SERGEANT COBBLEDICK IS ENLIGHTENED
The custom which had grown upon my part of meeting Thorndyke at the
station on the occasion of his visits was duly honoured on the present
occasion, for the surprising discoveries in Black Boy-lane, which I
had described in my report to him, made me eager to hear his comments.
Unfortunately, on this occasion, he had come down by an unusually late
train, and the opportunity for discussion was limited to the time
occupied by the short walk from Rochester Station to my house. For it
was close upon dinner time, and I rather expected to find Bundy
awaiting us.
“Your report was quite a thrilling document,” he remarked, as we came
out of the station approach. “These new discoveries seem to launch us
on a fresh phase of the investigation.”
“Do they seem to you to offer any intelligible suggestions?” I asked.
“There is no lack of suggestions,” he replied. “To a person of
ordinary powers of imagination, a number of hypotheses must present
themselves. But, of course, the first thing to consider is not what
might have happened, but what did happen, and what we can safely infer
from those happenings. We can apparently take it as proved that the
body was carried through the lane; and everything goes to show that it
was carried from the river towards the town. The first clear inference
is that we can completely exclude accident, pure and simple. The
body--living or dead--may be assumed to have been carried by some
person or persons. We can dismiss the idea that the woman walked up
the lane. But if someone carried the body, someone is definitely
implicated. The affair comes unquestionably into the category of
crime.”
“That doesn’t carry us very far,” I said, with a sense of
disappointment.
“It carries us a stage farther than our previous data did, for it
excludes accident, which they did not. Then it suggests not only
premeditation, but arrangement. If the body was brought up from the
river, there must have been some place known to, and probably prepared
by, those who brought it, in which it could be deposited; and that
place must have been more secure than the river from which it was
brought. But the river, itself, was a very secure hiding-place,
especially if the body had been sunk with weights. Now, this is all
very remarkable. If you consider the extraordinary procedure; the
seizure of the victim at Chatham; the conveyance of the body from
thence to this considerable distance; the landing of it at the wharf;
the conveyance of it by an apparently selected route--at enormous risk
of discovery, in spite of the fog--to an appointed destination: I say,
Strangeways, that if you consider this astounding procedure, you
cannot fail to be convinced that there was some definite purpose
behind it.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that seems to be so. But what could the purpose be?
It appears perfectly incomprehensible. It only makes the mystery more
unsolvable than ever.”
“Not at all,” he rejoined. “There is nothing so hopeless to
investigate as the perfectly obvious and common-place. As soon as an
apparently incomprehensible motive appears, we are within sight of a
solution. There may be innumerable explanations of a common-place
action; but an outrageously unreasonable action; pursued with definite
and considered purpose, can admit of but one or two. The action, with
its underlying purpose, must be adjusted to some unusual conditions.
We have only to consider to what conditions it could be adjusted, and
which, if any, of those conditions actually exist, and the explanation
of the apparently incomprehensible action comes into view. But here we
are at our destination, and there is our friend, Bundy, standing on
the doorstep. By the way, I have brought one or two photographs of
Mrs. Frood for you to look at.”
We arrived in time to intervene and put an end to a preliminary
skirmish between the irrepressible Bundy and Mrs. Dunk, and when
greetings had been exchanged, Thorndyke went up to his room to wash
and deposit his luggage.
“Well, John,” said Bundy, when he had hung up his hat, “it is very
pleasant to see my old friend after this long separation. Very good of
him, too, to invite an insignificant outsider like me to meet his
distinguished colleague. You are a benefactor to me, John.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Peterkin,” said I. “You know we are always glad
to see you. I invite you for my own pleasure and Thorndyke’s, not for
yours.”
Bundy gave my arm a grateful squeeze. “Good old John,” said he.
“Nothing like doing it handsomely. But here is the great man himself,”
he added, as Thorndyke entered the dining-room, carrying a cardboard
box, “with instruments of magic. He’s going to do a conjuring trick.”
Thorndyke opened the box and delicately picked out four photographs,
all mounted and all of cabinet size, which he stood up in a row on the
mantelpiece. Two of them were from the same negative, one being
printed in red carbon, the other in sepia. The remaining two were
ordinary silver prints of the conventional trade type.
Bundy looked at the collection with not unnatural surprise.
“Where did these things come from?” he asked.
“They came from London,” replied Thorndyke, “where things of this kind
grow. Strangeways asked me to get him some samples. How do you like
them? My own preference is for the carbons, and of the two I think I
like the red chalk print the better.”
I ran my eye along the row and found myself in strong agreement with
Thorndyke. It was not only that the carbon prints had the advantage of
the finer medium. The treatment was altogether more artistic, and the
likeness seemed better, in spite of a rather over-strong top-lighting.
“Yes,” I said, “the carbons are infinitely superior to the silver
prints, and of the two I think the red is the better because it
emphasises the shadows less.”
“Is the likeness as good as in the silver prints?” Thorndyke asked.
“Better, I think. The expression is more natural and spontaneous. What
do you say, Peter?”
As I spoke I looked at him, not for the first time, for I had already
been struck by the intense concentration with which he had been
examining the two carbons. And it was not only concentration. There
was a curious expression of surprise, as if something in the
appearance of the portraits puzzled him.
He looked up with a perplexed frown. “As to the likeness,” said he, “I
don’t know that I am a particularly good judge. I only saw her once or
twice. But, as far as I remember, it seems to be quite a good
likeness, and there can be no question as to the superiority, in an
artistic sense, of the carbons. And I agree with you that the shadows
are less harsh in the red than in the sepia. Who is the photographer?”
He picked up the red print and, turning it over, looked at the back.
Then, finding that the back of the card was blank, he picked up the
sepia print and inspected it in the same way, but with the same
result. There was no photographer’s name either on the back or front.
“I have an impression,” said Thorndyke, “that the carbons were done by
a City photographer. But my man will know. He got them for me.”
Bundy set the two photographs back in their places, still, as it
seemed to me, with the air of a man who is trying vainly to remember
something. But, at this moment, Mrs. Dunk entered with the soup
tureen, and we forthwith took our places at the table.
We had finished our soup, and I was proceeding to effect the
dismemberment of an enormous sole, when Bundy, having fortified
himself with a sip of Chablis, cast a malignant glance at Thorndyke.
“I have got some bad news for you, Doctor,” said he.
“Which doctor are you addressing?” Thorndyke asked.
“There’s only one now,” replied Bundy. “T’other one has been degraded
to the rank of John.”
“That happens to be my rank, too,” observed Thorndyke.
“Oh, but I couldn’t think of taking such a liberty,” Bundy protested,
“though it is very gracious and condescending of you to suggest it.
No, your rank and title will continue to be that of doctor.”
“And what is your bad news?”
“It is a case of a lost opportunity,” said Bundy. “‘Of all the sad
words of tongue or pen,’ and so on. It might have been ten shillings.
But it never will now. Cobbledick has got your ten bob.”
“Do you mean that Cobbledick has found the missing key?”
“Even so, alackaday! The chance is gone for ever.”
“Where did he find it?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Bundy. “There it is again. The tragedy of it! He
wasn’t looking for it at all. He just fell over it in a field where he
was searching for relics of Mrs. Frood.”
“Your description,” said Thorndyke, “is deficient in geographical
exactitude. Could you bring your ideas of locality to a somewhat
sharper focus? There are probably several fields in the neighbourhood
of Rochester.”
“So there are,” said Bundy. “Quite a lot. But this particular field
lies on the right, or starboard, side of a small thoroughfare called
Black Boy-lane.”
“Let me see,” said Thorndyke. “Isn’t that the lane that we went down
after leaving our friends on the day of the Great Perambulation?”
“Yes,” replied Bundy, looking at him in astonishment, “but how did you
know its name?” (He was, of course, not aware of my report to
Thorndyke describing the discoveries and the place.)
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is an irrelevant question. Now when you say
‘the right-hand side’----”
“I mean the right-hand side looking towards the town, of course. As a
matter of fact, Cobbledick found the key among the thistles near to
the fence, and quite close to the outside of the city wall.”
“How do you suppose it got there?” Thorndyke asked.
“I’ve no idea. Someone must have taken it out of the gate and thrown
it over the fence. That is obvious. But who could have done it I can’t
imagine. Of course, you suspect Cobbledick, but that is only
jealousy.”
The exchange of schoolboy repartee continued without a sensible pause
on either side. But yet I seemed to detect in Thorndyke’s manner a
certain reflectiveness underlying the levity of his verbal conflict
with Bundy; a reflectiveness that seemed to have had its origin in the
“news” that the latter had communicated. Of course, I had said
nothing, in my report, about the finding of the key. Why should I?
Those reports referred exclusively to matters connected with the
disappearance of poor Angelina. The loss and the recovery of the key
were items of mere local gossip with which Thorndyke could have no
concern excepting in connexion with Bundy’s facetious fiction. And yet
it had seemed to me that Thorndyke showed quite a serious interest in
the announcement. However, he made no further reference to the matter,
and the conversation drifted to other topics.
It was almost inevitable that, sooner or later, some reference should
be made to the discoveries in the lane. It was Bundy, of course, who
introduced the subject; and I was amused by the adroit way in which
Thorndyke conveyed the impression of complete ignorance, without
making any statement, and the patient manner in which he listened to
the account of the adventure, and even elicited amplified details by
judicious questions. But he eluded all Bundy’s efforts to extract an
opinion on the significance of the discoveries.
“But,” the latter protested, “you said that if I would give you the
facts, you would give me the explanation.”
“The explanation is obvious,” said Thorndyke. “If you found these
objects in the lane, they must have been dropped there.”
“Well, of course they must,” said Bundy. “That is quite obvious.”
“Exactly,” agreed Thorndyke. “That is what I am pointing out.”
“But why was the body being carried up the lane? And where was it
being carried to?”
“Ah,” protested Thorndyke, “but now you are going beyond your facts.
You haven’t proved that there was any body there at all.”
“But there must have been, or the things couldn’t have dropped off
it.”
“But you haven’t proved that they did drop off it. They may have, or
they may not. That is a question of fact; and as I impressed on you on
a previous occasion, evidence as to fact is the function of the common
witness. The expert witness explains the significance of facts
furnished by others. I have explained the facts that you have
produced, and now you ask me to explain something that isn’t a fact at
all. But that is not my function. I am an expert.”
“I see,” said Bundy; “and now I understand why judges are so down on
expert witnesses. It is my belief that they are a parcel of impostors.
Wasn’t Captain Bunsby an expert witness? Or was he only an oracle?”
“It is a distinction without a difference,” replied Thorndyke.
“Captain Bunsby is the classical instance of oracular safety. It was
impossible to dispute the correctness of his pronouncements.”
“Principally,” said I, “because no one could make head or tail of
them.”
“But that was the subtlety of the method,” said Thorndyke. “A
statement cannot be contested until it is understood. From which it
follows that if you would deliver a judgment that cannot be disputed,
you must take proper precautions against the risk of being
understood.”
Bundy adjusted his eye-glass and fixed on Thorndyke a glare of
counterfeit defiance. “I am going to take an early opportunity of
seeing you in the witness-box,” said he. “It will be the treat of my
life.”
“I must try to give you that treat,” replied Thorndyke. “I am sure you
will be highly entertained, but I don’t think you will be able to
dispute my evidence.”
“I don’t suppose I shall,” Bundy retorted with a grin, “if it is of
the same brand as the sample that I have heard.”
Here the arrival of Mrs. Dunk with the coffee ushered in a truce
between the disputants, and when I had filled the cups Thorndyke
changed the subject by recalling the incidents of our perambulation
with Japp and Mr. Willard; and Bundy, apparently considering that
enough chaff had been cut for one evening, entered into a discussion
on the conditions of life in mediæval Rochester with a zest and
earnestness that came as a refreshing change after so much frivolity.
So the evening passed pleasantly away until ten o’clock, when Bundy
rose to depart.
“Shall we see him home, Thorndyke?” said I. “We can do with a walk
after our pow-wow.”
“Somebody ought to see him home,” said Thorndyke. “He looks
comparatively sober now, but wait till he gets out into the air.”
(Bundy’s almost ascetic abstemiousness in respect of wine, I should
explain, had become a mild joke between us.) “But I think I won’t join
the bacchanalian procession. I have a letter to write, and I can get
it done and posted by the time you come back.”
As we walked towards the office arm-in-arm--Bundy keeping up the
fiction of a slight unsteadiness of gait--my guest once more expressed
enjoyment of our little festivals.
“I suppose,” said he, “Dr. Thorndyke is really quite a big bug in his
way.”
“Yes,” I replied; “he is in the very front rank; in fact, I should say
that he is the greatest living authority on his subject.”
“Yes,” said Bundy, thoughtfully, “one feels that he is a great man,
although he is so friendly and so perfectly free from side. I hope I
don’t cheek him too much.”
“He doesn’t seem to resent it,” I answered, “and he certainly doesn’t
object to your society. He expressly said, when he wrote last, that he
hoped to see something of you.”
“That was awfully nice of him,” Bundy said with very evident
gratification; and he added, after a pause: “Lord! John, what a
windfall it was for me when you came down with that letter from old
Turcival. It has made life a different thing for me.”
“I am glad to hear it, Peter,” said I; “but you haven’t got all the
benefit. It was a bit of luck for me to strike a live bishop in my new
habitat, and a Rumtifoozlish one at that. But here we are at the
episcopal palace. Shall I assist your lordship up the steps?”
We carried out the farce to its foolish end, staggering together up
the steps, at the top of which I propped him securely against the door
and rang the bell, with the comfortable certainty that there was no
one in the house to disturb.
“Good night, John, old chap,” he said cordially, as I retired.
“Good night, Peter, my child,” I responded; and so took my way
homeward to my other guest.
I arrived at my house in time to meet Thorndyke returning from the
adjacent pillar-box, and we went in together.
“Well,” said he, “I suppose we had better turn in, according to what
is, I believe, the custom of this household, and turn out betimes in
the morning, for a visit, perhaps, to Black Boy-lane.”
“Yes,” I replied, “we may as well turn in now. You are not going to
leave these photographs there, are you?”
“They are your photographs,” he replied; “that is, if you care to have
them. I brought them down for you.”
I thanked him very warmly for the gift, and gathered up the portraits
carefully, replacing them, for the present, in their box. Then we
turned out the lights and made our way up to our respective bedrooms.
At breakfast on the following morning Thorndyke opened the subject of
our investigation by cross-examining me on the matter of my report,
and the more detailed account that Bundy had given.
“What does Sergeant Cobbledick think of the new developments?” he
asked, when I had given him all the detail that I could.
“In a way he is encouraged. He is glad to get something more definite
to work on. But for the present he seems to be high and dry. He gave
me quite a learned exposition of the possibilities of the case, but he
had to admit when he had finished that he was still in the dark so far
as any final conclusion was concerned. He even suggested that I should
put the facts before you--he recognized you when we met him on the
road near Blue Boar Pier--and ask if you could make any suggestion.”
“Can you recall the sergeant’s exposition of the case?”
“I think so. It made rather an impression on me at the time,” and here
I repeated, as well as I could remember them, the various inferences
that Cobbledick had drawn from the presence in the lane of the things
that we had found. Thorndyke listened with deep attention, nodding his
head approvingly as each point was made.
“A very admirable analysis, Strangeways,” he said when I had finished.
“It does the sergeant great credit. So far as it goes, it is an
excellent interpretation of the facts that are in his possession.
There are, perhaps, one or two points that he has overlooked.”
“If there are,” said I, “it would be a great kindness to draw his
attention to them. He is naturally anxious to get on with the case,
and he has taken endless trouble over it.”
“I shall be very glad to give him a hint or two,” said Thorndyke.
“After breakfast I should like to go over the ground with you, and
then we might go along to the station and see if he is in his office.”
I agreed to this program, and as soon as we had finished our breakfast
we went forth, making our way by Free School-lane and The Common to
the marshes west of Gas House-road. From there we entered Black
Boy-lane at the lower end, and slowly followed its windings, Thorndyke
looking about him attentively, and occasionally peering over the
fences, which his stature enabled him to do without climbing. At the
top of the lane, where it opened into a paved thoroughfare, we
observed no less a personage than Sergeant Cobbledick, standing on the
pavement and looking at the few adjacent houses with an expression of
profound speculation. His speculative attitude changed suddenly to one
of eager interest when he saw us; and on my presenting him to
Thorndyke, he stood stiffly at “attention” and raised his hat with an
air that I can only describe as reverent.
“Dr. Strangeways was telling me, just now,” said Thorndyke, “of your
very interesting observations on these new developments. He also said
that you would like to talk the matter over with me.”
“I should, indeed, sir,” the sergeant said, earnestly; “and if I might
suggest it, my office will be very quiet, being Sunday, and I could
show you the things that have been found, if you would like to see
them.”
“As to the things that have been found,” said Thorndyke, “I am
prepared to take them as read. They have been properly identified. But
we could certainly talk more conveniently in your office.”
In a few minutes we turned into a narrow street which brought us to
the side of the Guildhall, and the sergeant, having shown us into his
office and given some instructions to a constable, entered and locked
the door.
“Now, Sergeant,” said Thorndyke, “tell us what your difficulty is.”
“I’ve got several difficulties, Sir,” replied Cobbledick. “In the
first place, here is a body being carried up the lane. You agree with
me, Sir, that it was going up and not down?”
“Yes; your reasons seem quite conclusive.”
“Well, then, Sir, the next question is, was this a dead body, or was
the woman drugged or insensible? The fact that she was being taken
from the river towards the town suggests that she was alive and being
taken to some house where she could be hidden; but, of course, a dead
body might be taken to a house to be destroyed by burning or to be
dismembered or even buried, say under the cellar. I must say my own
feeling is that it was a dead body.”
“The reasons you gave Dr. Strangeways for thinking so seem to be quite
sound. Let us proceed on the assumption that it was a dead body.”
“Well, Sir,” said Cobbledick, gloomily, “there you are. That’s all. We
have got a body brought up from the river. We can trace it up to near
the top of the lane. But there we lose it. It seems to have vanished
into smoke. It was being taken up into the town; but where? There’s
nothing to show. We come out into the paved streets, and, of course,
there isn’t a trace. We seem to have come to the end of our clues; and
I am very much afraid that we shan’t get any more.”
“There,” said Thorndyke, “I am inclined to agree with you, Sergeant.
You won’t get any more clues for the simple reason that you have got
them all.”
“Got them all!” exclaimed Cobbledick, staring in amazement at
Thorndyke.
“Yes,” was the calm reply; “at least, that is how it appears to me.
Your business now is not to search for more clues but to extract the
meaning from the facts that you possess. Come, now, Sergeant,” he
continued, “let us take a bird’s-eye view of the case, as it were,
reconstructing the investigation in a sort of synopsis. I will read
the entries from my note-book.”
“On Saturday, the 26th of April, Mrs. Frood disappeared. On the 1st of
May the brooch was found at the pawn-brokers. On the 7th of May the
box of tablets and the bag were found on the shore at Chatham,
apparently fixing the place of the crime. On the 9th of May the scarf
was found at Blue Boar Head. On the 15th of May a shoe was found in
the creek between Blue Boar Head and Gas House Point. On the 25th of
May the second shoe was found on the gridiron near Gas House Point. On
the 20th of June a hat-pin was found on the shore a little west of the
last spot; always creeping steadily up the river, you notice.”
“Yes,” said Cobbledick, “I noticed that, and I’m hanged if I can
account for it in any way.”
“Never mind,” said Thorndyke. “Just note the fact. Then on the 14th of
July four articles were found; near the bottom of the lane a button;
near the middle of the lane a hat-pin, and, abreast of it in the
field, the hat, itself. Finally, at the top of the lane, in the field,
you found the missing key.”
“I don’t see what the key has got to do with it,” said the sergeant.
“It don’t seem to me to be in the picture.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Thorndyke. “Just consider a moment, Sergeant. But
perhaps you have forgotten the date on which the key disappeared?”
“I don’t know that I ever noticed when it was lost.”
“It wasn’t lost,” said Thorndyke. “It was taken away--probably out of
the gate--and afterwards thrown over the fence. But I daresay Dr.
Strangeways can give you the date.”
I reflected for a few moments. “Let me see,” said I. “It was a good
while ago, and I remember that it was a Saturday, because the men who
were filling the holes in the city wall had knocked off at noon for a
week-end. Now when was it? I went to the wine merchant’s that day,
and--” I paused with a sudden shock of recollection. “Why!” I
exclaimed. “It was _the_ Saturday; the day Mrs. Frood disappeared!”
Cobbledick seemed to stiffen in his chair as he suddenly turned a
startled look at Thorndyke.
“Yes,” agreed the latter; “the key disappeared during the morning of
the 26th of April and Mrs. Frood disappeared on the evening of the
same day. That is a coincidence in time. And if you consider what gate
it was that this key unlocked; that it gave entrance--and also
excluded entrance--to an isolated, enclosed area of waste land in
which excavations and fillings-in were actually taking place; I think
you will agree that there is matter for investigation.”
As Thorndyke was speaking Cobbledick’s eyes opened wider and wider,
and his mouth exhibited a like change.
“Good Lord, Sir!” he exclaimed at length, “you mean to say----”
“No, I don’t,” Thorndyke interrupted with a smile. “I am merely
drawing your attention to certain facts which seem to have escaped it.
You said that there was no hint of a place to which the body could
have been conveyed. I point out a hint which you have overlooked. That
is all.”
“It is a pretty broad hint, too,” said Cobbledick, “and I am going to
lose no time in acting on it. Do you happen to know, Doctor, who
employed the workmen?”
“I gathered that Japp and Bundy had the contract to repair the wall.
At any rate, they were supervising the work, and they will be able to
tell you where to find the foreman. Probably they have a complete
record of the progress of the work. You know Mr. Japp’s address on
Boley Hill, I suppose, and Mr. Bundy lives over the office.”
“I’ll call on him at once,” said Cobbledick, “and see if he can give
me the particulars, and I’ll get him to lend me the key. I suppose you
two gentlemen wouldn’t care to come and have a look at the place with
me?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Thorndyke. “But I particularly wish not to
appear in connexion with the case, so I will ask you to say nothing to
anyone of your having spoken to me about it, and, of course, we go to
the place alone.”
“Certainly,” the sergeant agreed emphatically. “We don’t want any
outsiders with us. Then if you will wait for me here I will get back
as quickly as I can. I hope Mr. Bundy is at home.”
He snatched up his hat and darted out of the office, full of hope and
high spirits. Thorndyke’s suggestion had rejuvenated him.
“It seems to me,” I said, when he had gone, “a rather remarkable thing
that you should have remembered all the circumstances of the loss of
this key.”
“It isn’t really remarkable at all,” he replied. “I heard of it after
the woman had disappeared. But as soon as she had disappeared, the
loss of this particular key at this particular time became a fact of
possible evidential importance. It was a fact that had to be noted and
remembered. The connexion of the tragedy with the river seemed to
exclude it for a time; but the discoveries in the lane at once revived
its importance. The fundamental rule, Strangeways, of all criminal
investigation is to note everything, relevant or irrelevant, and
forget nothing.”
“It is an excellent rule,” said I, “but it must be a mighty difficult
one to carry out”; and for a while we sat, each immersed in his own
reflections.
The sergeant returned in an incredibly short space of time, and he
burst into the office with a beaming face, flourishing the key. “I
found him at home,” said he, “and I’ve got all the necessary
particulars, so we can take a preliminary look round.” He held the
door open, and when we had passed out, he led the way down the little
street at a pace that would have done credit to a sporting
lamp-lighter. A very few minutes brought us to the gate, and when he
had opened it and locked it behind us, he stood looking round the
weed-grown enclosure as if doubtful where to begin.
“Which patch in the wall is the one they were working at when the key
disappeared?” Thorndyke asked.
“The last but one to the left,” was the reply.
“Then we had better have a look at that, first,” said Thorndyke. “It
was a ready-made excavation.”
We advanced towards the ragged patch in the wall, and as we drew near
I looked at it with a tumult of emotions that swamped mere anxiety and
expectation. I could see what Thorndyke thought, and that perception
amounted almost to conviction. Meanwhile, my colleague and the
sergeant stepped close up to the patch and minutely examined the rough
and slovenly joints of the stonework.
“There is no trace of its having been opened,” said Thorndyke. “But
there wouldn’t be. I think we had better scrape up the earth at the
foot of the wall. Something might easily have been dropped and trodden
in in the darkness.” He looked towards the shed, in which a couple of
empty lime barrels still remained, and, perceiving there a decrepit
shovel, he went and fetched it. Returning with it, he proceeded to
turn up the surface of the ground at the foot of the wall, depositing
each shovelful of earth on a bare spot, and spreading it out
carefully. For some time there was no result, but he continued
methodically, working from one end of the patch towards the other.
Suddenly Cobbledick uttered an exclamation and stooped over a freshly
deposited shovelful.
“By the Lord!” he ejaculated, “it is a true bill! You were quite
right, sir.” He stood up, holding out between his finger and thumb a
small bronze button bearing an embossed Tudor Rose. Thorndyke glanced
at me as I took the button from the sergeant and examined it.
“Yes,” I said, “it is unquestionably one of her buttons.”
“Then,” said he, “we have got our answer. The solution of the mystery
is contained in that patch of new rubble.”
The sergeant’s delight and gratitude were quite pathetic. Again and
again he reiterated his thanks, regardless of Thorndyke’s disclaimers
and commendations of the officer’s own skilful and patient
investigation.
“All the same,” said Cobbledick, as he locked the gate and pocketed
the key, “we haven’t solved the whole problem. We may say that we have
found the body; but the problem of the crime and the criminal remains.
I suppose, sir, you don’t see any glimmer of light in that direction?”
“A glimmer, perhaps,” replied Thorndyke, “but it may turn out to be
but a mirage. Let us see the body. It may have a clearer message for
us than we expect.”
Beyond this rather cryptic suggestion he refused to commit himself;
nor, when we had parted from the sergeant, could I get anything more
definite out of him.
“It is useless to speculate,” he said, by way of closing the subject.
“We think that we know what is inside that wall. We may be right, but
we may possibly be wrong. A few hours will settle our doubts. If the
body is there, it may tell us all that we want to know.”
This last observation left me more puzzled than ever. The condition of
the body might, and probably would, reveal the cause of death and the
nature of the crime; but it was difficult to see how it could point
out the identity of the murderer. However, the subject was closed for
the time being, and Thorndyke resolutely refused to reopen it until
the fresh data were available.