dislodge the
hook and bring it down, thus leaving no evidence of the
escape--except the mark on the sill, which was very small.
“Then again, there was no noise or struggle heard. Pullin, as you
could see, was a powerful, hard-set man, not likely to allow his
throat to be cut without a lot of trouble, therefore the murderer
must either have entered the room unknown to him--an unlikely thing,
for he had not gone to bed--or else must have been there with his
permission, and must have taken him by sudden surprise. And now we
come to the heart of the thing. Of the two papers burnt in the
grate--you have kept them under the shade, I see--one bore no trace
of the writing that had been on it (many inks and papers do not after
having been burnt), but the other bore plain signs of having been a
cheque. Now just let us look at it. The main body of the paper has
burnt to a deep gray ash, nearly black, but the printed parts of the
cheque--those printed in coloured inks, that is--are of a much paler
gray, quite a light ash colour. That is the colour to which most of
the _pink_ ink used in printing cheques burns, as you may easily test
for yourself with an old cheque of the sort that is printed from a
fine plate with water-solution pink ink. The _black_ ink, on the
other hand, such as the number of the cheque is printed in, has
charred black, and by sharp eyes is quite distinguishable against the
general dark gray of the paper. The cinder is unfortunately broken
rather badly, and the part containing the signature is missing
altogether. But one can plainly see in large script letters part of
the boldest line of print, the name of the bank. The letters are _e r
n C o n s o,_ and this must mean the Eastern Consolidated Bank. Of
course you saw that for yourself.”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Fortunately the whole of the cheque number is unbroken. It is
B/K63777. Of course I took a note of that, as well as of the other
particulars distinguishable. It is payable to Pullin, clearly, for
here is the latter half of his Christian name, Abel, and the first
few letters of Pullin. Then on the line where the amount is written
at length there are the letters _u s a n d_ and _p._ Plainly it was a
large cheque, for thousands. At the bottom, where the amount is
placed in figures, there is a bad break, but the first figure is a 2.
The cheque, then, was one for £2000 at least. And there is one more
thing. The cinder is perfect and unbroken nearly all along the top
edge, and there is no sign of crossing, so that here is an open
cheque which any thief might cash with a little care. That is all we
can see; but it is enough, I think. Now would a thief, committing
murder for the sake of plunder, _burn_ this cheque? Would Pullin, to
whom the money was to be paid, burn it? I think not. Then who in the
whole world _would_ have any interest in burning it? Not a soul, with
one single exception--_the man who drew it.”_
“Yes, yes. What! do you mean that the man who drew that cheque must
have murdered Pullin in order to get it back and destroy it?”