Never had there been a more baffling mystery.
Morris Thornton, the missing millionaire, had not been murdered either
by Cooper Silwood or the mysterious workman, either of whom might have
been thought guilty of the crime; medical testimony, based on the
scientific accuracy of an autopsy, was conclusive on this point. The man
had fallen a victim to heart-disease, and there was no getting away from
the fact. But a great deal about the case called loudly for explanation.
Amongst others were such queries being put as: How did Thornton come to
be in Silwood's rooms? Had he gone there of his own volition? If so,
with what object? And once there, what had taken place prior to his
death? And who had locked the door upon him? And did any one besides
Silwood have a key to the rooms?
It was a curiously tangled skein: would it ever be unravelled? or would
it take its place among the many unsolved mysteries of London? The
Thornton Mystery continued to be the talk, the question, of the day, and
many keen brains set to work upon it. The popular imagination, too, was
powerfully impressed by the pathos of the idea of Thornton, after years
of striving and success in the land of his exile, coming home only to
meet his death in this strange fashion in the midst of such
extraordinary surroundings.
As for the inquest itself, its wholly unexpected result filled the
general public with astonishment. In some minds it excited a feeling of
alarm, because it showed how possible it was for a man to pass out of
sight, to be lost and swallowed up, even to die, and all this take place
without the police, the guardians of the great city's peace and safety,
being aware of it.
Both the amazement and the alarm were evident in that unerring reflex
and register of opinion, the Press of the country. Not a newspaper
throughout the land but commented at length on the subject. They were at
tremendous pains to set forth the whole dark story with the utmost
minuteness. Some even attempted a solution of the problems it disclosed.
And in one instance, at least, this led to a further development.
The _Morning Call_, a well-known London journal, had secretly changed
hands; it had a new editor and for the most part a new staff; every man
on it tingled and burned to distinguish himself and cover his paper with
glory. The general line taken by the _Call_ was the sensational, and the
Thornton Mystery was just the sort of thing out of which it calculated
to make fresh capital. From its point of view, the tame finding of the
jury at the inquest was overwhelmingly disappointing. Westgate, a member
of its staff, who had been present at it, told his chief, that the
result was "simply disgusting." And his chief, with a smile, had
sympathized with him.
Westgate had come from a rival paper known as the _Morning Light_, and
was a very smart and capable journalist. From his natural bent, as well
as from his training, he had made himself an expert of no mean standing
on all matters connected with crime. He would have been an excellent
detective, but the detective service, which is not recruited from the
most intelligent classes in the world, gave no sufficient salary for a
man of his stamp. As a journalist, he earned twelve hundred a year, and
was well worth every penny of it. Inspector Gale, the best detective in
England, did not get five pounds a week.
Westgate's chief, who had been editor of the _Morning Light_, knew and
appreciated the speciality of his subordinate. Discussing the case after
the verdict, he asked him what he thought of it.
"I don't know quite what to think," replied Westgate, "but I am not
satisfied. There is something in the affair that does not meet the eye;
there is something behind it all. For one thing, I feel as certain as I
am of being alive that the solution of the mystery rests with Cooper
Silwood. It turns on him as on a pivot. I take no stock in the tramp's
story of his seeing a workman coming out of Lincoln's Inn on the night
of Thornton's disappearance. If the tramp was in Chancery Lane at the
time he said he was, how was it he saw nothing of Morris Thornton?
Morris Thornton was undoubtedly in the Lane--at least it is altogether
likely--at or about the time the tramp said he was there. But, in any
case, who would trust the story of a tramp by itself? Why, you can pick
up a waster of the same kind any night of the year you like, and he'll
pitch you any yarn he thinks you want. No, the case turns on Silwood."
"Well, suppose I grant you that, what then? If the solution lies with
Silwood, it will continue to rest with him, as he is dead. You run your
head up against a stone wall, Westgate. Silwood's death ends the thing
pretty finally."
"Silwood dead!" cried Westgate, pursuing his own train of thought. "Just
think of it! Isn't it the strangest thing in the world? In the way of
coincidence it beats anything I ever heard of. Consider, for a second.
Suppose, for the sake of argument, it had been proved that Thornton was
murdered, and that the murder was committed by Silwood, what a fortunate
event Silwood's dying at this precise juncture would be for Silwood! You
see that, don't you?"
"Of course, the coincidence is remarkable, but what more can you say
about it? Silwood is dead, and that settles everything--so far as it can
be settled. There does not seem to be much more to say."
"Though it does not appear to be much good," persisted Westgate, "still,
the key of the situation, as I said before, lies with Silwood. I wish I
knew more about that man. Personally, I feel certain that Silwood, when
he went off for his holiday that Saturday morning, locked the door on
the dead body of Thornton."
"How you harp on this, Westgate! You have no evidence for what you say,
either."
"There is a strong presumption, however."
"The exact time of Thornton's death is not known, yet you are arguing as
if it was. You cannot say for certain that Thornton was dead that
morning at all."
"The doctors agreed that Thornton had been dead about fifteen days when
the body was found. That brings his death pretty well, or, at any rate,
very close, to the time of his disappearance."
"Still there might be a gap of a good many hours."
"I doubt it," said Westgate, stubbornly. "Let me tell you what happened,
as it seems to me. On leaving the Law Courts Hotel, Thornton went to
Chancery Lane, got somehow or other into Silwood's rooms, and died there
suddenly a short while afterwards. I am convinced that he saw Silwood
when he got into the room, and that something occurred between him and
Silwood--I don't even attempt to guess what it was--which produced such
an effect upon his weak heart that he dropped dead from the shock."
"Your explanation is plausible, but it suffers from your not being
certain that Silwood was there with Thornton at the time of the latter's
death. In assuming Silwood's presence, you assume too much. But go on
with your mapping out of what happened. Suppose we take your
suppositions as certainties, what next?"
"When Silwood saw that Thornton was dead, he would ask himself what he
was to do," Westgate resumed. "There was the body in the room, and its
being there had to be accounted for somehow. Silwood, I am positive,
shrank from saying anything about it--shrank to such an extent that he
made up his mind to fly rather than appear to have any connection
whatever with it."
The chief of the _Call_ shook his head.
"This," said he, "is just where your building up of the case tumbles to
pieces. Suppose Thornton died in Silwood's presence, why on earth should
not Silwood have said so boldly? Why should he have run away as you
conjecture he did? Would it not have been far easier, safer, better for
him to have at once summoned a policeman and told him what had
happened?"
"But he didn't call a policeman!" exclaimed Westgate, eagerly; "don't
you see where that lands you? Why did he not call a policeman--why?
Because he had some strong reason for not doing so. If everything had
been absolutely all right, he would, as a matter of course, have
summoned a policeman, and there would be no Thornton Mystery at
all--only the pathos of the story of a man's career ending in such swift
tragedy; that would have been all. No! Again I say that, for some reason
or other, Silwood did not care to face the world and tell it what took
place in his room that night. Instead of staying to face the music as an
honest man would, he resolved on flight, and did accordingly fly the
country the following morning. Mind you, I do not say that Silwood knew
Thornton died from heart failure--that is another aspect of the thing;
he may have believed that he had something to do physically with
bringing about the death of Thornton. Still, that is not the main thing.
The main thing is that he had some good reason for flight, and that he
did fly."
The chief said nothing, though a pause on Westgate's part gave him an
opportunity of speaking.
"It is absurd," said the chief at last. "Silwood belongs to one of the
best firms in London. His partner, Eversleigh, stands at the head of his
profession. You saw him at the inquest."
"Yes; he sat beside Miss Thornton. I thought it rather strange that she
should be present at the inquest, but it was evident she was much
attached to Mr. Eversleigh in a daughterly way. They say she is engaged
to his son."
"Well, Westgate, how does that fit in with your theories about Silwood,
Eversleigh's partner?"
"Not very well, I admit, but we are only making guesses and trying to
piece things out a bit. And I have not yet told you all that is in my
mind."
"Go on," said the editor, as Westgate looked at him for permission.
"I paid very careful attention to the statement made by Inspector Gale.
Now, he's not a great detective, but he's shrewd."
The chief nodded assent.
"In his statement, Gale never once spoke as if he thought Silwood was
dead."
"What do you say?" cried the other, aroused at last. "Did not speak as
if he thought Silwood was dead! By Jove, that's a horse of another
colour."
In a flash he saw that, if Silwood was not dead, then the theories of
Westgate were likely to become substantialities.
"Gale wanted an open verdict; he actually recommended the jury to bring
one in. He spoke of the murder being the work of either Silwood or the
mysterious workman--that was before the medical men knocked the idea of
murder into thin air--Gale was not prepared for that, I'll swear--but he
never once spoke of Silwood as if he thought of Silwood as dead. I
noticed that most particularly. Now, to go on with our supposings," said
Westgate, with even greater eagerness than he already exhibited, "let us
see where we are. Silwood is announced to have died of cholera at some
outlandish place in the north of Italy. Perhaps he did, and perhaps he
didn't. Say he did not, and that the whole thing is a plant, a put-up
job?"
Westgate paused abruptly, and looked at his chief.
"Of course, I see your point," responded the editor. "You would say,
following out your theories, that after locking the dead body of
Thornton into his room, Silwood went to Italy, and has somehow or other
had a false announcement of his death sent to England, hoping in this
way to cover up his tracks effectually. But, once more, Westgate, my
boy, where is the motive for all this astonishing business?"
"That, I confess, I do not know. But if Silwood is alive, why then, he
is to be found----"
He broke off and gazed suggestively at the other.
"And you are the man to find him! Eh, is that it?" asked the editor, as
quick as lightning.
"If you say the word!"
Perceval, chief of the _Call_, leaned back in his chair, lost in debate
within himself for a minute. As a rule, it did not take nearly so long
as that for him to make up his mind.
"All right," he said. "You can go. First, of course, you will go to this
place in Italy and ascertain if Silwood died, was buried, and all the
rest of it. That may be the end of your search; but if it is not, why
then go ahead, Westgate. You'll start without delay, and let me know as
soon as possible what you are doing."
And Westgate went from the presence of his chief, rejoicing exceedingly
on being sent on a mission after his own heart.
It was therefore more than annoying that almost the first person he saw
on his arrival in Genoa was Sub-inspector Brydges, Gale's under-study at
Scotland Yard. As soon as he saw him he guessed that Gale had despatched
his subordinate to Italy, to make inquiries about Silwood's death, and
a brief conversation with the officer, whom he often met and knew
perfectly, made this a certainty.
Brydges made no secret of his errand. He had already wired Gale that he
was satisfied Silwood was dead, and had been buried at Camajore, just as
the inspector had been informed by the Eversleighs. And he saw no reason
for concealing this from Westgate, after they had had some talk together
in which both of them, metaphorically speaking, put their cards, or most
of them, on the table.
"You can take it from me," concluded Brydges, "that Mr. Silwood is as
dead--as dead as Queen Anne."
But Westgate was not satisfied.
So he went to Camajore, saw the Syndic, the doctor, the nurses, and
every one besides from whom he could get any information. The result was
always the same. Silwood had died. The polite Syndic even took him to
see the mound of earth under which lay Silwood's remains.
"It was no good?" asked the chief of Westgate on his return to the
office of the _Call_.
"No good at all," said Westgate, much crestfallen.