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Title: The Vanishing Man: A Detective Romance

Author: R. Austin Freeman

Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #10476]
                Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VANISHING MAN: A DETECTIVE ROMANCE ***


E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and Project Gutenberg Distributed
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THE VANISHING MAN

A Detective Romance

BY R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

1911








TO MY FRIEND

A.E.B.





CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I THE VANISHING MAN
   II THE EAVESDROPPER
  III JOHN THORNDYKE
   IV LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL
    V THE WATERCRESS-BED
   VI SIDELIGHTS
  VII JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL
 VIII A MUSEUM IDYLL
   IX THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN
    X THE NEW ALLIANCE
   XI THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED
  XII A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY
 XIII THE CROWNER'S QUEST
  XIV WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE
      PROBATE COURT
   XV CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
  XVI "O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"
 XVII THE ACCUSING FINGER
XVIII JOHN BELLINGHAM
  XIX A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM
   XX THE END OF THE CASE




CHAPTER I

THE VANISHING MAN


The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer on
Medical Jurisprudence, or Forensic Medicine, as it is sometimes
described. At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointed
apparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture on
any other. But with us it was very different: John Thorndyke was not
only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and great reputation, but
he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating in style and of
endless resources. Every remarkable case that had ever been recorded he
appeared to have at his fingers' ends; every fact--chemical, physical,
biological, or even historical--that could in any way be twisted into a
medico-legal significance, was pressed into his service; and his own
varied and curious experiences seemed as inexhaustible as the widow's
cruse. One of his favourite devices for giving life and interest to a
rather dry subject was that of analysing and commenting upon
contemporary cases as reported in the papers (always, of course, with a
due regard to the legal and social proprieties); and it was in this way
that I first became introduced to the astonishing series of events that
was destined to exercise so great an influence on my own life.

The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt with the rather
unsatisfactory subject of survivorship. Most of the students had left
the theatre, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's table
to listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke was wont to
deliver on these occasions in an easy, conversational manner, leaning
against the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks to a
stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers.

"The problem of survivorship," he was saying, in reply to a question put
by one of the students, "ordinarily occurs in cases where the bodies of
the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the occurrence of
death and its approximate time are actually known. But an analogous
difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one of the parties is
not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to be assumed on
collateral evidence.

"Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is the
latest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive? And
the settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of the
most trivial and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning's
paper which illustrates this. A gentleman has disappeared rather
mysteriously. He was last seen by the servant of a relative at whose
house he had called. Now, if this gentleman should never reappear, dead
or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at which he was
certainly alive will turn upon the further question: 'Was he or was he
not wearing a particular article of jewellery when he called at that
relative's house?'"

He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk that he
still held; then, noting the expectant interest with which we were
regarding him, he resumed:

"The circumstances in this case are very curious; in fact, they are
highly mysterious; and if any legal issues should arise in respect of
them, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications. The
gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man well known
in archaeological circles. He recently returned from Egypt, bringing
with him a very fine collection of antiquities--some of which, by the
way, he has presented to the British Museum, where they are now on
view--and having made this presentation, he appears to have gone to
Paris on business. I may mention that the gift consisted of a very fine
mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture. The latter, however, had not
arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing man left for Paris, but
the mummy was inspected on the fourteenth of October at Mr. Bellingham's
house by Dr. Norbury of the British Museum, in the presence of the donor
and his solicitor, and the latter was authorised to hand over the
complete collection to the British Museum authorities when the
tomb-furniture arrived; which he has since done.

"From Paris he seems to have returned on the twenty-third of November,
and to have gone direct from Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a
Mr. Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared at the
house at twenty minutes past five, and as Mr. Hurst had not yet come
down from town and was not expected until a quarter to six, he explained
who he was and said he would wait in the study and write some letters.
The housemaid accordingly showed him into the study, furnished him with
writing materials, and left him.

"At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with his latchkey, and
before the housemaid had time to speak to him he had passed through into
the study and shut the door.

"At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hurst entered the
dining-room alone, and, observing that the table was laid for two, asked
the reason.

"'I thought Mr. Bellingham was staying to dinner, sir,' was 'The
housemaid's' reply.

"'Mr. Bellingham!' exclaimed the astonished host. 'I didn't know he was
here. Why was I not told?'

"'I thought he was in the study with you, sir,' said the housemaid.

"On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that he was
nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without leaving a trace, and
what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain that
he had not gone out by the front door. For since neither she nor the
cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained the whole
time either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front gate, or
in the dining-room, which opened into the hall opposite the study door.
The study itself has a French window opening on a narrow grass plot,
across which is a side gate that opens into an alley; and it appears
that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rather eccentric
route. At any rate--and this is the important fact--he was not in the
house, and no one had seen him leave it.

"After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town and called at the office
of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr. Jellicoe,
and mentioned the matter to him. Mr. Jellicoe knew nothing of his
client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took the train down
to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham,
lives. The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is a detached
building situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at the back of the
house. Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her
father, who had come in by the back gate.

"Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hurst's story with the
greatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen nor heard
anything of John Bellingham.

"Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house; but only
a few feet from the library door Mr. Jellicoe noticed an object lying in
the grass and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.

"The latter picked it up, and they all recognised it as a scarab which
Mr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear suspended from his
watch-chain. There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab of the
eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and engraved with the
cartouche of Amenhotep III. It had been suspended by a gold ring
fastened to a wire which passed through the suspension hole, and the
ring, though broken, was still in position.

"This discovery, of course, only added to the mystery, which was still
further increased when, on inquiry, a suit-case bearing the initials
J.B. was found to be lying unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.
Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed that it had been
deposited about the time of arrival of the Continental express on the
twenty-third of November, so that its owner must have gone straight on
to Eltham.

"That is how the affair stands at present, and, should the missing man
never reappear or should his body never be found, the question, as you
see, which will be required to be settled is, 'What is the exact time
and place, when and where, he was last known to be alive?' As to the
place, the importance of the issues involved in that question are
obvious and we need not consider them. But the question of time has
another kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as I pointed out in
the lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute has
secured succession to property. Now, the missing man was last seen alive
at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on the twenty-third of
November. But he appears to have visited his brother's house at
Woodford, and, since nobody saw him at that house, it is at present
uncertain whether he went there before or after calling on Mr. Hurst. If
he went there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of the
twenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have been
alive; but if he went there after, there would have to be added to this
time the shortest possible time in which he could travel from the one
house to the other.

"But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on the
scarab. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hurst's
house, it would be certain that he went there first; but if it was not
then on his watch-chain, a probability would be established that he
went first to Woodford. Thus, you see, a question which may conceivably
become of the most vital moment in determining the succession of
property turns on the observation or non-observation by this housemaid
of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact."

"Has the servant made any statement on the subject, sir?" I ventured to
inquire.

"Apparently not," replied Dr. Thorndyke; "at any rate, there is no
reference to any such statement in the newspaper report, though,
otherwise, the case is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth of
detail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable and well
worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest."

"In what respect, sir, is it of interest?" one of the students asked.

"Ah!" replied Dr. Thorndyke, "I think I must leave you to consider that
question yourself. This is an untried case, and we mustn't make free
with the actions and motives of individuals."

"Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir?" I asked.

"Yes; quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it is exhaustive to the
verge of impropriety, considering that the man may possibly turn up
alive and well at any moment. It seems that he has an old Pott's
fracture of the left ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on each
knee--origin not stated, but easily guessed at--and that he has tattooed
on his chest in vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed
representation of the symbolical Eye of Osiris--or Horus or Ra, as the
different authorities have it. There certainly ought to be no
difficulty in identifying the body. But we will hope that it won't come
to that.

"And now I must really be running away, and so must you; but I would
advise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you have
read the remarkably full details. It is a most curious case, and it is
highly probable that we shall hear of it again. Good afternoon,
gentlemen."

Dr. Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medical
jurisprudence was a live subject at St. Margaret's and all of us were
keenly interested in it. As a result, we sallied forth in a body to the
nearest newsvendor's, and, having each provided himself with a copy of
the _Daily Telegraph_, adjourned together to the Common Room to devour
the report and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case,
unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our more
squeamish and scrupulous teacher.




CHAPTER II

THE EAVESDROPPER


It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to
(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance should
be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which I
have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to
conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed since
my first informal appearance.

Permit me, then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--very
recently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat
and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating with
anxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.

The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys
Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. There
was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at 49
Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information to the
presiding deity of the coal shop.

"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"

She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the mark
remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out of Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poor
Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and
indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip
down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade;
and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of
geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and here
I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the
wanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the grey squalor of the
ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch
past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light and
colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The
narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden
palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and
sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with
gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.

In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to be
old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker,
so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.

But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive wonder,
a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I was in an
old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the gate was
shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world that
seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment. Sun-gilded
trees and flower-beds gay with blossom; lupins, snap-dragons,
nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,
unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursued
them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlessly
in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful: a grand old house,
dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down on this garden when
ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through the court, and gentle
Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in Fleet Street, strolled up
Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.

So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."

The door opened with some suddenness, and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.

"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.

"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."

"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."

"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.

"Mr. Bellingham."

"Are you the doctor?"

"I am _a_ doctor."

"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."

I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're
here."

"I said _Mr_. Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.

It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position. The
room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and though
the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of a
conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came through
the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfully
distinct:

"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what it
amounts to. You want to square me!"

"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.

To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants. A
very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer's
boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty, the place
exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste was
irreproachable. The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant
harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the Windsor
chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of their
glaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of the
whole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut flowers and set
in the middle of the table.

But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and
puzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home-made and
stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly
works on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects on the
mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronzed plaster--of the
beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. There were
the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs, every
one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproduction
of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the extreme, this mingling
of costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life,
of fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could make nothing of it.
What manner of man, I wondered, was this new patient of mine? Was he a
miser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court? An eccentric
savant? A philosopher? Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my
meditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once
more raised in anger.

"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that I
made away with him."

"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to
ascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."

"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Your position
is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."

"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my own
brother?"

During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer astonishment.
Suddenly I recollected myself, and, dropping into a chair, set my elbows
on my knees and slapped my hands over my ears; and thus I must have
remained for a full minute when I became aware of the closing of a door
behind me.

I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must have
looked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the sombre figure of a rather
tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her hand on
the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an instantaneous
glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange surroundings.
Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a grave, sad face of
ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's portraits, a harmony
in tones so low as to be but a step removed from monochrome. Obviously a
lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something in the poise of
the head and the set of the straight brows hinted at a spirit that
adversity had hardened rather than broken.

"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and as
she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.

I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; that
I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice
from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.

"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it's
nothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!"

Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the
door, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the
room.

"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."

"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied
coldly.

"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for
you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.
Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker
strode out of the room, banging the door after him.

"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will
introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor
for you, dear. Doctor--"

"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."

The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which
I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.

"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is not
ill."

"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on
a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him
off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather unceremonious
appearance, which I hope you will forgive."

"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that you
sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to make
your acquaintance, too."

"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a
man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having thus
exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,
I--proceeded to business.

"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to
make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information
respecting his case.

"A week to-day," he replied. "The _fons et origo mali_ was a hansom-cab
which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in the middle
of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby said so, and I
suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."

"Were you much hurt?"

"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me a
deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."

"Most people are," said I.

"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at
fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see it
presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But that
isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confounded
nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a cat, and I
can't get a decent night's rest."

I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not look
like a drinker, but still--

"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.

He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way to
approach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and I
don't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand just
now--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business to
keep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when
I'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.
And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant interview--"

"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, in fact,
the neighbourhood at large, are aware of the fact."

Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose my
temper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when
I'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly, perhaps."

"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor Berkeley was
reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She glanced at me, as
she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn grey eyes.

"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,
though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again. I
think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."

"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave you
to your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."

I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stiff
little bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.
It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were no
concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise, for he
resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it
finished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.
I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."

"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to
me if you don't mind telling it," I said.

"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy
talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."

"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.

"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of telling
you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a confidential
grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I really have some
excuse for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, a
couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of independent
means and excellent prospects and woke up in the morning to find myself
practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that, you know, at my
time of life, eh?"

"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."

"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the same moment, I lost
my only brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished
off the face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."

He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Of
course, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the
house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his last
words had struck out the full note.

"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I should
but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew my
attention to it."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What did
he say about it?"

"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some
very pretty legal complications."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legal
complications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of
infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the way,
what was his name?"

"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."

"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone. "I
seem to remember that name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friend
of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case of a man
whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore, who also
disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Doctor Thorndyke
unravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."

"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I
suggested.

"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.
And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about my
purely personal affairs."

"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is the
nature of the legal entanglement?"

"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and go
home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is about
my poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered
because there is no sufficient evidence that my brother is dead; and in
the second place, if it could, all the property would go to people who
were never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically
exasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted ingenuity
of a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee?"

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded to
inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul my
patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to his
general conduct, I rose to take my leave.

"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here and
excite me?"

"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
note-books before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.

"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that as a curative measure?"

"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as
an antidote to mental excitement."

She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"

"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very
helpful."

"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People in
our position are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still they
don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come
unsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."

"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope
that your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."

She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the street
door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my
_congé_.

Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little
street looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the
old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made
hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspect
was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and was
still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.




CHAPTER III

JOHN THORNDYKE


That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress
is a fact familiar to the least observant. That the observation is
equally applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally
true. Do not the members of the fighting professions, even to this day,
deck themselves in feathers, in gaudy colours and gilded ornaments,
after the manner of the African war-chief or the "Redskin brave," and
thereby indicate the place of war in modern civilisation? Does not the
Church of Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments that were
fashionable before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her
immovable conservatism? And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on in
the wake of progress, symbolise its subjection to precedent by head-gear
reminiscent of the days of good Queen Anne?

I should apologise for obtruding upon the reader these somewhat trite
reflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of the
wig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I had
strayed on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I had halted
opposite the little shop window, and, with my eyes bent dreamily on the
row of wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was startled
by a deep voice saying softly in my ear: "I'd have the full-bottomed one
if I were you."

I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of my
old friend and fellow-student, Jervis, behind whom, regarding us with a
sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both men
greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, for
Thorndyke was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was several years
my academic senior.

"You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope," said
Thorndyke; and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me across
the court in the direction of the Treasury.

"But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley?" he
asked. "Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's--deserting
the bedside for the Bar?"

"What! Has Jervis gone into the law?" I exclaimed.

"Bless you, yes!" replied Jervis. "I have become parasitical on
Thorndyke! 'The big fleas have little fleas,' you know. I am the
additional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of a
decimal point."

"Don't you believe him, Berkeley," interposed Thorndyke. "He is the
brains of the firm. I supply the respectability and moral worth. But you
haven't answered my question. What are you doing here on a summer
afternoon staring into a wigmaker's window?"

"I am Barnard's locum; he is in practice in Fetter Lane."

"I know," said Thorndyke; "we meet him occasionally, and very pale and
peaky he has been looking of late. Is he taking a holiday?"

"Yes. He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece in a currant ship."

"Then," said Jervis, "you are actually a local G.P. I thought you were
looking beastly respectable."

"And, judging from your leisured manner when we encountered you," added
Thorndyke, "the practice is not a strenuous one. I suppose it is
entirely local?"

"Yes," I replied. "The patients mostly live in the small streets and
courts within a half-mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes of some
of them are pretty squalid. Oh! and that reminds me of a very strange
coincidence. It will interest you, I think."

"Life is made up of strange coincidences," said Thorndyke. "Nobody but a
reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence. But what
is yours?"

"It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospital
about two years ago, the case of a man who disappeared under rather
mysterious circumstances. Do you remember it? The man's name was
Bellingham."

"The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite well. What about it?"

"The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Nevill's Court with
his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice."

"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting. They must have
come down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, the
brother was living in a house of some pretensions standing in its own
grounds."

"Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case."

"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.
He is a sort of medico-legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the
newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly
regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quaint habit. A
case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke
swallows it whole. Then it lapses and everyone forgets it. A year or two
later it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find
that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on
it periodically in the interval."

"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned friend is pleased to
indulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true,
though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."

Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first
floor of No. 5A King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious,
panelled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black,
setting out the tea-service on the table. I glanced at him with some
curiosity. He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of his neat, black
clothes; in fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, for while his
quiet dignity and his serious, intelligent face suggested some kind of
professional man, his neat, capable hands were those of a skilled
mechanic.

Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and then looked at his
retainer. "I see you have put three tea-cups, Polton," he said. "Now,
how did you know I was bringing someone in to tea?"

The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification as he
explained:

"I happened to look out of the laboratory window as you turned the
corner, sir."

"How disappointingly simple," said Jervis. "We were hoping for something
abstruse and telepathic."

"Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir," replied Polton as he
checked the tea-service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, and
with this remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated.

"To return to the Bellingham case," said Thorndyke, when he had poured
out the tea. "Have you picked up any facts relating to the parties--any
facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to mention?"

"I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating.
For instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham--my patient--lost all his
property quite suddenly about the time of the disappearance."

"That is really odd," said Thorndyke. "The opposite condition would be
quite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can have
happened, unless there was an allowance of some sort."

"No, that was what struck me. But there seem to be some queer features
in the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated.
There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble."

"They will hardly be able to administer the will without either proof or
presumption of death," Thorndyke remarked.

"Exactly. That's one of the difficulties. Another is that there seems to
be some fatal defect in the drafting of the will itself. I don't know
what it is, but I expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I
mentioned the interest that you had taken in the case, and I think
Bellingham would have liked to consult you, but, of course, the poor
devil has no money."

"That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have. There
will probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takes no
account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought to have
advice of some sort."

"I don't see how he is to get it," said I.

"Neither do I," Thorndyke admitted. "There are no hospitals for
impecunious litigants; it is assumed that only persons of means have a
right to go to law. Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances
we might be able to help him; but, for all we know to the contrary, he
may be an arrant scoundrel."

I recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard, and wondered
what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had been allowable for me
to repeat it. Obviously it was not, however, and I could only give my
own impressions.

"He doesn't strike me as that," I said; "but, of course, one never
knows. Personally, he impressed me rather favourably, which is more than
the other man did."

"What other man?" asked Thorndyke.

"There was another man in the case, wasn't there? I forget his name. I
saw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him. I suspect
he's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham."

"Berkeley knows more about this than he is telling us," said Jervis.
"Let us look up the report and see who this stranger is." He took down
from a shelf a large volume of newspaper-cuttings and laid it on the
table.

"You see," said he, as he ran his finger down the index, "Thorndyke
files all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I know he
had expectations respecting this one. I fancy he had some ghoulish hope
that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody's dust-bin.
Here we are; the other man's name is Hurst. He is apparently a cousin,
and it was at his house that the missing man was last seen alive."

"So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?" said Thorndyke, when
he had glanced over the report.

"That is my impression," I replied, "though I really know nothing about
it."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "if you should learn what is being done and
should have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested to
hear how the case progresses; and if an unofficial opinion on any point
would be of service, I think there would be no harm in my giving it."

"It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are taking
professional advice," I said; and then, after a pause, I asked: "Have
you given this case much consideration?"

Thorndyke reflected. "No," he said, "I can't say that I have. I turned
it over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I have
speculated on it occasionally since. It is my habit, as Jervis was
telling you, to utilise odd moments of leisure (such as a railway
journey, for instance) by constructing theories to account for the facts
of such obscure cases as have come to my notice. It is a useful habit, I
think, for, apart from the mental exercise and experience that one gains
from it, an appreciable proportion of these cases ultimately come into
my hands, and then the previous consideration of them is so much time
gained."

"Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case?" I
asked.

"Yes; I have several theories, one of which I especially favour, and I
am waiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to me
which of these theories is probably the correct one."

"It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley," said Jervis. "He is
fitted with an information-valve that opens inwards. You can pour in as
much as you like, but you can't get any out."

Thorndyke chuckled. "My learned friend is, in the main, correct," he
said. "You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case, in
which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded
my views in detail. But I should like to hear what you and Jervis make
of the case as reported in the newspapers."

"There now," exclaimed Jervis, "what did I tell you? He wants to suck
our brains."

"As far as my brain is concerned," I said, "the process of suction isn't
likely to yield much except a vacuum, so I will resign in favour of you.
You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple G.P."

Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it. Then,
blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said:

"If you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I can
tell you in one word--nothing. Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac."

"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke, "this is mere laziness. Berkeley wants to
witness a display of your forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be in
a fog--he very often is--but he doesn't state the fact baldly; he wraps
it up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how you arrive at your
conclusion. Show us that you have really weighed the facts."

"Very well," said Jervis, "I will give you a masterly analysis of the
case--leading to nothing." He continued to puff at his pipe for a time
with slight embarrassment, as I thought--and I fully sympathised with
him. Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:

"The position appears to be this: Here is a man who is seen to enter a
certain house, who is shown into a certain room and shut in. He is not
seen to come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found to
be empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or dead. That is a
pretty tough beginning.

"Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened. Either
he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house, alive; or
he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body have been
concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved. Let us take the
first case. This affair happened nearly two years ago. Now, he couldn't
have remained alive in the house for two years. He would have been
noticed. The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms, would
have observed him."

Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior: "My
learned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity. We accept
the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive."

"Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently not. The report
says that as soon as the man was missed, Hurst and the servants
together searched the house thoroughly. But there had been no time or
opportunity to dispose of the body, whence the only possible conclusion
is that the body was not there. Moreover, if we admit the possibility of
his having been murdered--for that is what concealment of the body would
imply--there is the question: Who could have murdered him? Not the
servants, obviously, and as to Hurst--well, of course, we don't know
what his relations with the missing man have been--at least, I don't."

"Neither do I," said Thorndyke. "I know nothing beyond what is in the
newspaper report and what Berkeley has told us."

"Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive for murdering the man or
he may not. The point is that he doesn't seem to have had the
opportunity. Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the body
temporarily, still there was the final disposal of it. He couldn't have
buried it in the garden with the servants about; neither could he have
burned it. The only conceivable method by which he could have got rid of
it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments and burying the
dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or
rivers. But no remains of the kind have been found, as some of them
probably would have been by now, so that there is nothing to support
this suggestion; indeed, the idea of murder, in this house at least,
seems to be excluded by the search that was made the instant the man was
missed.

"Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave the house unobserved?
Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thing to do. He may
have been an impulsive or eccentric man. We can't say. We know nothing
about him. But two years have elapsed and he has never turned up, so
that if he left the house secretly he must have gone into hiding and be
hiding still. Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic who would
behave in that manner or he may not. We have no information as to his
personal character.

"Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up in the
grounds of his brother's house at Woodford. That seems to show that he
visited that house at some time. But no one admits having seen him
there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first to his
brother's house or to Hurst's. If he was wearing the scarab when he
arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that house unobserved and
gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it he probably went from
Woodford to Eltham and there finally disappeared. As to whether he was
or was not wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by Hurst's
housemaid, there is at present no evidence.

"If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hurst, the
disappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flinging
accusations of murder about rather casually; for the disposal of the
body would be much less difficult in that case. Apparently no one saw
him enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back gate which
communicated with the library--a separate building some distance from
the house. In that case it would have been physically possible for the
Bellinghams to have made away with him. There was plenty of time to
dispose of the body unobserved--temporarily, at any rate. Nobody had
seen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there--if he
_was_ there; and apparently no search was made either at the time or
afterwards. In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man ever left
Hurst's house alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrived
there, things would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams--for, of
course, the girl must have been in it if the father was. But there's the
crux: there is no proof that the man ever did leave Hurst's house alive.
And if he didn't--but there! as I said at first, whichever turning you
take, you find that it ends in a blind alley."

"A lame ending to a masterly exposition," was Thorndyke's comment.

"I know," said Jervis. "But what would you have? There are quite a
number of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one. But
how are we to judge which it is? I maintain that until we know something
of the parties and the financial and other interests involved we have no
data."

"There," said Thorndyke, "I disagree with you entirely. I maintain that
we have ample data. You say that we have no means of judging which of
the various possible solutions is the true one; but I think that if you
will read the report carefully and thoughtfully you will find that the
facts now known to us point clearly to one explanation, and one only. It
may not be the true explanation, and I don't suppose it is. But we are
now dealing with the matter speculatively, academically, and I contend
that our data yield a definite conclusion. What do you say, Berkeley?"

"I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening consultations begin
at half-past six."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "don't let us keep you from your duties, with
poor Barnard currant-picking in the Grecian Isles. But come in and see
us again. Drop in when you like, after your work is done. You won't be
in our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eight
o'clock."

I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making me free of his chambers
in this hospitable fashion and took my leave, setting forth homewards by
way of Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a very direct route
for Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but our talk had revived my
interest in the Bellingham household and put me in a reflective vein.

From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard it was evident
that the plot was thickening. Not that I supposed that these two
respectable gentlemen really suspected one another of having made away
with the missing man; but still, their unguarded words, spoken in anger,
made it clear that each had allowed the thought of sinister
possibilities to enter his mind--a dangerous condition that might easily
grow into actual suspicion. And then the circumstances really were
highly mysterious, as I realised with especial vividness now after
listening to my friend's analysis of the evidence.

From the problem itself my mind travelled, not for the first time during
the last few days, to the handsome girl who had seemed in my eyes the
high-priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court.
What a strange figure she made against this strange background, with her
quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her pale face, so sad and worn,
her black, straight brows and solemn grey eyes, so inscrutable,
mysterious, Sibylline. A striking, even impressive, personality this, I
reflected, with something in it sombre and enigmatic that attracted and
yet repelled.

And here I recalled Jervis's words: "The girl must have been in it if
the father was." It was a dreadful thought, even though only
speculatively uttered, and my heart rejected it; rejected it with an
indignation that rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding that the
sombre black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one that
associated itself appropriately enough with the idea of mystery and
tragedy.




CHAPTER IV

LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL


My meditations brought me by a circuitous route, and ten minutes late,
to the end of Fetter Lane, where, exchanging my rather abstracted air
for the alert manner of a busy practitioner, I strode forward briskly
and darted into the surgery with knitted brows, as though just released
from an anxious case. But there was only one patient waiting, and she
saluted me as I entered with a snort of defiance.

"Here you are, then?" said she.

"You are perfectly correct, Miss Oman," I replied; "in fact, you have
put the case in a nutshell. What can I have the pleasure of doing for
you?"

"Nothing," was the answer. "My medical adviser is a lady; but I've
brought a note from Mr. Bellingham. Here it is," and she thrust the
envelope into my hand.

I glanced through the note and learned that my patient had had a couple
of bad nights and a very harassing day. "Could I have something to give
me a night's rest?" it concluded.

I reflected a few moments. One is not very ready to prescribe sleeping
draughts for unknown patients, but still, insomnia is a very distressing
condition. In the end, I temporised with a moderate dose of bromide,
deciding to call and see if more energetic measures were necessary.

"He had better take a dose of this at once, Miss Oman," said I, as I
handed her the bottle, "and I will look in later and see how he is."

"I expect he will be glad to see you," she answered, "for he is all
alone to-night and very dumpy. Miss Bellingham is out. But I must remind
you that he's a poor man and pays his way. You must excuse my mentioning
it."

"I am much obliged to you for the hint, Miss Oman," I rejoined. "It
isn't necessary for me to see him, but I should like just to look in and
have a chat."

"Yes, it will do him good. You have your points, though punctuality
doesn't seem to be one of them," and with this parting shot Miss Oman
bustled away.

Half-past eight found me ascending the great, dim staircase of the house
in Nevill's Court preceded by Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered into the
room. Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of meal, was
sitting hunched up in his chair gazing gloomily into the empty grate. He
brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very low spirits.

"I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished," he
said, "though I am very glad to see you."

"You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were alone, so I just dropped
in for a few minutes' gossip."

"That is really kind of you," he said heartily. "But I'm afraid you'll
find me rather poor company. A man who is full of his own highly
disagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion."

"You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be alone," said I, with
a sudden fear that I was intruding.

"Oh, you won't disturb me," he replied; adding, with a laugh: "It's
more likely to be the other way about. In fact, if I were not afraid of
boring you to death I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties over
with you."

"You won't bore me," I said. "It is generally interesting to share
another man's experiences without their inconveniences. 'The proper
study of mankind is--man,' you know, especially to a doctor."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. "You make me feel like a microbe," he
said. "However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your
microscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though it
is not _my_ actions that furnish the materials for your psychological
studies. I am only a passive agent. It is my poor brother who is the
_Deus ex machina_, who, from his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the
strings of this infernal puppet-show."

He paused, and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he
had forgotten my presence. At length he looked up, and resumed:

"It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story. Part of it you
know--the middle part. I will tell it you from the beginning, and then
you will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page has
yet to be turned.

"The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergyman
of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John and
me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went into the
Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church. But I suddenly
discovered that my views on religion had undergone a change that made
this impossible, and just about this time my father came into a quite
considerable property. Now, as it was his expressed intention to leave
the estate equally divided between my brother and me, there was no need
for me to take up any profession for a livelihood. Archaeology was
already the passion of my life, and I determined to devote myself
henceforth to my favourite study, in which, by the way, I was following
a family tendency; for my father was an enthusiastic student of ancient
Oriental history, and John was, as you know, an ardent Egyptologist.

"Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no will. He had intended
to have one drawn up, but had put it off until it was too late. And
since nearly all the property was in the form of real estate, my brother
inherited practically the whole of it. However, in deference to the
known wishes of my father, he made me an allowance of five hundred a
year, which was about a quarter of the annual income, I urged him to
assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this. Instead, he instructed
his solicitor to pay me the allowance in quarterly instalments during
the rest of his life; and it was understood that, on his death, the
entire estate should devolve on me, or if I died first, on my daughter
Ruth. Then, as you know, he disappeared suddenly, and as the
circumstances suggested that he was dead, and there was no evidence that
he was alive, his solicitor--a Mr. Jellicoe--found himself unable to
continue the payment of the allowance. On the other hand, as there was
no positive evidence that my brother was dead, it was impossible to
administer the will."

"You say that the circumstances suggested that your brother was dead.
What circumstances were they?"

"Principally the suddenness and completeness of the disappearance. His
luggage, as you may remember, was found lying unclaimed at the railway
station; and there was another circumstance even more suggestive. My
brother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for which he had to
apply in person, or, if abroad, produce proof that he was alive on the
date when the payment became due. Now, he was exceedingly regular in
this respect; in fact, he had never been known to fail, either to appear
in person or to transmit the necessary documents to his agent, Mr.
Jellicoe. But from the moment when he vanished so mysteriously to the
present day, nothing whatever has been heard of him."

"It's a very awkward position for you," I said, "but I should think
there will not be much difficulty in obtaining the permission of the
Court to presume death and to proceed to prove the will."

Mr. Bellingham made a wry face. "I expect you are right," he said, "but,
unfortunately, that doesn't help me much. You see, Mr. Jellicoe, having
waited a reasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a very unusual
but, I think, in the special circumstances, a very proper step: he
summoned me and the other interested party to his office and
communicated to us the provisions of the will. And very extraordinary
provisions they turned out to be. I was thunderstruck when I heard them.
And the exasperating thing is that I feel sure my poor brother imagined
that he had made everything perfectly safe and simple."

"They generally do," I said, rather vaguely.

"I suppose they do," said Mr. Bellingham; "but poor John has made the
most infernal hash of his will, and I am certain that he has utterly
defeated his own intentions. You see, we are an old London family. The
house in Queen Square where my brother nominally lived, but actually
kept his collection, has been occupied by us for generations, and most
of the Bellinghams are buried in St. George's burial-ground close by,
though some members of the family are buried in other churchyards in the
neighbourhood. Now, my brother--who, by the way, was a bachelor--had a
strong feeling for the family traditions, and he stipulated, not
unnaturally, in his will that he should be buried in St. George's
burial-ground among his ancestors, or, at least, in one of the places of
burial appertaining to his native parish. But instead of simply
expressing the wish and directing his executors to carry it out, he made
it a condition affecting the operation of the will."

"Affecting it in what respect?" I asked.

"In a very vital respect," answered Mr. Bellingham. "The bulk of the
property he bequeathed to me, or if I predeceased him, to my daughter
Ruth. But the bequest was subject to the condition that I have
mentioned--that he should be buried in a certain place--and if that
condition was not fulfilled, the bulk of the property was to go to my
cousin, George Hurst."

"But in that case," said I, "as you can't produce the body, neither of
you can get the property."

"I am not so sure of that," he replied. "If my brother is dead, it is
pretty certain that he is not buried in St. George's or any of the other
places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by production of the
registers. So that a permission to presume death would result in the
handing over to Hurst of almost the entire estate."

"Who is the executor?" I asked.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "there is another muddle. There are two executors;
Jellicoe is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary--Hurst or
myself, as the case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become an
executor until the Court has decided which of us is the principal
beneficiary."

"But who is to apply to the Court? I thought that was the business of
the executors."

"Exactly. That is Hurst's difficulty. We were discussing it when you
called the other day, and a very animated discussion it was," he added,
with a grim smile. "You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to move in the
matter alone. He says he must have the support of the other executor.
But Hurst is not at present the other executor; neither am I. But the
two of us together are the co-executor, since the duty devolves upon one
or other of us, in any case."

"It's a complicated position," I said.

"It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal from
Hurst. He points out--quite correctly, I am afraid--that as the
conditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property must
come to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which is
this: That I shall support him and Jellicoe in their application for
permission to presume death and administer the will, and that he shall
pay me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to hold good _in
all eventualities_."

"What does he mean by that?"

"He means," said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, "that if
the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditions as to
burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retain the
property and pay me the four hundred a year."

"The deuce!" said I. "He seems to know how to drive a bargain."

"His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for the term
of my life if the body is never found, and he ought to stand to win if
it is."

"And I gather that you have refused his offer?"

"Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me; but I am not
sure that I have done the right thing. A man should think twice, I
suppose, before he burns his boats."

"Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the matter?"

"Yes, I have been to see him to-day. He is a cautious man, and he
doesn't advise me one way or the other. But I think he disapproves of my
refusal; in fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown."

"Do you think he will apply to the Court without your sanction?"

"He doesn't want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts pressure on him, he
will have to. Besides, Hurst, as an interested party, could apply on his
own account, and after my refusal he probably will; at least, that is
Jellicoe's opinion."

"The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle," I said, "especially when
one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him. Didn't Mr.
Jellicoe point out to him how absurd the provisions were?"

"Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my brother to let him draw
up a will embodying the matter in a reasonable form. But John wouldn't
listen to him. Poor old fellow! he could be very pig-headed when he
chose."

"And is Hurst's proposal still open?"

"No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it very definitely, and sent
him off with a flea in his ear. I hope I have not made a false step; I
was quite taken by surprise when Hurst made the proposal and got rather
angry. You remember, my brother was last seen alive at Hurst's
house--but there, I oughtn't to talk like that, and I oughtn't to pester
you with my confounded affairs when you have come in for a friendly
chat, though I gave you fair warning, you remember."

"Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You don't realise what an
interest I take in your case."

Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. "My case!" he repeated. "You
speak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic.
However, I'm glad you find me amusing. It's more than I find myself."

"I didn't say amusing; I said interesting. I view you with deep respect
as the central figure of a stirring drama. And I am not the only person
who regards you in that light. Do you remember my speaking to you of
Doctor Thorndyke?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and we had a long talk at
his chambers. I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made your
acquaintance. Did I do wrong?"

"No. Certainly not. Why shouldn't you tell him? Did he remember my
infernal case, as you call it?"

"Perfectly, in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast, you know, and
uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops."

"So am I, for that matter," said Mr. Bellingham.

"I wonder," said I, "if you would mind my telling him what you have told
me to-night. It would interest him enormously."

Mr. Bellingham reflected awhile with his eyes fixed on the empty grate.
Presently he looked up, and said slowly:

"I don't know why I should. It's no secret; and if it were, I hold no
monopoly in it. No; tell him, if you think he'd care to hear about it."

"You needn't be afraid of his talking," I said. "He is as close as an
oyster; and the facts may mean more to him than to us. He may be able to
give a useful hint or two."

"Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains," Mr. Bellingham said quickly and
with some wrath. "I'm not the sort of man who goes round cadging for
free professional advice. Understand that clearly, Doctor."

"I do," I answered hastily. "That wasn't what I meant at all. Is that
Miss Bellingham coming in? I heard the front door shut."

"Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don't run away. You're not
afraid of her, are you?" he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.

"I'm not sure that I'm not," I answered. "She is a rather majestic young
lady."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his
daughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress and
a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and manner
fully justified my description.

"You come in, Miss Bellingham," I said as she shook my hand with cool
civility, "to find your father yawning and me taking my departure. So I
have my uses, you see. My conversation is the infallible cure for
insomnia."

Miss Bellingham smiled. "I believe I am driving you away," she said.

"Not at all," I replied hastily. "My mission was accomplished, that was
all."

"Sit down for a few minutes, Doctor," urged Mr. Bellingham, "and let
Ruth sample the remedy. She will be affronted if you run away as soon as
she comes in."

"Well, you mustn't let me keep you up," I said.

"Oh, I'll let you know when I fall asleep," he replied, with a chuckle;
and with this understanding I sat down again--not at all unwillingly.

At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small tray and a smile of which
I should not have supposed her to be capable.

"You'll take your toast and cocoa while they're hot, dear, won't you?"
she said coaxingly.

"Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you," Miss Bellingham answered. "I am only
just going to take off my hat," and she left the room, followed by the
astonishingly transfigured spinster.

She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a
profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father
mystified me considerably by remarking:

"You're late to-night, chick. Have the Shepherd Kings been giving
trouble?"

"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well get them done. So I
dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished
them."

"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"

"Yes." As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed
Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and
laughed softly.

"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, "before Doctor
Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is
referring to my work," she explained to me.

"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.

She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke
into a ripple of quiet laughter.

"I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions.
He will have to atone by explaining."

"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is a literary searcher--"

"Oh, don't call me a 'searcher'!" Miss Bellingham protested. "It
suggests the female searcher at a police-station. Say investigator."

"Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like. She hunts up
references and bibliographies at the Museum for people who are writing
books. She looks up everything that has been written on a given subject,
and then, when she has crammed herself to bursting-point with facts, she
goes to her client and disgorges and crams him or her, and he or she
finally disgorges into the Press."

"What a disgusting way to put it!" said his daughter. "However, that is
what it amounts to. I am a literary jackal, a collector of provender for
the literary lions. Is that quite clear?"

"Perfectly. But I don't think that, even now, I quite understand about
the stuffed Shepherd Kings."

"Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be stuffed. It was the
author! That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father. The
position is this: A venerable archdeacon wrote an article on the
patriarch Joseph--"

"And didn't know anything about him," interrupted Mr. Bellingham, "and
got tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty--"

"Nothing of the kind," said Miss Bellingham. "He knew as much as
venerable archdeacons ought to know; but the expert knew more. So the
archdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state of
Egypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I have done; and
to-morrow I shall go and stuff him, as my father expresses it, and
then--"

"And then," Mr. Bellingham interrupted, "the archdeacon will rush forth
and pelt that expert with Shepherd Kings and Seqenen-Ra and the whole
tag-rag and bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty. Oh, there'll be wigs on
the green, I can tell you."

"Yes, I expect there will be quite a lively little skirmish," said Miss
Bellingham. And thus dismissing the subject, she made an energetic
attack on the toast while her father refreshed himself with a colossal
yawn.

I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest. In
spite of her pallor, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almost haggard
face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was in her aspect
a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character that marked her off
from the rank and file of womanhood. I noted this as I stole an
occasional glance at her or turned to answer some remark addressed to
me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite a general undertone of
depression, was yet not without a certain caustic, ironical humour. She
was certainly a rather enigmatical young person, but very decidedly
interesting.

When she had finished her repast she put aside the tray and, opening the
shabby handbag, asked:

"Do you take any interest in Egyptian history? We are as mad as hatters
on the subject. It seems to be a family complaint."

"I don't know much about it," I answered. "Medical studies are rather
engrossing and don't leave much time for general reading."

"Naturally," she said. "You can't specialise in everything. But if you
would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted, I
will show you my notes."

I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm for the
subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered, quarto
note-books, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the
fourteenth to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the neat and orderly
extracts with which they were filled we discussed the intricacies of the
peculiarly difficult and confused period that they covered, gradually
lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed and his head fell
against the back of his chair. We had just reached the critical reign of
Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in upon the studious quiet of
the room and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter.

"Your conversation has done its work," she whispered as I stealthily
picked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she
opened without a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped her bantering
manner and said quite earnestly:

"How kind it was of you to come and see him to-night! You have done him
a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good night!"

She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the
creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss to
account for.




CHAPTER V

THE WATERCRESS-BED


Barnard's practice, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations
that fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and despair.
The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation.
One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my visit to
Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-past eleven I found myself
wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day. The better to
consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the Embankment, and,
leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across the river; the grey
stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of the
shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of the Abbey and St.
Stephen's.

It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a
hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch
of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the
moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful
helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant
shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an
impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and
not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what
was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Her occupation and
rather recondite learning? Her striking personality and exceptional good
looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost uncle?

I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with her was
unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances there was
a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly
conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little
conscious, too. At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; of that
there was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, she
held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman.

From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition to
the curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair,
that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in the
background. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind it
all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very singular proposal.
But it was out of _my_ depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to a
lawyer it should go. This very night, I resolved, I would go to
Thorndyke and give him the whole story as it had been told to me.

And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we all wonder
when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have become enshrined
in a proverb. For, even as I formed the resolution, I observed two men
approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, and recognised in them my
quondam teacher and his junior.

"I was just thinking about you," I said as they came up.

"Very flattering," replied Jervis; "but I thought you had to talk of the
devil."

"Perhaps," suggested Thorndyke, "he was talking to himself. But why were
you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?"

"My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case. I spent the whole of
last evening at Nevill's Court."

"Ha! And are there any fresh developments?"

"Yes, by Jove! there are. Bellingham gave me a full and detailed
description of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be."

"Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?"

"Yes. I asked specifically if I might and he had no objection whatever."

"Good. We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton has his hands full. Come
with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Will that
suit you?"

It suited me admirably in the present state of the practice, and I
accepted the invitation with undissembled glee.

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "then let us walk slowly and finish with
matters confidential before we plunge into the madding crowd."

We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and I
commenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related the
circumstances that had led up to the present disposition of the property
and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; to all of which
my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndyke occasionally
stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.

"Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!" Jervis exclaimed, when
I had finished. "He seems to have laid himself out with the most
devilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends."

"That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators," Thorndyke
remarked. "A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather the
exception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actual
document. I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?"

"I don't know," said I; "but I will ask him."

"If he has one, I should like to look through it," said Thorndyke. "The
provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirably calculated
to defeat the testator's wishes if they have been correctly reported.
And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on the
circumstances of the disappearance. I daresay you noticed that."

"I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage that the body has
not been found."

"Yes, of course. But there are some other points that are very
significant. However, it would be premature to discuss the terms of the
will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy."

"If there is a copy extant," I said, "I will try to get hold of it.
Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire to get
professional advice gratis."

"That," said Thorndyke, "is natural enough, and not discreditable. But
you must overcome his scruples somehow. I expect you will be able to.
You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and you seem
to have established yourself as quite the friend of the family."

"They are rather interesting people," I explained; "very cultivated and
with a strong leaning towards archaeology. It seems to be in the blood."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "a family tendency, probably due to contact and
common surroundings rather than heredity. So you like Godfrey
Bellingham?"

"Yes. He is a trifle peppery and impulsive, but quite an agreeable,
genial old buffer."

"And the daughter," said Jervis, "what is she like?"

"Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies and references at
the Museum."

"Ah!" Jervis exclaimed, with deep disfavour, "I know the breed. Inky
fingers; no chest to speak of; all side and spectacles."

I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait.

"You're quite wrong," I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis's
hideous presentment with the comely original. "She is an exceedingly
good-looking girl, and her manners all that a lady's should be. A little
stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance--almost a stranger."

"But," Jervis persisted, "what is she like, in appearance I mean. Short?
fat? sandy? Give us intelligible details."

I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my recent cogitations.

"She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump, very erect in
carriage and graceful in movements; black hair, loosely parted in the
middle and falling very prettily away from the forehead; pale, clear
complexion, dark grey eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shaped
nose, short mouth, rather full; round chin--what the deuce are you
grinning at, Jervis?" For my friend had suddenly unmasked his batteries
and now threatened, like the Cheshire Cat, to dissolve into a mere
abstraction of amusement.

"If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke," he said, "we shall get it.
I think you agree with me, reverend senior?"

"I have already said," was the reply, "that I put my trust in Berkeley.
And now let us dismiss professional topics. This is our hostelry."

He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door and we followed him into the
restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetising
meatiness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructive
distillation of fat.

It was some two hours later when I wished my friends adieu under the
golden-leaved plane trees of King's Bench Walk.

"I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndyke, "as we have some
consultations this afternoon. But come in and see us soon; don't wait
for that copy of the will."

"No," said Jervis. "Drop in in the evening when your work is done;
unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere--Oh, you
needn't turn that colour, my dear child; we have all been young once;
there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young some time back in the
pre-dynastic period."

"Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley," said Thorndyke. "The egg-shell
is sticking to his head still. He'll know better when he is my age."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Jervis; "I hope I shan't have to wait as long
as that!"

Thorndyke smiled benevolently at his irrepressible junior, and, shaking
my hand cordially, turned into the entry.

From the Temple I wended northward to the adjacent College of Surgeons,
where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the "pickles," and
refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology and anatomy;
marvelling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel) at the
incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardly paying a
respectful tribute to the founder of the collection. At length, the
warning of the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove
me forth and bore me towards the scene of my, not very strenuous,
labours. My mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and
the great glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter
Lane without a very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point
I was aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in
my ear.

"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at
point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but
the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my
inspection changed my anger into curiosity.

"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

Now, let, prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very
attractive in a "horrible discovery." It hints at tragedy, at mystery,
at romance. It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace life that
element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is
savoured withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of the
background seemed to emphasise the horror of the discovery, whatever it
might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on
to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I
opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was the
lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,
I hope."

"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the
consulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair
and myself at the writing-table, she continued: "It's my inside, you
know, Doctor."

The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the domain
of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenment and
speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded me
expectantly with a dim and watery eye.

"Ah!" I said, at length; "it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs. Jablett?"

"Yus. _And_ my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled the
apartment with odorous reminiscences of "unsweetened."

"Your head aches, does it?"

"Somethink chronic!" said Mrs. Jablett. "Feels as if it was a-opening
and a-shutting, a-opening and a-shutting, and when I sit down I feel as
if I should _bust_."

This picturesque description of her sensations--not wholly inconsistent
with her figure--gave the clue to Mrs. Jablett's sufferings. Resisting a
frivolous impulse to reassure her as to the elasticity of the human
integument, I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coasting
delicately round the subject of "unsweetened," and finally sent her
away, revived in spirits and grasping a bottle of Mist. Sodae cum
Bismutho from Barnard's big stock-jar. Then I went back to investigate
the Horrible Discovery; but before I could open the paper, another
patient arrived (_Impetigo contagiosa_, this time, affecting the "wide
and archèd-front sublime" of a juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yet
another, and so on through the evening until, at last, I forgot the
watercress-beds altogether. It was only when I had purified myself from
the evening consultations with hot water and a nail-brush and was about
to sit down to a frugal supper, that I remembered the newspaper and
fetched it from the drawer of the consulting-room table, where it had
been hastily thrust out of sight. I folded it into a convenient form,
and, standing it upright against the water-jug, read the report at my
ease as I supped.

There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a
"scoop," and the editor had backed him up with ample space and
hair-raising head-lines.

"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN A WATERCRESS-BED AT SIDCUP!

"A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course of
clearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village of Sidcup
in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable qualm to
those persons who have been in the habit of regaling themselves with
this refreshing esculent. But before proceeding to a description of the
circumstances of the actual discovery or of the objects found--which,
however, it may be stated at once, are nothing more or less than the
fragments of a dismembered human body--it will be interesting to trace
the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue of which the discovery
was made.

"The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fed
by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of the
River Cray. Its depth is greater than is usual in watercress-beds,
otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneath
its surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous, is
slow. The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture
meadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and here
throughout most of the year the fleecy victims of the human carnivore
carry on the industry of converting grass into mutton. Now it happened
some years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures became affected
with the disease known as 'liver-rot'; and here we must make a short
digression into the domain of pathology.

"'Liver-rot' is a disease of quite romantic antecedents. Its cause is a
small, flat worm--the liver-fluke--which infests the liver and
bile-ducts of the affected sheep.

"Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver? That is where the
romance comes in. Let us see.

"The cycle of transformations begins with the deposit of the eggs of the
fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands. Now
each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out a
minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particular kind of
water-snail--the kind called by naturalists _Limnaea truncatula_. If he
finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh and soon begins to grow
and wax fat. Then he brings forth a family--of tiny worms quite unlike
himself, little creatures called _rediae_, which soon give birth to
families of young _rediae_. So they may go on for several generations,
but at last there comes a generation of _rediae_ which, instead of
giving birth to fresh _rediae_, produce families of totally different
offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles,
called by the learned _cercariae_. The _cercariae_ soon wriggle their
way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise: for it
is the habit of this particular snail to leave the water occasionally
and take a stroll in the fields. Thus the _cercariae_, escaping from the
snail, find themselves on the grass, whereupon they promptly drop their
tails and stick themselves to the grass-blades. Then comes the
unsuspecting sheep to take his frugal meal, and, cropping the grass,
swallows it, _cercariae_ and all. But the latter, when they find
themselves in the sheep's stomach, make their way straight to the
bile-ducts, up which they travel to the liver. Here, in a few weeks,
they grow up into full-blown flukes and begin the important business of
producing eggs.

"Such is the pathological romance of 'liver-rot'; and now what is its
connection with this mysterious discovery? It is this. After the
outbreak of 'liver-rot,' above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.
John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in the
lease of the beds directing that the latter should be periodically
cleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were free from
the noxious water-snails. The last lease expired about two years ago,
and since then the beds have been out of cultivation; but, for the
safety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary to make the
customary periodical inspection, and it was in the course of cleaning
the beds for this purpose that the present discovery was made.

"The operation began two days ago. A gang of three men proceeded
systematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes of
water-snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if any of
the obnoxious species were present. They had cleared nearly half the
beds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepest
part came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited his
suspicion. Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully picked away
the plants piecemeal, a process that soon laid bare an unmistakable
human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots. Fortunately they had the
wisdom not to disturb the remains, but at once sent off a message to the
police. Very soon, an inspector and a sergeant, accompanied by the
divisional surgeon, arrived on the scene, and were able to view the
remains lying as they had been found. And now another very strange fact
came to light; for it was seen that the hand--a left one--lying on the
mud was minus its third finger. This is regarded by the police as a very
important fact as bearing on the question of identification, seeing that
the number of persons having the third finger of the left hand missing
must be quite small. After a thorough examination on the spot, the bones
were carefully collected and conveyed to the mortuary, where they now
lie awaiting further inquiries.

"The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview with our
representative, made the following statements:

"'The bones found are those of the left arm of a middle-aged or elderly
man about five feet eight inches in height. All the bones of the arm are
present, including the scapula, or shoulder-blade, and the clavicle, or
collar-bone, but the three bones of the third finger are missing.'

"'Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut off?' our correspondent
asked.

"'The finger has been amputated,' was the reply. 'If it had been absent
from birth, the corresponding hand bone, or metacarpal, would have been
wanting or deformed, whereas it is present and quite normal.'

"'How long have the bones been in the water?' was the next question.

"'More than a year, I should say. They are quite clean; there is not a
vestige of the soft structures left.'

"'Have you any theory as to how the arm came to be deposited where it
was found?'

"'I should rather not answer that question,' was the guarded response.

"'One more question,' our correspondent urged. 'The ground landlord, Mr.
John Bellingham; is not he the gentleman who disappeared so mysteriously
some time ago?'

"'So I understand,' Dr. Brandon replied.

"'Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the third finger of his
left hand?'

"'I cannot say,' said Dr. Brandon; and he added with a smile, 'you had
better ask the police.'

"That is how the matter stands at present. But we understand that the
police are making active inquiries for any missing man who has lost the
third finger of his left hand, and if any of our readers know of such a
person, they are earnestly requested to communicate at once, either with
us or with the authorities.

"Also we believe that a systematic search is to be made for further
remains."

I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of reflection. It was
certainly a most mysterious affair. The thought that had evidently come
to the reporter's mind stole naturally into mine. Could these remains be
those of John Bellingham? It was obviously possible, though I could not
but see that the fact of the bones having been found on his land, while
it undoubtedly furnished the suggestion, did not in any way add to its
probability. The connection was accidental and in no wise relevant.

Then, too, there was the missing finger. No reference to any such injury
or deformity had been made in the original report of the disappearance,
though it could hardly have been overlooked. But it was useless to
speculate without facts. I should be seeing Thorndyke in the course of
the next few days, and, undoubtedly, if the discovery had any bearing
upon the disappearance of John Bellingham, I should hear of it. With
which reflection I rose from the table, and, adopting the advice
contained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation proceeded to "take a walk
in Fleet Street" before settling down for the evening.




CHAPTER VI

SIDELIGHTS


The association of coal with potatoes is one upon which I have
frequently speculated, without arriving at any more satisfactory
explanation than that both products are of the earth, earthy. Of the
connection itself Barnard's practice furnished several instances besides
Mrs. Jablett's establishment in Fleur-de-Lys Court, one of which was a
dark and mysterious cavern a foot below the level of the street, that
burrowed under an ancient house on the west side of Fetter Lane--a
crinkly, timber house of the three-decker type that leaned back
drunkenly from the road as if about to sit down in its own back yard.

Passing this repository of the associated products about ten o'clock in
the morning, I perceived in the shadow of the cavern no less a person
than Miss Oman. She saw me at the same moment, and beckoned peremptorily
with a hand that held a large Spanish onion. I approached with a
deferential smile.

"What a magnificent onion, Miss Oman! and how generous of you to offer
it to me--"

"I wasn't offering it to you. But there! Isn't it just like a man--"

"Isn't what just like a man?" I interrupted. "If you mean the onion--"

"I don't!" she snapped; "and I wish you wouldn't talk such a parcel of
nonsense. A grown man and a member of a serious profession, too! You
ought to know better."

"I suppose I ought," I said reflectively. And she continued:

"I called in at the surgery just now."

"To see me?"

"What else should I come for? Do you suppose that I called to consult
the bottle-boy?"

"Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady doctor no use, after
all?"

Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine teeth they were, too).

"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham."

My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope Miss Bellingham is not
ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from
Miss Oman.

"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut her hand rather
badly. It's her right hand, too, and she can't afford to lose the use of
it, not being a great, hulking, lazy, lolloping man. So you had better
go and put some stuff on it."

With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished into
the depths of the cavern like the Witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to
the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and
materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.

Miss Oman's juvenile maid-servant, who opened the door to me, stated the
existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness:

"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin."

Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards the kitchen and I
ascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellingham
awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white
boxing-glove.

"I am glad you have come," she said. "Phyllis--Miss Oman, you know--has
kindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is all
right."

We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia on the
table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.

"It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now," she
said, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that,
while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie,
yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportune moments.

"Why just now, in particular?" I asked.

"Because I have some specially important work to do. A very learned lady
who is writing a historical book has commissioned me to collect all the
literature relating to the Tell el Amarna letters--the cuneiform
tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth."

"Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will soon be well."

"Yes, but that won't do. The work has to be done immediately. I have to
send in the completed notes not later than this day week, and it will be
quite impossible. I am dreadfully disappointed."

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed the
injury--a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a
good-sized artery. Obviously the hand would be useless for fully a week.

"I suppose," she said, "you couldn't patch it up so that I could write
with it?"

I shook my head.

"No, Miss Bellingham. I shall have to put it on a splint. We can't run
any risks with a deep wound like this."

"Then I shall have to give up the commission, and I don't know how my
client will get the work done in the time. You see, I am pretty well up
in the literature of Ancient Egypt; in fact, I was to receive special
payment on that account. And it would have been such an interesting
task, too. However, it can't be helped."

I proceeded methodically with the application of the dressings, and
meanwhile reflected. It was evident that she was deeply disappointed.
Loss of work meant loss of money, and it needed but a glance at her
rusty black dress to see that there was little margin for that.
Possibly, too, there was some special need to be met. Her manner seemed
almost to imply that there was. And at this point I had a brilliant
idea.

"I'm not sure that it can't be helped," said I.

She looked at me inquiringly, and I continued: "I am going to make a
proposition, and I shall ask you to consider it with an open mind."

"That sounds rather portentous," said she; "but I promise. What is it?"

"It is this: When I was a student I acquired the useful art of writing
shorthand. I am not a lightning reporter, you understand, but I can take
matter down from dictation at quite respectable speed."

"Yes."

"Well, I have several hours free every day--usually, the whole of the
afternoon up to six or half-past--and it occurs to me that if you were
to go to the Museum in the mornings you could get out your books, look
up passages (you could do that without using your right hand), and put
in book-marks. Then I could come along in the afternoon and you could
read out the selected passages to me, and I could take them down in
shorthand. We should get through as much in a couple of hours as you
could in a day using longhand."

"Oh, but how kind of you, Doctor Berkeley!" she exclaimed. "How very
kind! Of course, I couldn't think of taking up all your leisure in that
way; but I do appreciate your kindness very much."

I was rather chapfallen at this very definite refusal, but persisted
feebly:

"I wish you would. It may seem rather cheek for a comparative stranger
like me to make such a proposal to a lady; but if you'd been a man--in
these special circumstances--I should have made it all the same, and you
would have accepted as a matter of course."

"I doubt that. At any rate, I am not a man. I sometimes wish I were."

"Oh, I am sure you are much better as you are!" I exclaimed, with such
earnestness that we both laughed. And at this moment Mr. Bellingham
entered the room carrying several large and evidently brand-new books in
a strap.

"Well, I'm sure!" he exclaimed genially; "here are pretty goings on.
Doctor and patient giggling like a pair of schoolgirls! What's the
joke?"

He thumped his parcel of books down on the table and listened smilingly
while my unconscious witticism was expounded.

"The Doctor's quite right," he said. "You'll do as you are, chick; but
the Lord knows what sort of man you would make. You take his advice and
let well alone."

Finding him in this genial frame of mind, I ventured to explain my
proposition to him and to enlist his support. He considered it with
attentive approval, and when I had finished turned to his daughter.

"What is your objection, chick?" he asked.

"It would give Doctor Berkeley such a fearful lot of work," she
answered.

"It would give him a fearful lot of pleasure," I said. "It would,
really."

"Then why not?" said Mr. Bellingham. "We don't mind being under an
obligation to the Doctor, do we?"

"Oh, it wasn't that!" she exclaimed hastily.

"Then take him at his word. He means it. It is a kind action and he'll
like doing it, I'm sure. That's all right, Doctor; she accepts, don't
you, chick?"

"Yes, if you say so, I do; and most thankfully."

She accompanied the acceptance with a gracious smile that was in itself
a large payment on account, and when we had made the necessary
arrangements, I hurried away in a state of the most perfect satisfaction
to finish my morning's work and order an early lunch.

When I called for her a couple of hours later I found her waiting in the
garden with the shabby handbag, of which I relieved her, and we set
forth together, watched jealously by Miss Oman, who had accompanied her
to the gate.

As I walked up the court with this wonderful maid by my side I could
hardly believe in my good fortune. By her presence and my own resulting
happiness the mean surroundings became glorified and the commonest
objects transfigured into things of beauty. What a delightful
thoroughfare, for instance, was Fetter Lane, with its quaint charm and
mediaeval grace! I snuffed the cabbage-laden atmosphere and seemed to
breathe the scent of the asphodel. Holborn was even as the Elysian
Fields; the omnibus that bore us westward was a chariot of glory; and
the people who swarmed verminously on the pavements bore the semblance
of the children of light.

Love is a foolish thing judged by workaday standards, and the thoughts
and actions of lovers foolish beyond measure. But the workaday standard
is the wrong one, after all; for the utilitarian mind does but busy
itself with the trivial and transitory interests of life, behind which
looms the great and everlasting reality of the love of man and woman.
There is more significance in a nightingale's song in the hush of a
summer night than in all the wisdom of Solomon (who, by the way, was not
without his little experiences of the tender passion).

The janitor in the little glass box by the entrance to the library
inspected us and passed us on, with a silent benediction, to the lobby,
whence (when I had handed my stick to a bald-headed demigod and received
a talismanic disc in exchange) we entered the enormous rotunda of the
reading-room.

I have often thought that, if some lethal vapour of highly preservative
properties--such as formaldehyde, for instance--could be shed into the
atmosphere of this apartment, the entire and complete collection of
books and bookworms would be well worth preserving, for the
enlightenment of posterity, as a sort of anthropological appendix to the
main collection of the Museum. For, surely, nowhere else in the world
are so many strange and abnormal human beings gathered together in one
place. And a curious question that must have occurred to many observers
is: Whence do these singular creatures come, and whither do they go when
the very distinct-faced clock (adjusted to literary eye-sight) proclaims
closing time? The tragic-faced gentleman, for instance, with the
corkscrew ringlets that bob up and down like spiral springs as he walks?
Or the short, elderly gentleman in the black cassock and bowler hat, who
shatters your nerves by turning suddenly and revealing himself as a
middle-aged woman? Whither do they go? One never sees them elsewhere. Do
they steal away at closing time into the depths of the Museum and hide
themselves until morning in sarcophagi or mummy cases? Or do they creep
through spaces in the book-shelves and spend the night behind the
volumes in a congenial atmosphere of leather and antique paper? Who can
say? What I do know is that when Ruth Bellingham entered the
reading-room she appeared in comparison with these like a creature of
another order; even as the head of Antinous, which formerly stood (it
has since been moved) amidst the portrait-busts of the Roman Emperors,
seemed like the head of a god set in a portrait gallery of illustrious
baboons.

"What have we got to do?" I asked when we had found a vacant seat. "Do
you want to look up the catalogue?"

"No, I have the tickets in my bag. The books are waiting in the 'kept
books' department."

I placed my hat on the leather-covered shelf, dropped her gloves into
it--how delightfully intimate and companionable it seemed!--altered the
numbers on the tickets, and then we proceeded together to the "kept
books" desk to collect the volumes that contained the material for our
day's work.

It was a blissful afternoon. Two and a half hours of happiness unalloyed
did I spend at that shiny, leather-clad desk, guiding my nimble pen
across the pages of the note-book. It introduced me to a new world--a
world in which love and learning, sweet intimacy and crusted
archaeology, were mingled into the oddest, most whimsical, and most
delicious confection that the mind of man can conceive. Hitherto, these
recondite histories had been far beyond my ken. Of the wonderful
heretic, Amenhotep the Fourth, I had barely heard--at the most he had
been a mere name; the Hittites a mythical race of undetermined habitat;
while cuneiform tablets had presented themselves to my mind merely as an
uncouth kind of fossil biscuit suited to the digestion of a pre-historic
ostrich.

Now all this was changed. As we sat with our chairs creaking together
and she whispered the story of those stirring times into my receptive
ear--talking is strictly forbidden in the reading-room--the disjointed
fragments arranged themselves into a romance of supreme fascination.
Egyptian, Babylonian, Aramaean, Hittite, Memphis, Babylon, Hamath,
Megiddo--I swallowed them all thankfully, wrote them down and asked for
more. Only once did I disgrace myself. An elderly clergyman of ascetic
and acidulous aspect had passed us with a glance of evident disapproval,
clearly setting us down as intruding philanderers; and when I
contrasted the parson's probable conception of the whispered
communications that were being poured into my ear so tenderly and
confidentially with the dry reality, I chuckled aloud. But my fair
task-mistress only paused, with her finger on the page, smilingly to
rebuke me, and then went on with the dictation. She was certainly a
Tartar for work.

It was a proud moment for me when, in response to my interrogative
"Yes?" my companion said "That is all" and closed the book. We had
extracted the pith and marrow of six considerable volumes in two hours
and a half.

"You have been better than your word," she said. "It would have taken me
two full days of really hard work to make the notes that you have
written down since we commenced. I don't know how to thank you."

"There's no need to. I've enjoyed myself and polished up my shorthand.
What is the next thing? We shall want some books for to-morrow, shan't
we?"

"Yes. I have made out a list, so if you will come with me to the
catalogue desk I will look out the numbers and ask you to write the
tickets."

The selection of a fresh batch of authorities occupied us for another
quarter of an hour, and then, having handed in the volumes that we had
squeezed dry, we took our way out of the reading-room.

"Which way shall we go?" she asked as we passed out of the gate, where
stood a massive policeman, like the guardian angel at the gate of
Paradise (only, thank Heaven! he bore no flaming sword forbidding
reentry).

"We are going," I replied, "to Museum Street, where is a milkshop in
which one can get an excellent cup of tea."

She looked as if she would have demurred, but eventually followed
obediently, and we were soon seated side by side at a little
marble-topped table, retracing the ground that we had covered in the
afternoon's work and discussing various points of interest over a joint
teapot.

"Have you been doing this sort of work long?" I asked as she handed me
my second cup of tea.

"Professionally," she answered, "only about two years; since we broke up
our home, in fact. But long before that I used to come to the Museum
with my Uncle John--the one who disappeared, you know, in that
dreadfully mysterious way--and help him to look up references. We were
quite good friends, he and I."

"I suppose he was a very learned man?" I suggested.

"Yes, in a certain way; in the way of the better-class collector he was
very learned indeed. He knew the contents of every museum in the world,
in so far as they were connected with Egyptian antiquities, and had
studied them specimen by specimen. Consequently, as Egyptology is
largely a museum science, he was a learned Egyptologist. But his real
interest was in things rather than events. Of course, he knew a great
deal--a very great deal--about Egyptian history, but still he was,
before all, a collector."

"And what will happen to his collection if he is really dead?"

"The greater part of it goes to the British Museum by his will, and the
remainder he has left to his solicitor, Mr. Jellicoe."

"To Mr. Jellicoe! Why, what will Mr. Jellicoe do with Egyptian
antiquities?"

"Oh, he is an Egyptologist, too, and quite an enthusiast. He has a
really fine collection of scarabs and other small objects such as it is
possible to keep in a private house. I have always thought that it was
his enthusiasm for everything Egyptian that brought him and my uncle
together on terms of such intimacy; though I believe he is an excellent
lawyer, and he is certainly a very discreet, cautious man."

"Is he? I shouldn't have thought so, judging by your uncle's will."

"Oh, but that was not Mr. Jellicoe's fault. He assures us that he
entreated my uncle to let him draw up a fresh document with more
reasonable provisions. But he says Uncle John was immovable; and he
really _was_ a rather obstinate man. Mr. Jellicoe repudiates any
responsibility in the matter. He washes his hands of the whole affair,
and says that it is the will of a lunatic. And so it is. I was glancing
through it only a night or two ago, and really I cannot conceive how a
sane man could have written such nonsense."

"You have a copy, then?" I asked eagerly, remembering Thorndyke's
parting instructions.

"Yes. Would you like to see it? I know my father has told you about it,
and it is worth reading as a curiosity of perverseness."

"I should very much like to show it to my friend, Doctor Thorndyke," I
replied. "He said that he would be interested to read it and learn the
exact provisions; and it might be well to let him, and hear what he has
to say about it."

"I see no objection," she rejoined; "but you know what my father is:
his horror, I mean, of what he calls 'cadging for advice gratis.'"

"Oh, but he need have no scruples on that score. Doctor Thorndyke wants
to see the will because the case interests him. He is an enthusiast, you
know, and he put the request as a personal favour to himself."

"That is very nice and delicate of him, and I will explain the position
to my father. If he is willing for Doctor Thorndyke to see the copy, I
will send or bring it over this evening. Have we finished?"

I regretfully admitted that we had, and, when I had paid the modest
reckoning, we sallied forth, turning back with one accord into Great
Russell Street to avoid the noise and bustle of the larger thoroughfare.

"What sort of man was your uncle?" I asked presently, as we walked along
the quiet, dignified street. And then I added hastily: "I hope you don't
think me inquisitive, but, to my mind, he presents himself as a kind of
mysterious abstraction; the unknown quantity of a legal problem."

"My Uncle John," she answered reflectively, "was a very peculiar man,
rather obstinate, very self-willed, what people call 'masterful,' and
decidedly wrong-headed and unreasonable."

"That is certainly the impression that the terms of his will convey," I
said.

"Yes; and not the will only. There was the absurd allowance that he made
my father. That was a ridiculous arrangement, and very unfair, too. He
ought to have divided up the property as my grandfather intended. And
yet he was by no means ungenerous, only he would have his own way, and
his own way was very commonly the wrong way.

"I remember," she continued, after a short pause, "a very odd instance
of his wrong-headedness and obstinacy. It was a small matter, but very
typical of him. He had in his collection a beautiful little ring of the
eighteenth dynasty. It was said to have belonged to Queen Ti, the mother
of our friend Amenhotep the Fourth; but I don't think that could have
been so, because the device on it was the Eye of Osiris, and Ti, as you
know, was an Aten-worshipper. However, it was a very charming ring, and
Uncle John, who had a queer sort of devotion to the mystical Eye of
Osiris, commissioned a very clever goldsmith to make two exact copies of
it, one for himself and one for me. The goldsmith naturally wanted to
take the measurements of our fingers, but this Uncle John would not hear
of; the rings were to be exact copies, and an exact copy must be the
same size as the original. You can imagine the result; my ring was so
loose that I couldn't keep it on my finger, and Uncle John's was so
tight that, though he did manage to get it on, he was never able to get
it off again. And it was only the circumstance that his left hand was
decidedly smaller than his right that made it possible for him to wear
it at all."

"So you never wore your copy?"

"No. I wanted to have it altered to make it fit, but he objected
strongly; so I put it away, and have it in a box still."

"He must have been an extraordinarily pig-headed old fellow," I
remarked.

"Yes; he was very tenacious. He annoyed my father a good deal, too, by
making unnecessary alterations in the house in Queen Square when he
fitted up his museum. We have a certain sentiment with regard to that
house. Our people have lived in it ever since it was built, when the
square was first laid out in the reign of Queen Anne, after whom the
square was named. It is a dear old house. Would you like to see it? We
are quite near it now."

I assented eagerly. If it had been a coal-shed or a fried-fish shop I
would still have visited it with pleasure, for the sake of prolonging
our walk; but I was also really interested in this old house as a part
of the background of the mystery of the vanished John Bellingham.

We crossed into Cosmo Place, with its quaint row of the, now rare,
cannon-shaped iron posts, and passing through stood for a few moments
looking into the peaceful, stately old square. A party of boys disported
themselves noisily on the range of stone posts that form a bodyguard
round the ancient lamp-surmounted pump, but otherwise the place was
wrapped in dignified repose suited to its age and station. And very
pleasant it looked on this summer afternoon, with the sunlight gilding
the foliage of its wide-spreading plane trees and lighting up the
warm-toned brick of the house-fronts. We walked slowly down the shady
west side, near the middle of which my companion halted.

"This is the house," she said. "It looks gloomy and forsaken now; but it
must have been a delightful house in the days when my ancestors could
look out of the windows through the open end of the square across the
fields and meadows to the heights of Hampstead and Highgate."

She stood at the edge of the pavement looking up with a curious
wistfulness at the old house; a very pathetic figure, I thought, with
her handsome face and proud carriage, her threadbare dress and shabby
gloves, standing at the threshold of the home that had been her family's
for generations, that should now have been hers, and that was shortly to
pass away into the hands of strangers.

I, too, looked up at it with a strange interest, impressed by something
gloomy and forbidding in its aspect. The windows were shuttered from
basement to attic, and no sign of life was visible. Silent, neglected,
desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy. It seemed to mourn in sackcloth
and ashes for its lost master. The massive door within the splendid
carven portico was crusted with grime, and seemed to have passed out of
use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons or the rusted extinguishers
wherein the footmen were wont to quench their torches when some
Bellingham dame was borne up the steps in her gilded chair, in the days
of good Queen Anne.

It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turned away
and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street. My companion was
deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness of manner
that had so impressed me when I first met her. Nor was I without a
certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great, silent house,
the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear us company.

But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we
arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted
and held out her hand.

"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.
Shall I take the bag?"

"If you want it. But I must take out the note-books."

"Why must you take them?" she asked.

"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into longhand?"

An expression of utter consternation spread over her face; in fact, she
was so completely taken aback that she forgot to release my hand.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "How idiotic of me! But it is impossible,
Doctor Berkeley! It will take you hours!"

"It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done; otherwise the
notes would be useless. Do you want the bag?"

"No, of course not. But I am positively appalled. Hadn't you better give
up the idea?"

"And is this the end of our collaboration?" I exclaimed tragically,
giving her hand a final squeeze (whereby she became suddenly aware of
its position, and withdrew it rather hastily). "Would you throw away a
whole afternoon's work? I won't, certainly; so, good-bye until
to-morrow. I shall turn up in the reading-room as early as I can. You
had better take the tickets. Oh, and you won't forget about the copy of
the will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?"

"No; if my father agrees, you shall have it this evening."

She took the tickets from me, and, thanking me yet again, retired into
the court.




CHAPTER VII

JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL


The task upon which I had embarked so lightheartedly, when considered in
cold blood, did certainly appear, as Miss Bellingham had said, rather
appalling. The result of two and a half hours' pretty steady work at an
average speed of nearly a hundred words a minute, would take some time
to transcribe into longhand; and if the notes were to be delivered
punctually on the morrow, the sooner I got to work the better.

Recognising this truth, I lost no time, but, within five minutes of my
arrival at the surgery, was seated at the writing-table with my copy
before me busily converting the sprawling, inexpressive characters into
good, legible round-hand.

The occupation was by no means unpleasant, apart from the fact that it
was a labour of love; for the sentences, as I picked them up, were
fragrant with reminiscences of the gracious whisper in which they had
first come to me. And then the matter itself was full of interest. I was
gaining a fresh outlook on life, was crossing the threshold of a new
world (which was _her_ world); and so the occasional interruptions from
patients, while they gave me intervals of enforced rest, were far from
welcome.

The evening wore on without any sign from Nevill's Court, and I began to
fear that Mr. Bellingham's scruples had proved insurmountable. Not, I am
afraid, that I was so much concerned for the copy of the will as for
the possibility of a visit, no matter howsoever brief, from my fair
employer; and when, on the stroke of half-past seven, the surgery door
flew open with startling abruptness, my fears were allayed and my hopes
shattered simultaneously. For it was Miss Oman who stalked in, holding
out a blue foolscap envelope with a warlike air as if it were an
ultimatum.

"I've brought you this from Mr. Bellingham," she said. "There's a note
inside."

"May I read the note, Miss Oman?" I asked.

"Bless the man!" she exclaimed. "What else would you do with it? Isn't
that what I brought it for?"

I supposed it was; and, thanking her for her gracious permission, I
glanced through the note--a few lines authorising me to show the copy of
the will to Dr. Thorndyke. When I looked up from the paper I found her
eyes fixed on me with an expression critical and rather disapproving.

"You seem to be making yourself mighty agreeable in a certain quarter,"
she remarked.

"I make myself universally agreeable. It is my nature to."

"Ha!" she snorted.

"Don't you find me rather agreeable?" I asked.

"Oily," said Miss Oman. And then, with a sour smile at the open
note-books, she remarked:

"You've got some work to do now; quite a change for you."

"A delightful change, Miss Oman. 'For Satan findeth'--but no doubt you
are acquainted with the philosophical works of Doctor Watts?"

"If you are referring to 'idle hands,'" she replied, "I'll give you a
bit of advice, Don't you keep that hand idle any longer than is really
necessary. I have my suspicions about that splint--oh, you know what I
mean," and before I had time to reply, she had taken advantage of the
entrance of a couple of patients to whisk out of the surgery with the
abruptness that had distinguished her arrival.

The evening consultations were considered to be over by half-past eight;
at which time Adolphus was wont, with exemplary punctuality, to close
the outer door of the surgery. To-night he was not less prompt than
usual; and having performed this, his last daily office, and turned down
the surgery gas, he reported the fact and took his departure.

As his retreating footsteps died away and the slamming of the outer door
announced his final disappearance, I sat up and stretched myself. The
envelope containing the copy of the will lay on the table, and I
considered it thoughtfully. It ought to be conveyed to Thorndyke with as
little delay as possible, and, as it certainly could not be trusted out
of my hands, it ought to be conveyed by me.

I looked at the note-books. Nearly two hours' work had made a
considerable impression on the matter that I had to transcribe, but
still, a great deal of the task yet remained to be done. However, I
reflected, I could put in a couple of hours more before going to bed and
there would be an hour or two to spare in the morning. Finally I locked
the note-books, open as they were, in the writing-table drawer, and
slipping the envelope into my pocket, set out for the Temple.

The soft chime of the Treasury clock was telling out, in confidential
tones, the third quarter as I wrapped with my stick on the forbidding
"oak" of my friends' chambers. There was no response, nor had I
perceived any gleam of light from the windows as I approached, and I was
considering the advisability of trying the laboratory on the next floor,
when footsteps on the stone stairs and familiar voices gladdened my ear.

"Hallo, Berkeley!" said Thorndyke, "do we find you waiting like a Peri
at the gates of Paradise? Polton is upstairs, you know, tinkering at one
of his inventions. If you ever find the nest empty, you had better go up
and bang at the laboratory door. He's always there in the evenings."

"I haven't been waiting long," said I, "and I was just thinking of
rousing him up when you came."

"That was right," said Thorndyke, turning up the gas. "And what news do
you bring? Do I see a blue envelope sticking out of your pocket?"

"You do."

"Is it a copy of the will?" he asked.

I answered "yes," and added that I had full permission to show it to
him.

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Jervis. "Didn't I say that he would get
the copy for us if it existed?"

"We admit the excellence of your prognosis," said Thorndyke, "but there
is no need to be boastful. Have you read through the document,
Berkeley?"

"No, I haven't taken it out of the envelope."

"Then it will be equally new to us all, and we shall see if it tallies
with your description."

He placed three easy chairs at a convenient distance from the light, and
Jervis, watching him with a smile, remarked:

"Now Thorndyke is going to enjoy himself. To him, a perfectly
unintelligible will is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever; especially
if associated with some kind of recondite knavery."

"I don't know," said I, "that this will is particularly unintelligible.
The mischief seems to be that it is rather too intelligible. However,
here it is," and I handed the envelope to Thorndyke.

"I suppose that we can depend on this copy," said the latter, as he drew
out the document and glanced at it. "Oh, yes," he added, "I see it is
copied by Godfrey Bellingham, compared with the original and certified
correct. In that case I will get you to read it out slowly, Jervis, and
I will make a rough copy to keep for reference. Let us make ourselves
comfortable and light our pipes before we begin."

He provided himself with a writing-pad, and, when we had seated
ourselves and got our pipes well alight, Jervis opened the document, and
with a premonitory "hem!" commenced the reading.

"In the name of God Amen. This is the last will and testament of me John
Bellingham of number 141 Queen Square in the parish of St. George
Bloomsbury London in the county of Middlesex Gentleman made this twenty
first day of September in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and ninety-two.

"1. I give and bequeath unto Arthur Jellicoe of number 184 New Square
Lincoln's Inn London in the county of Middlesex Attorney-at-law the
whole of my collection of seals and scarabs and those my cabinets marked
B, C, and D together with the contents thereof and the sum of two
thousand pounds sterling free of legacy duty.

"Unto the Trustees of the British Museum the residue of my collection
of antiquities.

"Unto my cousin George Hurst of The Poplars Eltham in the county of Kent
the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty and unto my brother
Godfrey Bellingham or if he should die before the occurrence of my death
unto his daughter Ruth Bellingham the residue of my estate and effects
real and personal subject to the conditions set forth hereinafter
namely:

"2. That my body shall be deposited with those of my ancestors in the
churchyard appertaining to the church and parish of St. George the
Martyr or if that shall not be possible, in some other churchyard,
cemetery, burial ground, church, chapel or other authorised place for
the reception of the bodies of the dead situate within or appertaining
to the parishes of St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr
or St. George Bloomsbury and St. Giles in the Fields. But if the
conditions in this clause be not carried out then

"3. I give and devise the said residue of my estate and effects unto my
cousin George Hurst aforesaid and I hereby revoke all wills and codicils
made by me at any time heretofore and I appoint Arthur Jellicoe
aforesaid to be the executor of this my will jointly with the principal
beneficiary and residuary legatee that is to say with the aforesaid
Godfrey Bellingham if the conditions set forth hereinbefore in clause 2
shall be duly carried out but with the aforesaid George Hurst if the
said conditions in the said clause 2 be not carried out.

"JOHN BELLINGHAM.

"Signed by the said testator John Bellingham in the presence of us
present at the same time who at his request and in his presence and in
the presence of each other have subscribed our names as witnesses.

"Frederick Wilton, 16 Medford Road, London, N., clerk.

"James Barker, 32 Wadbury Crescent, London, S.W., clerk."

"Well," said Jervis, laying down the document as Thorndyke detached the
last sheet from his writing-pad, "I have met with a good many idiotic
wills, but this one can give them all points. I don't see how it is ever
going to be administered. One of the two executors is a mere
abstraction--a sort of algebraical problem with no answer."

"I think that difficulty could be overcome," said Thorndyke.

"I don't see how," retorted Jervis. "If the body is deposited in a
certain place, A is the executor; if it is somewhere else, B is the
executor. But, as you cannot produce the body, and no one has the least
idea where it is, it is impossible to prove either that it is or that it
is not in any specified place."

"You are magnifying the difficulty, Jervis," said Thorndyke. "The body
may, of course, be anywhere in the entire world, but the place where it
is lying is either inside or outside the general boundary of these two
parishes. If it has been deposited within the boundary of those two
parishes, the fact must be ascertainable by examining the burial
certificates issued since the date when the missing man was last seen
alive and by consulting the registers of those specified places of
burial. I think that if no record can be found of any such interment
within the boundary of those two parishes, that fact will be taken by
the Court as proof that no such interment has taken place, and that
therefore the body must have been deposited elsewhere. Such a decision
would constitute George Hurst the co-executor and residuary legatee."

"That is cheerful for your friends, Berkeley," Jervis remarked, "for we
may take it as pretty certain that the body has not been deposited in
any of the places named."

"Yes," I agreed gloomily, "I'm afraid there is very little doubt of
that. But what an ass the fellow must have been to make such a to-do
about his beastly carcass? What the deuce could it have mattered to him
where it was dumped, when he had done with it?"

Thorndyke chuckled softly. "Thus the irreverent youth of to-day," said
he. "But yours is hardly a fair comment, Berkeley. Our training makes us
materialists, and puts us a little out of sympathy with those in whom
primitive beliefs and emotions survive. A worthy priest who came to look
at our dissecting-room expressed surprise to me that students, thus
constantly in the presence of relics of mortality, should be able to
think of anything but the resurrection and the life hereafter. He was a
bad psychologist. There is nothing so dead as a dissecting-room
'subject'; and the contemplation of the human body in the process of
being quietly taken to pieces--being resolved into its structural units
like a worn-out clock or an old engine in the Mr. Rapper's yard--is
certainly not conducive to a vivid realisation of the doctrine of the
resurrection."

"No; but this absurd anxiety to be buried in some particular place has
nothing to do with religious belief; it is mere silly sentiment."

"It is sentiment, I admit," said Thorndyke, "but I wouldn't call it
silly. The feeling is so widespread in time and space that we must look
on it with respect as something inherent in human nature. Think--as
doubtless John Bellingham did--of the ancient Egyptians, whose chief
aspiration was that of everlasting repose for the dead. See the trouble
they took to achieve it. Think of the Great Pyramid, or that of
Amenemhat the Fourth with its labyrinth of false passages and its sealed
and hidden sepulchral chamber. Think of Jacob, borne after death all
those hundreds of weary miles in order that he might sleep with his
fathers, and then remember Shakespeare and his solemn adjuration to
posterity to let him rest undisturbed in his grave. No, Berkeley, it is
not a silly sentiment. I am as indifferent as you as to what becomes of
my body 'when I have done with it,' to use your irreverent phrase; but I
recognise the solicitude that some other men display on the subject as a
natural feeling that has to be taken seriously."

"But even so," I said, "if this man had a hankering for a freehold
residence in some particular bone-yard, he might have gone about the
business in a more reasonable way."

"There I am entirely with you," Thorndyke replied. "It is the absurd way
in which this provision is worded that not only creates all the trouble
but also makes the whole document so curiously significant in view of
the testator's disappearance."

"How significant?" Jervis demanded eagerly.

"Let us consider the provisions of the will point by point," said
Thorndyke; "and first note that the testator commanded the services of a
very capable lawyer."

"But Mr. Jellicoe disapproved of the will," said I; "in fact, he
protested strongly against the form of it."

"We will bear that in mind, too," Thorndyke replied. "And now with
reference to what we may call the contentious clauses: the first thing
that strikes us is their preposterous injustice. Godfrey's inheritance
is made conditional on a particular disposal of the testator's body. But
this is a matter not necessarily under Godfrey's control. The testator
might have been lost at sea, or killed in a fire or explosion, or have
died abroad and been buried where his grave could not be identified.
There are numerous probable contingencies besides the improbable one
that has happened, that might prevent the body from being recovered.

"But even if the body had been recovered, there is another difficulty.
The places of burial in the parishes named have all been closed for many
years. It would be impossible to reopen any of them without a special
faculty, and I doubt whether such a faculty would be granted. Possibly
cremation might meet the difficulty, but even that is doubtful; and, in
any case, the matter would not be in the control of Godfrey Bellingham.
Yet, if the required interment should prove impossible, he is to be
deprived of his legacy."

"It is a monstrous and absurd injustice," I exclaimed.

"It is," Thorndyke agreed; "but this is nothing to the absurdity that
comes to light when we consider clauses two and three in detail. Observe
that the testator presumably wished to be buried in a certain place;
also he wished that his brother should benefit under the will. Let us
take the first point and see how he has set about securing the
accomplishment of what he desired. Now, if we read clauses two and three
carefully, we shall see that he has rendered it virtually impossible
that his wishes can be carried out. He desires to be buried in a certain
place and makes Godfrey responsible for his being so buried. But he
gives Godfrey no power or authority to carry out the provision, and
places insuperable obstacles in his way. For until Godfrey is an
executor, he has no power or authority to carry out the provisions: and
until the provisions are carried out, he does not become an executor."

"It is a preposterous muddle," exclaimed Jervis.

"Yes, but that is not the worst of it," Thorndyke continued. "The moment
John Bellingham dies, his dead body has come into existence; and it is
'deposited' for the time being, wherever he happens to have died. But
unless he should happen to have died in one of the places of burial
mentioned--which is in the highest degree unlikely--his body will be,
for the time being, 'deposited' in some place other than those
specified. In that case clause two is--for the time being--not complied
with, and consequently George Hurst becomes, automatically, the
co-executor.

"But will George Hurst carry out the provisions of clause two? Probably
not. Why should he? The will contains no instructions to that effect. It
throws the whole duty on Godfrey. On the other hand, if he should carry
out clause two, what happens? He ceases to be an executor and he loses a
legacy of some seventy thousand pounds. We may be pretty certain that he
will do nothing of the kind. So that, on considering the two clauses,
we see that the wishes of the testator could only be carried out in the
unlikely event of his dying in one of the burial-places mentioned, or
his body being conveyed immediately after death to a public mortuary in
one of the said parishes. In any other event, it is virtually certain
that he will be buried in some place other than that which he desired,
and that his brother will be left absolutely without provision or
recognition."

"John Bellingham could never have intended that," I said.

"Clearly not," agreed Thorndyke; "the provisions of the will furnish
internal evidence that he did not. You note that he bequeathed five
thousand pounds to George Hurst, in the event of clause two being
carried out; but he has made no bequest to his brother in the event of
its not being carried out. Obviously, he had not entertained the
possibility of this contingency at all. He assumed, as a matter of
course, that the conditions of clause two would be fulfilled, and
regarded the conditions themselves as a mere formality."

"But," Jervis objected, "Jellicoe must have seen the danger of a
miscarriage and pointed it out to his client."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "There is the mystery. We understand that he
objected strenuously, and that John Bellingham was obdurate. Now it is
perfectly understandable that a man should adhere obstinately to the
most stupid and perverse disposition of his property; but that a man
should persist in retaining a particular form of words after it has been
proved to him that the use of such form will almost certainly result in
the defeat of his own wishes; that, I say, is a mystery that calls for
very careful consideration."

"If Jellicoe had been an interested party," said Jervis, "one would have
suspected him of lying low. But the form of clause two doesn't affect
him at all."

"No," said Thorndyke; "the person who stands to profit by the muddle is
George Hurst. But we understand that he was unacquainted with the terms
of the will, and there is certainly nothing to suggest that he is in any
way responsible for it."

"The practical question is," said I, "what is going to happen? and what
can be done for the Bellinghams?"

"The probability is," Thorndyke replied, "that the next move will be
made by Hurst. He is the party immediately interested. He will probably
apply to the Court for permission to presume death and administer the
will."

"And what will the Court do?"

Thorndyke smiled drily. "Now you are asking a very pretty conundrum. The
decisions of Courts depend on idiosyncrasies of temperament that no one
can foresee. But one may say that a Court does not lightly grant
permission to presume death. There will be a rigorous inquiry--and a
decidedly unpleasant one, I suspect--and the evidence will be reviewed
by the judge with a strong predisposition to regard the testator as
being still alive. On the other hand, the known facts point very
distinctly to the probability that he is dead; and, if the will were
less complicated and all the interested parties were unanimous in
supporting the application, I don't see why it might not be granted.
But it will clearly be to the interest of Godfrey to oppose the
application, unless he can show that the conditions of clause two have
been complied with--which it is virtually certain that he can not; and
he may be able to bring forward reasons for believing John to be still
alive. But even if he is unable to do this, inasmuch as it is pretty
clear that he was intended to be the chief beneficiary, his opposition
is likely to have considerable weight with the Court."

"Oh, is it?" I exclaimed eagerly. "Then that accounts for a very
peculiar proceeding on the part of Hurst. I have stupidly forgotten to
tell you about it. He has been trying to come to a private agreement
with Godfrey Bellingham."

"Indeed!" said Thorndyke. "What sort of agreement?"

"His proposal was this: that Godfrey should support him and Jellicoe in
an application to the Court for permission to presume death and to
administer the will, and that, if it was successful, Hurst should pay
him four hundred pounds a year for life: the arrangement to hold good in
all eventualities."

"By which he means?"

"That if the body should be discovered at any future time, so that the
conditions of clause two could be carried out, Hurst should still retain
the property and continue to pay Godfrey the four hundred a year for
life."

"Hey ho!" exclaimed Thorndyke; "that is a queer proposal; a very queer
proposal indeed."

"Not to say fishy," added Jervis. "I don't fancy the Court would look
with approval on that little arrangement."

"The law does not look with much favour on any little arrangements that
aim at getting behind the provisions of a will," Thorndyke replied;
"though there would be nothing to complain of in this proposal if it
were not for the reference to 'all eventualities.' If a will is
hopelessly impracticable, it is not unreasonable or improper for the
various beneficiaries to make such private arrangements among themselves
as may seem necessary to avoid useless litigation and delay in
administering the will. If, for instance, Hurst had proposed to pay four
hundred a year to Godfrey so long as the body remained undiscovered on
condition that, in the event of its discovery, Godfrey should pay him a
like sum for life, there would have been nothing to comment upon. It
would have been an ordinary sporting chance. But the reference to 'all
eventualities' is an entirely different matter. Of course, it may be
mere greediness, but all the same, it suggests some very curious
reflections."

"Yes, it does," said Jervis. "I wonder if he has any reason to expect
that the body will be found? Of course it doesn't follow that he has. He
may be merely taking the opportunity offered by the other man's poverty
to make sure of the bulk of the property whatever happens. But it is
uncommonly sharp practice, to say the least."

"Do I understand that Godfrey declined the proposal?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes, he did, very emphatically; and I fancy that the two gentlemen
proceeded to exchange opinions on the circumstances of the disappearance
with more frankness than delicacy."

"Ah," said Thorndyke, "that is a pity. If the case comes into Court,
there is bound to be a good deal of unpleasant discussion and still more
unpleasant comment in the newspapers. But if the parties themselves
begin to express suspicions of one another there is no telling where the
matter will end."

"No, by Jove!" said Jervis. "If they begin flinging accusations of
murder about, the fat will be in the fire with a vengeance. That way
lies the Old Bailey."

"We must try to prevent them from making an unnecessary scandal," said
Thorndyke. "It may be that an exposure will be unavoidable, and that
must be ascertained in advance. But to return to your question,
Berkeley, as to what is to be done. Hurst will probably make some move
pretty soon. Do you know if Jellicoe will act with him?"

"No, he won't. He declines to take any steps without Godfrey's
assent--at least, that is what he says at present. His attitude is one
of correct neutrality."

"That is satisfactory, so far," said Thorndyke, "though he may alter his
tone when the case comes into Court. From what you said just now I
gathered that Jellicoe would prefer to have the will administered and be
quit of the whole business; which is natural enough, especially as he
benefits under the will to the extent of two thousand pounds and a
valuable collection. Consequently, we may fairly assume that, even if he
maintains an apparent neutrality, his influence will be exerted in
favour of Hurst rather than of Bellingham; from which it follows that
Bellingham ought certainly to be properly advised, and, when the case
goes into Court, properly represented."

"He can't afford either the one or the other," said I. "He's as poor as
an insolvent church mouse and as proud as the devil. He wouldn't accept
professional aid that he couldn't pay for."

"H'm," grunted Thorndyke, "that's awkward. But we can't allow the case
to go 'by default,' so to speak--to fail for the mere lack of technical
assistance. Besides, it is one of the most interesting cases that I have
ever met with, and I am not going to see it bungled. He couldn't object
to a little general advice in a friendly, informal way--_amicus curiae_,
as old Brodribb is so fond of saying; and there is nothing to prevent us
from pushing forward the preliminary inquiries."

"Of what nature would they be?"

"Well, to begin with, we have to satisfy ourselves that the conditions
of clause two have not been complied with: that John Bellingham has not
been buried within the parish boundaries mentioned. Of course he has
not, but we must not take anything for granted. Then we have to satisfy
ourselves that he is not still alive and accessible. It is perfectly
possible that he is, after all, and it is our business to trace him, if
he is still in the land of the living. Jervis and I can carry out these
investigations without saying anything to Bellingham; my learned brother
will look through the register of burials--not forgetting the
cremations--in the metropolitan area, and I will take the other matter
in hand."

"You really think that John Bellingham may still be alive?" said I.

"Since his body has not been found, it is obviously a possibility. I
think it in the highest degree improbable, but the improbable has to be
investigated before it can be excluded."

"It sounds like a rather hopeless quest," I remarked. "How do you
propose to begin?"

"I think of beginning at the British Museum. The people there may be
able to throw some light on his movements. I know that there are some
important excavations in progress at Heliopolis--in fact, the Director
of the Egyptian Department is out there at the present moment; and
Doctor Norbury, who is taking his place temporarily, is an old friend of
John Bellingham's. I shall call on him and try to discover if there is
anything that might have induced Bellingham suddenly to go abroad--to
Heliopolis, for instance. Also, he may be able to tell me what it was
that took the missing man to Paris on that last, rather mysterious
journey. That might turn out to be an important clue. And meanwhile,
Berkeley, you must endeavour tactfully to reconcile your friend to the
idea of letting us give an eye to the case. Make it clear to him that I
am doing this entirely for the enlargement of my own knowledge."

"But won't you have to be instructed by a solicitor?" I asked.

"Yes, of course, nominally; but only as a matter of etiquette. We shall
do all the actual work. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking of the solicitor's costs, and I was going to mention
that I have a little money of my own--"

"Then keep it, my dear fellow. You'll want it when you go into practice.
There will be no difficulty about the solicitor; I shall ask one of my
friends to act nominally as a personal favour to me--Marchmont would
take the case for us, Jervis, I am sure."

"Yes," said Jervis. "Or old Brodribb, if we put it to him _amicus
curiae_."

"It is excessively kind of both of you to take this benevolent interest
in the case of my friends," I said; "and it is to be hoped that they
won't be foolishly proud and stiff-necked about it. It's rather the way
with poor gentlefolk."

"I'll tell you what!" exclaimed Jervis. "I have a most brilliant idea.
You shall give us a little supper at your rooms and invite the
Bellinghams to meet us. Then you and I will attack the old gentleman,
and Thorndyke shall exercise his persuasive powers on the lady. These
chronic and incurable old bachelors, you know, are quite irresistible."

"You observe that my respected junior condemns me to lifelong celibacy,"
Thorndyke remarked. "But," he added, "his suggestion is quite a good
one. Of course, we mustn't put any sort of pressure on Bellingham to
employ us--for that is what it amounts to, even if we accept no
payment--but a friendly talk over the supper-table would enable us to
put the matter delicately and yet convincingly."

"Yes," said I, "I see that, and I like the idea immensely. But it won't
be possible for several days, because I've got a job that takes up all
my spare time--and that I ought to be at work on now," I added, with a
sudden qualm at the way in which I had forgotten the passage of time in
the interest of Thorndyke's analysis.

My two friends looked at me inquiringly, and I felt it necessary to
explain about the injured hand and the Tell el Amarna tablets; which I
accordingly did, rather shyly and with a nervous eye upon Jervis. The
slow grin, however, for which I was watching, never came; on the
contrary, he not only heard me through quite gravely, but when I had
finished said with some warmth, and using my old hospital pet name:

"I'll say one thing for you, Polly; you're a good chum, and you always
were. I hope your Nevill's Court friends appreciate the fact."

"They are far more appreciative than the occasion warrants," I answered.
"But to return to this supper question: how will this day week suit
you?"

"It will suit me," Thorndyke answered, with a glance at his junior.

"And me too," said the latter; "so, if it will do for the Bellinghams,
we will consider it settled; but if they can't come you must fix another
night."

"Very well," I said, rising and knocking out my pipe, "I will issue the
invitation to-morrow. And now I must be off to have another slog at
those notes."

As I walked homewards I speculated cheerfully on the prospect of
entertaining my friends under my own (or rather Barnard's) roof, if they
could be lured out of their eremitical retirement. The idea had, in
fact, occurred to me already, but I had been deterred by the
peculiarities of Barnard's housekeeper. For Mrs. Gummer was one of those
housewives who make up for an archaic simplicity of production by
preparations on the most portentous and alarming scale. But this time I
would not be deterred. If only the guests could be enticed into my
humble lair, it would be easy to furnish the raw materials of the feast
from outside; and the consideration of ways and means occupied me
pleasantly until I found myself once more at my writing-table,
confronted by my voluminous notes on the incident of the North Syrian
War.




CHAPTER VIII

A MUSEUM IDYLL


Whether it was that practice revived a forgotten skill on my part, or
that Miss Bellingham had over-estimated the amount of work to be done, I
am unable to say. But whichever may have been the explanation, the fact
is that the fourth afternoon saw our task so nearly completed that I was
fain to plead that a small remainder might be left over to form an
excuse for yet one more visit to the reading-room.

Short, however, as had been the period of our collaboration, it had been
long enough to produce a great change in our relations to one another.
For there is no friendship so intimate and satisfying as that engendered
by community of work, and none--between man and woman, at any rate--so
frank and wholesome.

Every day I had arrived to find a pile of books with the places duly
marked and the blue covered quarto note-books in readiness. Every day we
had worked steadily at the allotted task, had then handed in the books
and gone forth together to enjoy a most companionable tea in the
milk-shop; thereafter to walk home by way of Queen Square, talking over
the day's work and discussing the state of the world in the far-off days
when Ahkhenaten was king and the Tell el Amarna tablets were a-writing.

It had been a pleasant time, so pleasant, that as I handed in the books
for the last time, I sighed to think that it was over; that not only
was the task finished, but that the recovery of my fair patient's hand,
from which I had that morning removed the splint, had put an end to the
need of my help.

"What shall we do?" I asked, as we came out into the central hall; "it
is too early for tea. Shall we go and look at some of the galleries?"

"Why not?" she answered. "We might look over some of the things
connected with what we have been doing. For instance, there is a relief
of Ahkhenaten upstairs in the Third Egyptian Room; we might go and look
at that."

I fell in eagerly with the suggestion, placing myself under her
experienced guidance, and we started by way of the Roman Gallery, past
the long row of extremely commonplace and modern-looking Roman Emperors.

"I don't know," she said, pausing for a moment opposite a bust labelled
"Trajan" (but obviously a portrait of Phil May), "how I am ever even to
thank you for all that you have done? to say nothing of repayment."

"There is no need to do either," I replied. "I have enjoyed working with
you, so I have had my reward. But still," I added, "if you want to do me
a great kindness, you have it in your power."

"How?"

"In connection with my friend Doctor Thorndyke. I told you he was an
enthusiast. Now he is, for some reason, most keenly interested in
everything relating to your uncle, and I happen to know that, if any
legal proceedings should take place, he would very much like to keep a
friendly eye on the case."

"And what do you want me to do?"

"I want you, if an opportunity should occur for him to give your father
advice or help of any kind, to use your influence with your father in
favour of, rather than in opposition to, his accepting it--always
assuming that you have no real feeling against his doing so."

Miss Bellingham looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, and then
laughed softly.

"So the great kindness that I am to do you is to let you do me a further
kindness through your friend!"

"No," I protested; "that is where you are quite mistaken. It isn't
benevolence on Doctor Thorndyke's part; it is professional enthusiasm."

She smiled sceptically.

"You don't believe in it," I said; "but consider other cases. Why does a
surgeon get out of bed on a winter's night to do an emergency operation
at a hospital? He doesn't get paid for it. Do you think it is altruism?"

"Yes, of course. Isn't it?"

"Certainly not. He does it because it is his job, because it is his
business to fight with disease--and win."

"I don't see much difference," she said. "It is work done for love
instead of for payment. However, I will do what you ask if the
opportunity arises; but I shan't suppose that I am repaying your
kindness to me."

"I don't mind, so long as you do it," I said, and we walked on for some
time in silence.

"Isn't it odd," she said presently, "how our talk always seems to come
back to my uncle? Oh, and that reminds me that the things he gave to the
Museum are in the same room as the Ahkhenaten relief. Would you like to
see them?"

"Of course I should."

"Then we will go and look at them first." She paused, and then, rather
shyly and with a rising colour, she continued: "And I think I should
like to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine--with your
permission, of course."

This last addition she made hastily, seeing, I suppose, that I looked
rather glum at the suggestion. Inwardly I consigned her friend to the
devil, especially if of the masculine gender; outwardly I expressed my
felicity at making the acquaintance of any person whom she should honour
with her friendship. Whereat, to my discomfiture, she laughed
enigmatically; a very soft laugh, low-pitched and musical, like the
cooing of a glorified pigeon.

I strolled on by her side, speculating a little anxiously on the coming
introduction. Was I being conducted to the lair of one of the savants
attached to the establishment? and would he add a superfluous third to
our little party of two, so complete and companionable, _solus cum
sola_, in this populated wilderness? Above all, would he turn out to be
a comely young man, and bring my aerial castles tumbling about my ears?
The shy look and the blush with which she had suggested the introduction
were ominous indications, upon which I mused gloomily as we ascended the
stairs and passed through the wide doorway. I glanced apprehensively at
my companion, and met a quiet, inscrutable smile; and at that moment she
halted outside a wall-case and faced me.

"This is my friend," she said. "Let me present you to Artemidorus, late
of the Fayyum. Oh, don't smile!" she pleaded. "I am quite serious. Have
you never heard of pious Catholics who cherish a devotion to some
long-departed saint? That is my feeling towards Artemidorus, and if you
only knew what comfort he has shed into the heart of a lonely woman;
what a quiet, unobtrusive friend he has been to me in my solitary,
friendless days, always ready with a kindly greeting on his gentle,
thoughtful face, you would like him for that alone. And I want you to
like him and to share our silent friendship. Am I very silly, very
sentimental?"

A wave of relief had swept over me, and the mercury of my emotional
thermometer, which had shrunk almost into the bulb, leaped up to summer
heat. How charming it was of her and how sweetly intimate, to wish to
share this mystical friendship with me! And what a pretty conceit it
was, too, and how like this strange, inscrutable maiden, to come here
and hold silent converse with this long-departed Greek. And the pathos
of it all touched me deeply amidst the joy of this newborn intimacy.

"Are you scornful?" she asked, with a shade of disappointment, as I made
no reply.

"No, indeed I am not," I answered earnestly. "I want to make you aware
of my sympathy and my appreciation without offending you by seeming to
exaggerate, and I don't know how to express it."

"Oh, never mind about the expression, so long as you feel it. I thought
you would understand," and she gave me a smile that made me tingle to my
finger-tips.

We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy--for such, indeed, was
her friend Artemidorus. But not an ordinary mummy. Egyptian in form, it
was entirely Greek in feeling; and brightly coloured as it was, in
accordance with the racial love of colour, the tasteful refinement with
which the decoration of the case was treated made those around look
garish and barbaric. But the most striking feature was a charming panel
portrait which occupied the place of the usual mask. This painting was a
revelation to me. Except that it was executed in tempera instead of oil,
it differed in no respect from modern work. There was nothing archaic or
even ancient about it. With its freedom of handling and its correct
rendering of light and shade, it might have been painted yesterday;
indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it might have passed without
remark in an exhibition of modern portraits.

Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.

"It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?" she said; "and such a
sweet face, too; so thoughtful and human with just a shade of
melancholy. But the whole thing is full of charm. I fell in love with it
the first time I saw it. And it is so Greek!"

"Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols."

"Rather because of them, I think," said she. "There we have the typical
Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated eclecticism that appreciated the
fitness of even the most alien forms of art. There is Anubis standing
beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there below, Horus and
Tahuti. But we can't suppose that Artemidorus worshipped or believed in
those gods. They are there because they are splendid decoration and
perfectly appropriate in character. The real feeling of those who loved
the dead man breaks out in the inscription." She pointed to a band below
the pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters, was written the two words,
"[Greek: ARTEMIDORE EUPsUChI]."

"Yes," I said, "it is very dignified and very human."

"And so sincere and full of real emotion," she added. "I find it
unspeakably touching. 'O Artemidorus, farewell!' There is the real note
of human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer it is than
the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our own miserable,
insincere make-believe of the 'Not lost but gone before' type. He was
gone from them for ever; they would look on his face and hear his voice
no more; they realised that this was their last farewell. Oh, there is a
world of love and sorrow in those two simple words!"

For some time neither of us spoke. The glamour of this touching memorial
of a long-buried grief had stolen over me, and I was content to stand
silent by my beloved companion and revive, with a certain pensive
pleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which so many centuries had
rolled. Presently she turned to me with a frank smile. "You have been
weighed in the balance of friendship," she said, "and not found wanting.
You have the gift of sympathy, even with a woman's sentimental fancies."

I suspected that a good many men would have developed this precious
quality under the circumstances, but I refrained from saying so. There
is no use in crying down one's own wares. I was glad enough to have
earned her good opinion so easily, and when she at length turned away
from the case and passed through into the adjoining room, it was a very
complacent young man who bore her company.

"Here is Ahkhenaten--or Khu-en-aten, as the authorities here render the
hieroglyphics." She indicated a fragment of a coloured relief labelled:
"Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait figure of Amen-hetep
IV," and we stopped to look at the frail, effeminate figure of the great
king, with his large cranium, his queer, pointed chin and the Aten rays
stretching out their weird hands as if caressing him.

"We mustn't stay here if you want to see my uncle's gift, because this
room closes at four to-day." With this admonition she moved on to the
other end of the room, where she halted before a large floor-case
containing a mummy and a large number of other objects. A black label
with white lettering set forth the various contents with a brief
explanation as follows:

"Mummy of Sebek-hotep, a scribe of the twenty-second dynasty, together
with the objects found in the tomb. These include the four Canopic jars,
in which the internal organs were deposited, the Ushabti figures, tomb
provisions and various articles that had belonged to the deceased; his
favourite chair, his head-rest, his ink-palette, inscribed with his name
and the name of the king, Osorkon I, in whose reign he lived, and other
smaller articles. Presented by John Bellingham, Esq."

"They have put all the objects together in one case," Miss Bellingham
explained, "to show the contents of an ordinary tomb of the better
class. You see that the dead man was provided with all his ordinary
comforts: provisions, furniture, the ink-palette that he had been
accustomed to use in writing on papyri, and a staff of servants to wait
on him."

"Where are the servants?" I asked.

"The little Ushabti figures," she answered; "they were the attendants of
the dead, you know, his servants in the under-world. It was a quaint
idea, wasn't it? But it was all very complete and consistent, and quite
reasonable, too, if once one accepts the belief in the persistence of
the individual apart from the body."

"Yes," I agreed, "and that is the only fair way to judge a religious
system, by taking the main beliefs for granted. But what a business it
must have been, bringing all these things from Egypt to London."

"It was worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine and instructive
collection. And the work is all very good of its kind. You notice that
the Ushabti figures and the heads that form the stoppers of the Canopic
jars are quite finely modelled. The mummy itself, too, is rather
handsome, though that coat of bitumen on the back doesn't improve it.
But Sebek-hotep must have been a fine-looking man."

"The mask on the case is a portrait, I suppose?"

"Yes; in fact, it is rather more. To some extent it is the actual face
of the man himself. This mummy is enclosed in what is called a
cartonnage, that is a case moulded on the figure. The cartonnage, was
formed of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by glue or
cement, and when the case had been fitted to the mummy it was moulded to
the body, so that the general form of the features and limbs was often
apparent. After the cement was dry the case was covered with a thin
layer of stucco and the face modelled more completely, and then the
decorations and inscriptions were painted on. So that, you see, in a
cartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in its shell, unlike the
more ancient forms in which the mummy was merely rolled up and enclosed
in a wooden coffin."

At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voice
announcing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; and
simultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop. With
leisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us along the
galleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersed in
conversation on matters sepulchral.

It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,
moreover, it was our last day--for the present. Wherefore we lingered
over our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us with
some disfavour, and when at length we started homeward, we took so many
short cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destination than
Lincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly indirect
route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red Lion
Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row, Jockey's
Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.

It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention was attracted by a
flaming poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startling inscription:

"MORE MEMENTOES OF MURDERED MAN."

Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.

"Horrible! Isn't it?" she said. "Have you read about them?"

"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few, days," I replied.

"No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving at those wretched notes.
We don't very often see the papers, at least we don't take them in, but
Miss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two. She is a
perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, and the
more horrible the better."

"But," I asked, "what is it that they have found?"

"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have been
murdered and cut in pieces. It is dreadful. It made me shudder to read
of it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as for my
father, he was really quite upset."

"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?"

"Yes. But they have found several more. The police have been most
energetic. They seem to have been making a systematic search, and the
result has been that they have discovered several portions of the body,
scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee, St. Mary
Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one of
the ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."

"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford. Isn't it dreadful to think
of it? They were probably hidden when we were living there. I think it
was that that horrified my father so much. When he read it he was so
upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers and tossed them
out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor Miss Oman had
to rush out and pursue them up the court."

"Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of your
uncle?"

"I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect, and, of course,
I have not made any such suggestion to him. We always preserve the
fiction between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still alive."

"But you don't think he is, do you?"

"No, I am afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn't
think so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me."

"Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?"

"No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pits, and I
think a thigh-bone was dredged up out of a pond near St. Mary Cray. But
Miss Oman will be able to tell you all about it, if you are interested.
She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit," Miss Bellingham added,
with a smile.

"I don't know that I want to claim spiritual kinship with a ghoul," said
I; "especially such a very sharp-tempered ghoul."

"Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!" Miss Bellingham pleaded.
"She isn't really bad-tempered; only a little prickly on the surface. I
oughtn't to have called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, most
affectionate, most unselfish little angelic human hedgehog that you
could find if you travelled the wide world through. Do you know that she
has been working her fingers to the bone making an old dress of mine
presentable because she is so anxious that I shall look nice at your
little supper-party."

"You are sure to do that, in any case," I said; "but I withdraw my
remark as to her temper unreservedly. And I really didn't mean it, you
know; I have always liked the little lady."

"That's right; and now won't you come in and have a few minutes' chat
with my father? We are quite early, in spite of the short cuts."

I assented readily, and the more so inasmuch as I wanted a few words
with Miss Oman on the subject of catering and did not want to discuss it
before my friends. Accordingly I went in and gossiped with Mr.
Bellingham, chiefly about the work that we had done at the Museum, until
it was time for me to return to the surgery.

Having taken my leave, I walked down the stairs with reflective slowness
and as much creaking of my boots as I could manage; with the result,
hopefully anticipated, that as I approached the door of Miss Oman's room
it opened and the lady's head protruded.

"I'd change my cobbler if I were you," she said.

I thought of the "angelic human hedgehog," and nearly sniggered in her
face.

"I am sure you would, Miss Oman, instantly; though, mind you, the poor
fellow can't help his looks."

"You are a very flippant young man," she said severely. Whereat I
grinned, and she regarded me silently with a baleful glare. Suddenly I
remembered my mission and became serious and sober.

"Miss Oman," I said, "I very much want to take your advice on a matter
of some importance--to me, at least." (That ought to fetch her, I
thought.) The "advice fly"--strangely neglected by Izaak Walton--is
guaranteed to kill in any weather. And it did fetch her. She rose in a
flash and gorged it, cock's feathers, worsted body and all.

"What is it about?" she asked eagerly. "But don't stand out there where
everybody can hear but me. Come in and sit down."

Now, I didn't want to discuss the matter here, and, besides, there was
not time. I therefore assumed an air of mystery.

"I can't, Miss Oman. I'm due at the surgery now. But if you should be
passing and should have a few minutes to spare, I should be greatly
obliged if you would look in. I really don't quite know how to act."

"No, I expect not. Men very seldom do. But you're better than most, for
you know when you are in difficulties and have the sense to consult a
woman. But what is it about? Perhaps I might be thinking it over."

"Well, you know," I began evasively, "it's a simple matter, but I can't
very well--no, by Jove!" I added, looking at my watch, "I must run, or I
shall keep the multitude waiting." And with this I bustled away, leaving
her literally dancing with curiosity.




CHAPTER IX

THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN


At the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have attained to the
position of a person of experience. Nevertheless, the knowledge of human
nature accumulated in that brief period sufficed to make me feel pretty
confident that, at some time during the evening, I should receive a
visit from Miss Oman. And circumstances justified my confidence; for the
clock yet stood at two minutes to seven when a premonitory tap at the
surgery door heralded her arrival.

"I happened to be passing," she explained, and I forbore to smile at the
coincidence, "so I thought I might as well drop in and hear what you
wanted to ask me about."

She seated herself in the patients' chair and, laying a bundle of
newspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.

"Thank you, Miss Oman," I said. "It is very good of you to look in on
me. I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a trifling
matter."

She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.

"Never mind about the trouble," she exclaimed tartly.
"What--is--it--that--you--want--to--_ask_--me about?"

I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as I
proceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over her
countenance. "I don't see why you need have been so mysterious about
it," she said glumly.

"I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a mess
of the affair. It's all very fine to assume a lofty scorn of the
pleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really good feed,
especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the order of the
day."

"Coarsely put," said Miss Oman, "but perfectly true."

"Very well. Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she will
probably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat on it,
and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the house
upside-down in getting it ready. So I thought of having a cold spread
and getting the things in from outside. But I don't want it to look as
if I had been making enormous preparations."

"They won't think the things came down from heaven," said Miss Oman.

"No, I suppose they won't. But you know what I mean. Now, where do you
advise me to go for the raw materials of conviviality?"

Miss Oman reflected. "You'd better let me do your shopping and manage
the whole business," was her final verdict.

This was precisely what I had wanted, and I accepted thankfully,
regardless of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer. I handed her two pounds, and,
after some protests at my extravagance, she bestowed them in her purse;
a process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besides and
time-stained bills, already bulged with a lading of draper's samples,
ends of tape, a card of linen buttons, another of hooks and eyes, a lump
of beeswax, a rat-eaten stump of lead-pencil, and other trifles that I
have forgotten. As she closed the purse at the imminent risk of
wrenching off its fastenings she looked at me severely and pursed up her
lips.

"You're a very plausible young man," she remarked.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"Philandering about museums," she continued, "with handsome young ladies
on the pretence of work. Work, indeed! Oh, I heard her telling her
father about it. She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by the mummies
and dried cats and chunks of stone and all the other trash. She doesn't
know what humbugs men are."

"Really, Miss Oman--" I began.

"Oh, don't talk to me!" she snapped. "I can see it all. You can't impose
on _me_. I can see you staring into those glass cases, egging her on to
talk and listening open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sitting at her
feet--now, didn't you?"

"I don't know about sitting at her feet," I said, "though it might
easily have come to that with those infernal slippery floors; but I had
a very jolly time, and I mean to go again if I can. Miss Bellingham is
the cleverest and most accomplished woman I have ever spoken to."

This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration and loyalty, I knew,
were only equalled by my own. She would have liked to contradict me, but
the thing was impossible. To cover her defeat she snatched up the bundle
of newspapers and began to open them out.

"What sort of stuff is 'hibernation'?" she demanded suddenly.

"Hibernation!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. They found a patch of it on a bone that was discovered in a pond
at St. Mary Cray, and a similar patch on one that was found at some
place in Essex. Now, I want to know what 'hibernation' is."

"You must mean 'eburnation,'" I said, after a moment's reflection.

"The newspapers say 'hibernation,' and I suppose they know what they are
talking about. If you don't know what it is, don't be ashamed to say
so."

"Well, then, I don't."

"In that case you'd better read the papers and find out," she said, a
little illogically. And then: "Are you fond of murders? I am, awfully."

"What a shocking little ghoul you must be!" I exclaimed.

She stuck out her chin at me. "I'll trouble you," she said, "to be a
little more respectful in your language. Do you realise that I am old
enough to be your mother?"

"Impossible!" I ejaculated.

"Fact," said Miss Oman.

"Well, anyhow," said I, "age is not the only qualification. And,
besides, you are too late for the billet. The vacancy's filled."

Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table and rose abruptly.

"You had better read the papers and see if you can learn a little
sense," she said severely as she turned to go. "Oh, and don't forget the
finger!" she added eagerly. "That is really thrilling."

"The finger?" I repeated.

"Yes. They found a hand with one finger missing. The police think it is
a highly important clue. I don't know quite what they mean; but you read
the account and tell me what you think."

With this parting injunction she bustled out through the surgery, and I
followed to bid her a ceremonious adieu on the doorstep. I watched her
little figure tripping with quick, bird-like steps down Fetter Lane, and
was about to turn back into the surgery when my attention was attracted
by the evolutions of an elderly gentleman on the opposite side of the
street. He was a somewhat peculiar-looking man, tall, gaunt, and bony,
and the way in which he carried his head suggested to the medical mind a
pronounced degree of near sight and a pair of "deep" spectacle glasses.
Suddenly he espied me and crossed the road with his chin thrust forward
and a pair of keen blue eyes directed at me through the centres of his
spectacles.

"I wonder if you can and will help me," said he, with a courteous
salute. "I wish to call on an acquaintance, and I have forgotten his
address. It is in some court, but the name of that court has escaped me
for the moment. My friend's name is Bellingham. I suppose you don't
chance to know it? Doctors know a great many people, as a rule."

"Do you mean Mr. Godfrey Bellingham?"

"Ah! Then you do know him. I have not consulted the oracle in vain. He
is a patient of yours, no doubt?"

"A patient and a personal friend. His address is Forty-nine Nevill's
Court."

"Thank you, thank you. Oh, and as you are a friend, perhaps you can
inform me as to the customs of the household. I am not expected, and I
do not wish to make an untimely visit. What are Mr. Bellingham's habits
as to his evening meal? Would this be a convenient time to call?"

"I generally make my evening visits a little later than this--say about
half-past eight; they have finished their meal by then."

"Ah! half-past eight, then? Then I suppose I had better take a walk
until that time. I don't want to disturb them."

"Would you care to come in and smoke a cigar until it is time to make
your call? If you would, I could walk over with you and show you the
house."

"That is very kind of you," said my new acquaintance, with an
inquisitive glance at me through his spectacles. "I think I should like
to sit down. It's a dull affair, mooning about the streets, and there
isn't time to go back to my chambers--in Lincoln's Inn."

"I wonder," said I, as I ushered him into the room lately vacated by
Miss Oman, "if you happen to be Mr. Jellicoe?"

He turned his spectacles full on me with a keen, suspicious glance.
"What makes you think I am Mr. Jellicoe?" he asked.

"Oh, only that you live in Lincoln's Inn."

"Ha! I see. I live in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Jellicoe lives in Lincoln's
Inn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe. Ha! ha! Bad logic, but a correct
conclusion. Yes, I am Mr. Jellicoe. What do you know about me?"

"Mighty little, excepting that you were the late John Bellingham's man
of business."

"The '_late_ John Bellingham,' hey! How do you know he is the late John
Bellingham?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't; only I rather understood that that was
your own belief."

"You understood! Now, from whom did you 'understand' that? From Godfrey
Bellingham? H'm! And how did he know what I believe? I never told him.
It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to expound another man's
beliefs."

"Then you think that John Bellingham is alive?"

"Do I? Who said so? I did not, you know."

"But he must be either dead or alive."

"There," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I am entirely with you. You have stated an
undeniable truth."

"It is not a very illuminating one, however," I replied, laughing.

"Undeniable truths often are not," he retorted. "They are apt to be
extremely general. In fact, I would affirm that the certainty of the
truth of a given proposition is directly proportional to its
generality."

"I suppose that is so," said I.

"Undoubtedly. Take an instance from your own profession. Given a million
normal human beings under twenty, and you can say with certainty that a
majority of them will die before reaching a certain age, that they will
die in certain circumstances and of certain diseases. Then take a single
unit from that million, and what can you predict concerning him?
Nothing. He may die to-morrow; he may live to a couple of hundred. He
may die of a cold in the head or a cut finger, or from falling off the
cross of St. Paul's. In a particular case you can predict nothing."

"That is perfectly true," said I. And then, realising that I had been
led away from the topic of John Bellingham, I ventured to return to it.

"That was a very mysterious affair--the disappearance of John
Bellingham, I mean."

"Why mysterious?" asked Mr. Jellicoe. "Men disappear from time to time,
and when they reappear, the explanations that they give (when they give
any) seem to be more or less adequate."

"But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious."

"What circumstances?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.

"I mean the way in which he vanished from Mr. Hurst's house."

"In what way did he vanish from it?"

"Well, of course, I don't know."

"Precisely. Neither do I. Therefore I can't say whether that way was a
mysterious one or not."

"It is not even certain that he did leave it," I remarked, rather
recklessly.

"Exactly," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And if he did not, he is there still. And
if he is there still, he has not disappeared--in the sense understood.
And if he has not disappeared, there is no mystery."

I laughed heartily, but Mr. Jellicoe preserved a wooden solemnity and
continued to examine me through his spectacles (which I, in my turn,
inspected and estimated at about minus five dioptres). There was
something highly diverting about this grim lawyer, with his dry
contentiousness and almost farcical caution. His ostentatious reserve
encouraged me to ply him with fresh questions, the more indiscreet the
better.

"I suppose," said I, "that, under these circumstances, you would hardly
favour Mr. Hurst's proposal to apply for permission to presume death?"

"Under what circumstances?" he inquired.

"I was referring to the doubt you have expressed as to whether John
Bellingham is, after all, really dead."

"My dear sir," said he, "I fail to see your point. If it were certain
that the man was alive, it would be impossible to presume that he was
dead; and if it were certain that he was dead, presumption of death
would still be impossible. You do not presume a certainty. The
uncertainty is of the essence of the transaction."

"But," I persisted, "if you really believe that he may be alive, I
should hardly have thought that you would take the responsibility of
presuming his death and dispersing his property."

"I don't," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I take no responsibility. I act in
accordance with the decision of the Court and have no choice in the
matter."

"But the Court may decide that he is dead and he may nevertheless be
alive."

"Not at all. If the Court decides that he is presumably dead, then he is
presumably dead. As a mere irrelevant, physical circumstance he may, it
is true, be alive. But legally speaking, and for testamentary purposes,
he is dead. You fail to perceive the distinction, no doubt?"

"I am afraid I do," I admitted.

"Yes; members of your profession usually do. That is what makes them
such bad witnesses in a court of law. The scientific outlook is
radically different from the legal. The man of science relies on his own
knowledge and observation and judgment, and disregards testimony. A man
comes to you and tells you he is blind in one eye. Do you accept his
statement? Not in the least. You proceed to test his eyesight with some
infernal apparatus of coloured glasses, and you find that he can see
perfectly well with both eyes. Then you decide that he is not blind in
one eye; that is to say, you reject his testimony in favour of facts of
your own ascertaining."

"But surely that is the rational method of coming to a conclusion?"

"In science, no doubt. Not in law. A court of law must decide according
to the evidence which is before it; and that evidence is of the nature
of sworn testimony. If a witness is prepared to swear that black is
white, and no evidence to the contrary is offered, the evidence before
the Court is that black is white, and the Court must decide accordingly.
The judge and the jury may think otherwise--they may even have private
knowledge to the contrary--but they have to decide according to the
evidence."

"Do you mean to say that a judge would be justified in giving a decision
which he knew privately to be contrary to the facts? Or that he might
sentence a man whom he knew to be innocent?"

"Certainly. It has been done. There is a case of a judge who sentenced a
man to death and allowed the execution to take place, notwithstanding
that he--the judge--had actually seen the murder committed by another
man. But that was carrying correctness of procedure to the verge of
pedantry."

"It was, with a vengeance," I agreed. "But to return to the case of John
Bellingham. Supposing that after the Court has decided that he is dead
he should turn up alive? What then?"

"Ah! It would then be his turn to make an application, and the Court,
having fresh evidence laid before it, would probably decide that he was
alive."

"And meantime his property would have been dispersed?"

"Probably. But you will observe that the presumption of death would have
arisen out of his own proceedings. If a man acts in such a way as to
create a belief that he is dead, he must put up with the consequences."

"Yes, that is reasonable enough," said I. And then, after a pause, I
asked: "Is there any immediate likelihood of proceedings of the kind
being commenced?"

"I understood from what you said just now that Mr. Hurst was
contemplating some action of the kind. No doubt you had your information
from a reliable quarter." This answer Mr. Jellicoe delivered without
moving a muscle, regarding me with the fixity of a spectacled
figure-head.

I smiled feebly. The operation of pumping Mr. Jellicoe was rather like
the sport of boxing with a porcupine, being chiefly remarkable as a
demonstration of the power of passive resistance. I determined, however,
to make one more effort, rather, I think, for the pleasure of witnessing
his defensive manoeuvres than with the expectation of getting anything
out of him. I accordingly "opened out" on the subject of the "remains."

"Have you been following these remarkable discoveries of human bones
that have been appearing in the papers?" I asked.

He looked at me stonily for some moments, and then replied:

"Human bones are rather more within your province than mine, but, now
that you mention it, I think I recall having read of some such
discoveries. They were disconnected bones, I believe?"

"Yes; evidently parts of a dismembered body."

"So I should suppose. No, I have not followed the accounts. As we get on
in life our interests tend to settle into grooves, and my groove is
chiefly connected with conveyancing. These discoveries would be of more
interest to a criminal lawyer."

"I thought that you might, perhaps, have connected them with the
disappearance of your client."

"Why should I? What could be the nature of the connection?"

"Well," I said, "these are the bones of a man--"

"Yes; and my client was a man with bones. That is a connection,
certainly, though not a very specific or distinctive one. But perhaps
you had something more particular in your mind."

"I had," I replied. "The fact that some of the bones were actually found
on land belonging to your client seemed to me rather significant."

"Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe. He reflected for a few moments,
gazing steadily at me the while, and then continued: "In that I am
unable to follow you. It would have seemed to me that the finding of
human remains upon a certain piece of land might conceivably throw a
_prima facie_ suspicion upon the owner or occupant of that land as being
the person who deposited them. But the case that you suggest is the one
case in which this would be impossible. A man cannot deposit his own
dismembered remains."

"No, of course not. I was not suggesting that he deposited them
himself, but merely that the fact of their being deposited on his land,
in a way, connected these remains with him."

"Again," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I fail to follow you, unless you are
suggesting that it is customary for murderers who mutilate bodies to be
punctilious in depositing the dismembered remains upon land belonging to
their victims. In which case I am sceptical as to your facts. I am not
aware of the existence of any such custom. Moreover, it appears that
only a portion of the body was deposited on Mr. Bellingham's land, the
remaining portions having been scattered broadcast over a wide area. How
does that agree with your suggestion?"

"It doesn't, of course," I admitted. "But there is another fact that I
think you will admit to be more significant. The first remains that were
discovered were found at Sidcup. Now, Sidcup is close to Eltham; and
Eltham is the place where Mr. Bellingham was last seen alive."

"And what is the significance of this? Why do you connect the remains
with one locality rather than the various other localities in which
other portions of the body have been found?"

"Well," I replied, rather gravelled by this very pertinent question,
"the appearances seem to suggest that the person who deposited these
remains started from the neighbourhood of Eltham, where the missing man
was last seen."

Mr. Jellicoe shook his head. "You appear," said he, "to be confusing the
order of deposition with the order of discovery. What evidence is there
that the remains found at Sidcup were deposited before those found
elsewhere?"

"I don't know that there is any," I admitted.

"Then," said he, "I don't see how you support your suggestion that the
person started from the neighbourhood of Eltham."

On consideration, I had to admit that I had nothing to offer in support
of my theory; and having thus shot my last arrow in this very unequal
contest, I thought it time to change the subject.

"I called in at the British Museum the other day," said I, "and had a
look at Mr. Bellingham's last gift to the nation. The things are very
well shown in that central case."

"Yes. I was very pleased with the position they have given to the
exhibit, and so would my poor old friend have been. I wished, as I
looked at the case, that he could have seen it. But perhaps he may,
after all."

"I am sure I hope he will," said I, with more sincerity, perhaps, than
the lawyer gave me credit for. For the return of John Bellingham would
most effectually have cut the Gordian knot of my friend Godfrey's
difficulties. "You are a good deal interested in Egyptology yourself,
aren't you?" I added.

"Greatly interested," replied Mr. Jellicoe, with more animation than I
had thought possible in his wooden face. "It is a fascinating subject,
the study of this venerable civilisation, extending back to the
childhood of the human race, preserved for ever for our instruction in
its own unchanging monuments like a fly in a block of amber. Everything
connected with Egypt is full of an impressive solemnity. A feeling of
permanence, of stability, defying time and change, pervades it. The
place, the people, and the monuments alike breathe of eternity."

I was mightily surprised at this rhetorical outburst on the part of this
dry and taciturn lawyer. But I liked him the better for the touch of
enthusiasm that made him human, and determined to keep him astride of
his hobby.

"Yet," said I, "the people must have changed in the course of
centuries."

"Yes, that is so. The people who fought against Cambyses were not the
race that marched into Egypt five thousand years before--the dynastic
people whose portraits we see on the early monuments. In those fifty
centuries the blood of Hyksos and Syrians and Ethiopians and Hittites,
and who can say how many more races, must have mingled with that of the
old Egyptians. But still the national life went on without a break; the
old culture leavened the new peoples, and the immigrant strangers ended
by becoming Egyptians. It is a wonderful phenomenon. Looking back on it
from our own time, it seems more like a geological period than the
life-history of a single nation. Are you at all interested in the
subject?"

"Yes, decidedly, though I am completely ignorant of it. The fact is that
my interest is of quite recent growth. It is only of late that I have
been sensible of the glamour of things Egyptian."

"Since you made Miss Bellingham's acquaintance, perhaps?" suggested Mr.
Jellicoe, himself as unchanging in aspect as an Egyptian effigy.

I suppose I must have reddened--I certainly resented the remark--for he
continued in the same even tone: "I made the suggestion because I know
that she takes an intelligent interest in the subject and is, in fact,
quite well informed on it."

"Yes; she seems to know a great deal about the antiquities of Egypt, and
I may as well admit that your surmise was correct. It was she who showed
me her uncle's collection."

"So I had supposed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And a very instructive
collection it is, in a popular sense; very suitable for exhibition in a
public museum, though there is nothing in it of unusual interest to the
expert. The tomb furniture is excellent of its kind and the cartonnage
case of the mummy is well made and rather finely decorated."

"Yes, I thought it quite handsome. But can you explain to me why, after
taking all that trouble to decorate it, they should have disfigured it
with those great smears of bitumen?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Jellicoe, "that is quite an interesting question. It is
not unusual to find mummy-cases smeared with bitumen; there is a mummy
of a priestess in the next gallery which is completely coated with
bitumen excepting the gilded face. Now, this bitumen was put on for a
purpose--for the purpose of obliterating the inscriptions and thus
concealing the identity of the deceased from the robbers and desecrators
of tombs. And there is the oddity of this mummy of Sebek-hotep.
Evidently there was an intention of obliterating the inscriptions. The
whole of the back is covered thickly with bitumen, and so are the feet.
Then the workers seem to have changed their minds and left the
inscriptions and decoration untouched. Why they intended to cover it,
and why, having commenced, they left it partially covered only, is a
mystery. The mummy was found in its original tomb and quite
undisturbed, so far as tomb-robbers are concerned. Poor Bellingham was
greatly puzzled as to what the explanation could be."

"Speaking of bitumen," said I, "reminds me of a question that has
occurred to me. You know that this substance has been used a good deal
by modern painters and that it has a very dangerous peculiarity; I mean
its tendency to liquefy, without any very obvious reason, long after it
has dried."

"Yes, I know. Isn't there some story about a picture of Reynolds' in
which bitumen had been used? A portrait of a lady, I think. The bitumen
softened, and one of the lady's eyes slipped down on to her cheek; and
they had to hang the portrait upside down and keep it warm until the eye
slipped back into its place. But what was your question?"

"I was wondering whether the bitumen used by the Egyptian artists has
ever been known to soften after this great lapse of time."

"Yes, I think it has. I have heard of instances in which the bitumen
coatings of mummy cases have softened under certain circumstances and
become quite 'tacky.' But, bless my soul! here am I gossiping with you
and wasting your time, and it is nearly a quarter to nine!"

My guest rose hastily, and I, with many apologies for having detained
him, proceeded to fulfil my promise to guide him to his destination. As
we sallied forth together the glamour of Egypt faded by degrees, and
when he shook my hand stiffly at the gate of the Bellinghams' house, all
his vivacity and enthusiasm had vanished, leaving the taciturn lawyer,
dry, uncommunicative, and not a little suspicious.




CHAPTER X

THE NEW ALLIANCE


The "Great Lexicographer"--tutelary deity of my adopted habitat--has
handed down to shuddering posterity a definition of the act of eating
which might have been framed by a dyspeptic ghoul. "Eat: to devour with
the mouth." It is a shocking view to take of so genial a function:
cynical, indelicate, and finally unforgivable by reason of its very
accuracy. For, after all, that is what eating amounts to, if one must
needs express it with such crude brutality. But if "the ingestion of
alimentary substances"--to ring a modern change upon the older
formula--is in itself a process material even unto carnality, it is
undeniable that it forms a highly agreeable accompaniment to more
psychic manifestations.

And so, as the lamplight, re-enforced by accessory candles, falls on the
little table in the first-floor room looking on Fetter Lane--only now
the curtains are drawn--the conversation is not the less friendly and
bright for a running accompaniment executed with knives and forks, for
clink of goblet and jovial gurgle of wine-flask. On the contrary, to one
of us, at least--to wit, Godfrey Bellingham--the occasion is one of
uncommon festivity, and his boyish enjoyment of the simple feast makes
pathetic suggestions of hard times, faced uncomplainingly, but keenly
felt nevertheless.

The talk flitted from topic to topic, mainly concerning itself with
matters artistic, and never for one moment approaching the critical
subject of John Bellingham's will. From the stepped pyramid of Sakkara
with its encaustic tiles to mediaeval church floors; from Elizabethan
woodwork to Mycaenaean pottery, and thence to the industrial arts of the
Stone Age and the civilisation of the Aztecs. I began to suspect that my
two legal friends were so carried away by the interest of the
conversation that they had forgotten the secret purpose of the meeting,
for the dessert had been placed on the table (by Mrs. Gummer with the
manner of a bereaved dependant dispensing funeral bakemeats), and still
no reference had been made to the "case." But it seemed that Thorndyke
was but playing a waiting game; was only allowing the intimacy to ripen
while he watched for the opportunity. And that opportunity came, even as
Mrs. Gummer vanished spectrally with a tray of plates and glasses.

"So you had a visitor last night, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham. "I mean
my friend Jellicoe. He told us he had seen you, and mighty curious he
was about you. I have never known Jellicoe to be so inquisitive before.
What did you think of him?"

"A quaint old cock. I found him highly amusing. We entertained one
another for quite a long time with cross questions and crooked answers;
I affecting eager curiosity, he replying with a defensive attitude of
universal ignorance. It was a most diverting encounter."

"He needn't have been so close," Miss Bellingham remarked, "seeing that
all the world will be regaled with our affairs before long."

"They are proposing to take the case into Court, then?" said Thorndyke.

"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham. "Jellicoe came to tell me that my cousin,
Hurst, has instructed his solicitors to make the application and to
invite me to join him. Actually he came to deliver an ultimatum from
Hurst--But, I mustn't disturb the harmony of this festive gathering with
litigious discords."

"Now, why mustn't you?" asked Thorndyke. "Why is a subject in which we
are all keenly interested to be _tabu_? You don't mind telling us about
it, do you?"

"No, of course not. But what do you think of a man who buttonholes a
doctor at a dinner-party to retail a list of his ailments?"

"It depends on what his ailments are," replied Thorndyke. "If he is a
chronic dyspeptic and wishes to expound the virtues of Doctor Snaffler's
Purple Pills for Pimply People, he is merely a bore. But if he chances
to suffer from some rare and choice disease, such as Trypanosomiasis or
Acromegaly, the doctor will be delighted to listen."

"Then are we to understand," Miss Bellingham asked, "that we are rare
and choice products, in a legal sense?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Thorndyke. "The case of John Bellingham is, in
many respects, unique. It will be followed with the deepest interest by
the profession at large, and especially by medical jurists."

"How gratifying that should be to us!" said Miss Bellingham. "We may
even attain undying fame in textbooks and treatises; and yet we are not
so very much puffed up with our importance."

"No," said her father; "we could do without the fame quite well, and
so, I think, could Hurst. Did Berkeley tell you of the proposal that he
made?"

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "and I gather from what you say that he has
repeated it."

"Yes. He sent Jellicoe to give me another chance, and I was tempted to
take it; but my daughter was strongly against any compromise, and
probably she is right. At any rate, she is more concerned than I am."

"What view did Mr. Jellicoe take?" Thorndyke asked.

"Oh, he was very cautious and reserved, but he didn't disguise his
feeling that I should be wise to take a certainty in lieu of a very
problematical fortune. He would certainly like me to agree, for he
naturally wishes to get the affair settled and pocket his legacy."

"And have you definitely refused?"

"Yes; quite definitely. So Hurst will apply for permission to presume
death and prove the will, and Jellicoe will support him; he says he has
no choice."

"And you?"

"I suppose I shall oppose the application, though I don't quite know on
what grounds."

"Before you take any definite steps," said Thorndyke, "you ought to give
the matter very careful consideration. I take it that you have very
little doubt that your brother is dead. And if he is dead, any benefit
that you may receive under the will must be conditional on the previous
assumption or proof of death. But perhaps you have taken advice?"

"No, I have not. As our friend the Doctor has probably told you, my
means--or rather, the lack of them--do not admit of my getting
professional advice. Hence my delicacy about discussing the case with
you."

"Then do you propose to conduct your case in person?"

"Yes; if it is necessary for me to appear in Court, as I suppose it will
be, if I oppose the application."

Thorndyke reflected for a few moments, and then said gravely:

"You had much better not appear in person to conduct your case, Mr.
Bellingham, for several reasons. To begin with, Mr. Hurst is sure to be
represented by a capable counsel, and you will find yourself quite
unable to meet the sudden exigencies of a contest in Court. You will be
out-manoeuvred. Then there is the judge to be considered."

"But surely one can rely on the judge dealing fairly with a man who is
unable to afford a solicitor and counsel?"

"Undoubtedly, as a rule, a judge will give an unrepresented litigant
every assistance and consideration. English judges in general are
high-minded men with a deep sense of their great responsibilities. But
you cannot afford to take any chances. You must consider the exceptions.
A judge has been a counsel, and he may carry to the bench some of the
professional prejudices of the bar. Indeed, if you consider the absurd
licence permitted to counsel in their treatment of witnesses, and the
hostile attitude adopted by some judges towards medical and other
scientific men who have to give their evidence, you will see that the
judicial mind is not always quite as judicial as one would wish,
especially when the privileges and immunities of the profession are
concerned. Now, your appearance in person to conduct your case must,
unavoidably, cause some inconvenience to the Court. Your ignorance of
procedure and legal details must occasion some delay; and if the judge
should happen to be an irritable man he might resent the inconvenience
and delay. I don't say that that would affect his decision--I don't
think it would--but I am sure that it would be wise to avoid giving
offence to the judge. And, above all, it is most desirable to be able to
detect and reply to any manoeuvres on the part of the opposing counsel,
which you certainly would not be able to do."

"This is excellent advice, Doctor Thorndyke," said Bellingham, with a
grim smile; "but I am afraid I shall have to take my chance."

"Not necessarily," said Thorndyke. "I am going to make a little
proposal, which I will ask you to consider without prejudice as a mutual
accommodation. You see, your case is one of exceptional interest--it
will become a textbook case, as Miss Bellingham has prophesied; and,
since it lies within my specialty, it will be necessary for me, in any
case, to follow it in the closest detail. Now, it would be much more
satisfactory to me to study it from within than from without, to say
nothing of the credit which would accrue to me if I should be able to
conduct it to a successful issue. I am therefore going to ask you to put
your case in my hands and let me see what can be done with it. I know
this is an unusual course for a professional man to take, but I think it
is not improper under the circumstances."

Mr. Bellingham pondered in silence for a few moments, and then, after a
glance at his daughter, began rather hesitatingly: "It is exceedingly
generous of you, Doctor Thorndyke--"

"Pardon me," interrupted Thorndyke, "it is not. My motives, as I have
explained, are purely egoistic."

Mr. Bellingham laughed uneasily and again glanced at his daughter, who,
however, pursued her occupation of peeling a pear with calm deliberation
and without lifting her eyes. Getting no help from her, he asked: "Do
you think that there is any possibility whatever of a successful issue?"

"Yes, a remote possibility--very remote, I fear, as things look at
present; but if I thought the case absolutely hopeless I should advise
you to stand aside and let events take their course."

"Supposing the case to come to a favourable termination, would you allow
me to settle your fees in the ordinary way?"

"If the choice lay with me," replied Thorndyke, "I should say 'yes' with
pleasure. But it does not. The attitude of the profession is very
definitely unfavourable to 'speculative' practice. You may remember the
well-known firm of Dodson and Fogg, who gained thereby much profit, but
little credit. But why discuss contingencies of this kind? If I bring
your case to a successful issue I shall have done very well for myself.
We shall have benefited one another mutually. Come now, Miss Bellingham,
I appeal to you. We have eaten salt together, to say nothing of pigeon
pie and other cates. Won't you back me up, and at the same time do a
kindness to Doctor Berkeley?"

"Why, is Doctor Berkeley interested in our decision?"

"Certainly he is, as you will appreciate when I tell you that he
actually tried to bribe me secretly out of his own pocket."

"Did you?" she asked, looking at me with an expression that rather
alarmed me.

"Well, not exactly," I replied, mighty hot and uncomfortable, and
wishing Thorndyke at the devil with his confidences. "I merely mentioned
that the--the--solicitor's costs, you know, and that sort of thing--but
you needn't jump on me, Miss Bellingham; Doctor Thorndyke did all that
was necessary in that way."

She continued to look at me thoughtfully as I stammered out my excuses,
and then said: "I wasn't going to. I was only thinking that poverty has
its compensations. You are all so very good to us; and, for my part, I
should accept Doctor Thorndyke's generous offer most gratefully, and
thank him for making it so easy for us."

"Very well, my dear," said Mr. Bellingham; "we will enjoy the sweets of
poverty, as you say--we have sampled the other kind of thing pretty
freely--and do ourselves the pleasure of accepting a great kindness,
most delicately offered."

"Thank you," said Thorndyke. "You have justified my faith in you, Miss
Bellingham, and in the power of Doctor Berkeley's salt. I understand
that you place your affairs in my hands?"

"Entirely and thankfully," replied Mr. Bellingham. "Whatever you think
best to be done we agree to beforehand."

"Then," said I, "let us drink success to the Cause. Port, if you please,
Miss Bellingham; the vintage is not recorded, but it is quite wholesome,
and a suitable medium for the sodium chloride of friendship." I filled
her glass, and, when the bottle had made its circuit, we stood up and
solemnly pledged the new alliance.

"There is just one thing that I would say before we dismiss the subject
for the present," said Thorndyke. "It is a good thing to keep one's own
counsel. When you get formal notice from Mr. Hurst's solicitors that
proceedings are being commenced, you may refer them to Mr. Marchmont of
Gray's Inn, who will nominally act for you. He will actually have
nothing to do, but we must preserve the fiction that I am instructed by
a solicitor. Meanwhile, and until the case goes into Court, I think it
very necessary that neither Mr. Jellicoe nor anyone else should know
that I am to be connected with it. We must keep the other side in the
dark, if we can."

"We will be as secret as the grave," said Mr. Bellingham; "and, as a
matter of fact, it will be quite easy, since it happens, by a curious
coincidence, that I am already acquainted with Mr. Marchmont. He acted
for Stephen Blackmore, you remember, in that case that you unravelled so
wonderfully. I knew the Blackmores."

"Did you?" said Thorndyke. "What a small world it is! And what a
remarkable affair that was! The intricacies and cross-issues made it
quite absorbingly interesting; and it is noteworthy for me in another
respect, for it was one of the first cases in which I was associated
with Doctor Jervis."

"Yes, and a mighty useful associate I was," remarked Jervis, "though I
did pick up one or two facts by accident. And, by the way, the Blackmore
case had certain points in common with your case, Mr. Bellingham. There
was a disappearance and a disputed will, and the man who vanished was a
scholar and an antiquarian."

"Cases in our specialty are apt to have certain general resemblances,"
said Thorndyke; and as he spoke he directed a keen glance at his junior,
the significance of which I partly understood when he abruptly changed
the subject.

"The newspaper reports of your brother's disappearance, Mr. Bellingham,
were remarkably full of detail. There were even plans of your house and
that of Mr. Hurst. Do you know who supplied the information?"

"No, I don't," replied Mr. Bellingham. "I know that I didn't. Some
newspaper men came to me for information, but I sent them packing. So, I
understand, did Hurst; and as for Jellicoe, you might as well
cross-examine an oyster."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "the Press-men have queer methods of getting
'copy'; but still, someone must have given them that description of your
brother and those plans. It would be interesting to know who it was.
However, we don't know; and now let us dismiss these legal topics, with
suitable apologies for having introduced them."

"And perhaps," said I, "we may as well adjourn to what we will call the
drawing-room--it is really Barnard's den--and leave the housekeeper to
wrestle with the debris."

We migrated to the cheerfully shabby little apartment, and, when Mrs.
Gummer had served coffee, with gloomy resignation (as who should say:
"If you will drink this sort of stuff I suppose you must, but don't
blame _me_ for the consequences"), I settled Mr. Bellingham in Barnard's
favourite lop-sided easy chair--the depressed seat of which suggested
its customary use by an elephant of sedentary habits--and opened the
diminutive piano.

"I wonder if Miss Bellingham would give us a little music?" I said.

"I wonder if she could?" was the smiling response. "Do you know," she
continued, "I have not touched a piano for nearly two years? It will be
quite an interesting experiment--to me; but if it fails, you will be the
sufferers. So you must choose."

"My verdict," said Mr. Bellingham, "is _fiat experimentum_, though I
won't complete the quotation, as that would seem to disparage Doctor
Barnard's piano. But before you begin, Ruth, there is one rather
disagreeable matter that I want to dispose of, so that I may not disturb
the harmony with it later."

He paused, and we all looked at him expectantly.

"I suppose, Doctor Thorndyke," he said, "you read the newspapers?"

"I don't," replied Thorndyke. "But I ascertain, for purely business
purposes, what they contain."

"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "you have probably met with some accounts
of the finding of certain human remains, apparently portions of a
mutilated body?"

"Yes, I have seen those reports and filed them for future reference."

"Exactly. Well, now, it can hardly be necessary for me to tell you that
those remains--the mutilated remains of some poor murdered creature, as
there can be no doubt they are--have seemed to have a very dreadful
significance for me. You will understand what I mean; and I want to ask
you if--if they have made a similar suggestion to you."

Thorndyke paused before replying, with his eyes bent thoughtfully on
the floor, and we all looked at him anxiously.

"It is very natural," he said at length, "that you should associate
these remains with the mystery of your brother's disappearance. I should
like to say that you are wrong in doing so, but if I did I should be
uncandid. There are certain facts that do, undoubtedly, seem to suggest
a connection, and, up to the present, there are no definite facts of a
contrary significance."

Mr. Bellingham sighed deeply and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"It is a horrible affair!" he said huskily; "horrible! Would you mind,
Doctor Thorndyke, telling us just how the matter stands in your
opinion--what the probabilities are, for and against?"

Again Thorndyke reflected awhile, and it seemed to me that he was not
very willing to discuss the subject. However, the question had been
asked pointedly, and eventually he answered:

"At the present stage of the investigation it is not very easy to state
the balance of probabilities. The matter is still quite speculative. The
bones which have been found hitherto (for we are dealing with a
skeleton, not with a body) have been exclusively those which are useless
for personal identification; which is, in itself, a rather curious and
striking fact. The general character and dimensions of the bones seem to
suggest a middle-aged man of about your brother's height, and the date
of deposition appears to be in agreement with the date of his
disappearance."

"Is it known, then, when they were deposited?" Mr. Bellingham asked.

"In the case of those found at Sidcup it seems possible to deduce an
approximate date. The watercress-bed was cleaned out about two years
ago, so they could not have been lying there longer than that; and their
condition suggests that they could not have been there much less than
two years, as there is apparently not a vestige of the soft structures
left. Of course, I am speaking from the newspaper reports only; I have
no direct knowledge of the matter."

"Have they found any considerable part of the body yet? I haven't been
reading the papers myself. My little friend, Miss Oman, brought a great
bundle of 'em for me to read, but I couldn't stand it; I pitched the
whole boiling of 'em out of the window."

I thought I detected a slight twinkle in Thorndyke's eye, but he
answered quite gravely:

"I think I can give you the particulars from memory, though I won't
guarantee the dates. The original discovery was made, apparently quite
accidentally, at Sidcup on the fifteenth of July. It consisted of a
complete left arm, minus the third finger and including the bones of the
shoulder--the shoulder-blade and collar-bone. This discovery seems to
have set the local population, especially the juvenile part of it,
searching all the ponds and streams of the neighbourhood--"

"Cannibals!" interjected Mr. Bellingham.

"With the result that there was dredged up out of a pond near St. Mary
Cray, in Kent, a right thigh-bone. There is a slight clue to identity in
respect of this bone, since the head of it has a small patch of what is
called 'eburnation'--that is a sort of porcelain-like polish that occurs
on the parts of bones that form a joint when the natural covering of
cartilage is destroyed by disease. It is produced by the unprotected
surface of one bone grinding against the similarly unprotected surface
of another."

"And how," Mr. Bellingham asked, "would that help the identification?"

"It would indicate," replied Thorndyke, "that the deceased had probably
suffered from rheumatoid arthritis--what is commonly known as rheumatic
gout--and he would probably have limped slightly and complained of some
pain in the right hip."

"I am afraid that doesn't help us much," said Mr. Bellingham; "for, you
see, John had a pretty pronounced limp from another cause, an old injury
to his left ankle; and as to complaining of pain--well, he was a hardy
old fellow and not much given to making complaints of any kind. But
don't let me interrupt you."

"The next discovery," continued Thorndyke, "was made near Lee, by the
police this time. They seem to have developed sudden activity in the
matter, and in searching the neighbourhood of West Kent they dragged out
of a pond near Lee the bones of a right foot. Now, if it had been the
left instead of the right we might have had a clue, as I understand that
your brother had fractured his left ankle, and there might have been
some traces of the injury on the foot itself."

"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham, "I suppose there might. The injury was
described as a Pott's fracture."

"Exactly. Well, now, after this discovery at Lee it seems that the
police set on foot a systematic search of all the ponds and small pieces
of water around London, and on the twenty-third, they found in the
Cuckoo Pits in Epping Forest, not far from Woodford, the bones of a
right arm (including those of the shoulder, as before), which seem to be
part of the same body."

"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham, "I heard of that. Quite close to my old
house. Horrible! horrible! It gave me the shudders to think of it--to
think that poor old John may have been waylaid and murdered when he was
actually coming to see me. He may even have got into the grounds by the
back gate, if it was left unfastened, and been followed in there and
murdered. You remember that a scarab from his watch-chain was found
there? But is it clear that this arm was the fellow of the arm that was
found at Sidcup?"

"It seems to agree in character and dimensions," said Thorndyke, "and
the agreement is strongly supported by a discovery that was made two
days later."

"What is that?" Mr. Bellingham demanded.

"It is the lower half of a trunk which the police dredged out of a
rather deep pond on the skirts of the forest at Loughton--Staple's Pond,
it is called. The bones found were the pelvis--that is, the two
hipbones--and six vertebrae, or joints of the backbone. Having
discovered these, the police dammed the stream and pumped the pond dry,
but no other bones were found; which is rather odd, as there should have
been a pair of ribs belonging to the upper vertebra--the twelfth dorsal
vertebra. It suggests some curious questions as to the method of
dismemberment; but I mustn't go into unpleasant details. The point is
that the cavity of the right hip-joint showed a patch of eburnation
corresponding to that on the head of the right thigh-bone that was found
at St. Mary Cray. So there can be very little doubt that these bones are
all part of the same body."

"I see," grunted Mr. Bellingham; and he added, after a moment's
thought: "Now, the question is, Are these bones the remains of my
brother John? What do you say, Doctor Thorndyke?"

"I say that the question cannot be answered on the facts at present
known to us. It can only be said that they may be, and that some of the
circumstances suggest that they are. But we can only wait for further
discoveries. At any moment the police may light upon some portion of the
skeleton which will settle the question definitely one way or the
other."

"I suppose," said Mr. Bellingham, "I can't be of any service to you in
the matter of identification?"

"Indeed you can," said Thorndyke, "and I was going to ask you to assist
me. What I want you to do is this: Write down a full description of your
brother, including every detail known to you, together with an account
of every illness or injury from which you know him to have suffered; and
also the names and, if possible, the addresses of any doctors, surgeons,
or dentists who may have attended him at any time. The dentists are
particularly important, as their information would be invaluable if the
skull belonging to these bones should be discovered."

Mr. Bellingham shuddered.

"It's a shocking idea," he said; "but, of course, you are quite right.
You must have the facts if you are to form an opinion. I will write out
what you want and send it to you without delay. And now, for God's sake,
let us throw off this nightmare, for a little while, at least! What is
there, Ruth, among Doctor Barnard's music that you can manage?"

Barnard's collection in general inclined to the severely classical, but
we disinterred from the heap a few lighter works of an old-fashioned
kind, including a volume of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_, and with
one of these Miss Bellingham made trial of her skill, playing it with
excellent taste and quite adequate execution. That, at least, was her
father's verdict; for, as to me, I found it the perfection of happiness
merely to sit and look at her--a state of mind that would have been in
no wise disturbed even by _Silvery Waves_ or _The Maiden's Prayer_.

Thus with simple, homely music, and conversation always cheerful and
sometimes brilliant, slipped away one of the pleasantest evenings of my
life, and slipped away all too soon. St. Dunstan's clock was the fly in
the ointment, for it boomed out intrusively the hour of eleven just as
my guests were beginning thoroughly to appreciate one another; and
thereby carried the sun (with a minor paternal satellite) out of the
firmament of my heaven. For I had, in my professional capacity, given
strict injunctions that Mr. Bellingham should on no account sit up late;
and now, in my social capacity, I had smilingly to hear "the doctor's
orders" quoted. It was a scurvy return for all my care.

When Mr. and Miss Bellingham departed, Thorndyke and Jervis would have
gone too; but noting my bereaved condition, and being withal
compassionate and tender of heart, they were persuaded to stay awhile
and bear me company in a consolatory pipe.




CHAPTER XI

THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED


"So the game has opened," observed Thorndyke, as he struck a match. "The
play has begun with a cautious lead off by the other side. Very
cautious, and not very confident."

"Why do you say 'not very confident'?" I asked.

"Well, it is evident that Hurst--and, I fancy, Jellicoe too--is anxious
to buy off Bellingham's opposition, and at a pretty long price, under
the circumstances. And when we consider how very little Bellingham has
to offer against the presumption of his brother's death, it looks as if
Hurst hadn't much to say on his side."

"No," said Jervis, "he can't hold many trumps or he wouldn't be willing
to pay four hundred a year for his opponent's chance; and that is just
as well, for it seems to me that our own hand is a pretty poor one."

"We must look through our hand and see what we do hold," said Thorndyke.
"Our trump card at present--a rather small one, I am afraid--is the
obvious intention of the testator that the bulk of the property should
go to his brother."

"I suppose you will begin your inquiries now," said I.

"We began them some time ago--the day after you brought us the will, in
fact. Jervis has been through the registers and has ascertained that no
interment under the name of John Bellingham has taken place since the
disappearance; which was just what we expected. He has also discovered
that some other person has been making similar inquiries; which, again,
is what we expected."

"And your own investigations?"

"Have given negative results for the most part. I found Doctor Norbury,
at the British Museum, very friendly and helpful; so friendly, in fact,
that I am thinking whether I may not be able to enlist his help in
certain private researches of my own, with reference to the changes
effected by time in the physical properties of certain substances."

"Oh; you haven't told me about that," said Jervis.

"No: I haven't really commenced to plan my experiments yet, and they
will probably lead to nothing when I do. It occurred to me that,
possibly, in the course of time, certain molecular changes might take
place in substances such as wood, bone, pottery, stucco, and other
common materials, and that these changes might alter their power of
conducting or transmitting molecular vibrations. Now, if this should
turn out to be the case, it would be a fact of considerable importance,
medico-legal and otherwise; for it would be possible to determine
approximately the age of any object of known composition by testing its
reactions to electricity, heat, light and other molecular vibrations. I
thought of seeking Doctor Norbury's assistance because he can furnish me
with materials for experiment of such great age that the reactions, if
any, should be extremely easy to demonstrate. But to return to our case.
I learned from him that John Bellingham had certain friends in
Paris--collectors and museum officials--whom he was in the habit of
visiting for the purpose of study and exchange of specimens. I have
made inquiries of all of these, and none of them had seen him during his
last visit. In fact, I have not yet discovered anyone who had seen
Bellingham in Paris on this occasion. So his visit there remains a
mystery for the present."

"It doesn't seem to be of much importance, since he undoubtedly came
back," I remarked; but to this Thorndyke demurred.

"It is impossible to estimate the importance of the unknown," said he.

"Well, how does the matter stand," asked Jervis, "on the evidence that
we have? John Bellingham disappeared on a certain date. Is there
anything to show what was the manner of his disappearance?"

"The facts in our possession," said Thorndyke, "which are mainly those
set forth in the newspaper report, suggest several alternative
possibilities; and in view of the coming inquiry--for they will, no
doubt, have to be gone into in Court, to some extent--it may be worth
while to consider them. There are five conceivable hypotheses"--here
Thorndyke checked them on his fingers as he proceeded--"First, he may
still be alive. Second, he may have died and been buried without
identification. Third, he may have been murdered by some unknown person.
Fourth, he may have been murdered by Hurst and his body concealed.
Fifth, he may have been murdered by his brother. Let us examine these
possibilities seriatim.

"First, he may still be alive. If he is, he must either have disappeared
voluntarily, have lost his memory suddenly and not been identified, or
have been imprisoned--on a false charge or otherwise. Let us take the
first case--that of voluntary disappearance. Obviously, its
improbability is extreme."

"Jellicoe doesn't think so," said I. "He thinks it quite on the cards
that John Bellingham is alive. He says that it is not a very unusual
thing for a man to disappear for a time."

"Then why is he applying for a presumption of death?"

"Just what I asked him. He says that it is the correct thing to do; that
the entire responsibility rests on the Court."

"That is all nonsense," said Thorndyke. "Jellicoe is the trustee for his
absent client, and, if he thinks that client is alive, it is his duty to
keep the estate intact; and he knows that perfectly well. We may take it
that Jellicoe is of the same opinion as I am: that John Bellingham is
dead."

"Still," I urged, "men do disappear from time to time, and turn up again
after years of absence."

"Yes, but for a definite reason. Either they are irresponsible vagabonds
who take this way of shuffling off their responsibilities, or they are
men who have been caught in a net of distasteful circumstances. For
instance, a civil servant or a solicitor or a tradesman finds himself
bound for life to a locality and an occupation of intolerable monotony.
Perhaps he has an ill-tempered wife, who, after the amiable fashion of a
certain type of woman, thinking that her husband is pinned down without
a chance of escape, gives a free rein to her temper. The man puts up
with it for years, but at last it becomes unbearable. Then he suddenly
disappears; and small blame to him. But this was not Bellingham's case.
He was a wealthy bachelor with an engrossing interest in life, free to
go whither he would and to do whatsoever he wished. Why should he
disappear? The thing is incredible.

"As to his having lost his memory and remained unidentified, that, also,
is incredible in the case of a man who had visiting-cards and letters in
his pocket, whose linen was marked, and who was being inquired for
everywhere by the police. As to his being in prison, we may dismiss that
possibility, inasmuch as a prisoner, both before and after conviction,
would have full opportunity of communicating with his friends.

"The second possibility, that he may have died suddenly and been buried
without identification, is highly improbable; but, as it is conceivable
that the body might have been robbed and the means of identification
thus lost, it remains as a possibility that has to be considered, remote
as it is.

"The third hypothesis, that he may have been murdered by some unknown
person, is, under the circumstances, not wildly improbable; but, as the
police were on the look out and a detailed description of the missing
man's person was published in the papers, it would involve the complete
concealment of the body. But this would exclude the most probable form
of the crime--the casual robbery with violence. It is therefore
possible, but highly improbable.

"The fourth hypothesis is that Bellingham was murdered by Hurst. Now the
one fact which militates against this view is that Hurst apparently had
no motive for committing the murder. We are assured by Jellicoe that no
one but himself knew the contents of the will, and if this is so--but,
mind, we have no evidence that it is so--Hurst would have no reason to
suppose that he had anything material to gain by his cousin's death.
Otherwise the hypothesis presents no inherent improbabilities. The man
was last seen alive at Hurst's house. He was seen to enter it and he was
never seen to leave it--we are still taking the facts as stated in the
newspapers, remember--and it now appears that he stands to benefit
enormously by that man's death."

"But," I objected, "you are forgetting that, directly the man was
missed, Hurst and the servants together searched the entire house."

"Yes. What did they search for?"

"Why, for Mr. Bellingham, of course."

"Exactly; for Mr. Bellingham. That is, for a living man. Now how do you
search a house for a living man? You look in all the rooms. When you
look in a room, if he is there, you see him; if you do not see him, you
assume that he is not there. You don't look under the sofa or behind the
piano, you don't pull out large drawers or open cupboards. You just look
into the rooms. That is what these people seem to have done. And they
did not see Mr. Bellingham. But Mr. Bellingham's corpse might have been
stowed away out of sight in any one of the rooms that they looked into."

"That is a grim thought," said Jervis; "But it is perfectly true. There
is no evidence that the man was not lying dead in the house at the very
time of the search."

"But even so," said I, "there was the body to be disposed of somehow.
Now how could he possibly have got rid of the body without being
observed?"

"Ah!" said Thorndyke, "now we are touching on a point of crucial
importance. If anyone should ever write a treatise on the art of
murder--not an exhibition of literary fireworks like De Quincey's, but a
genuine working treatise--he might leave all other technical details to
take care of themselves if he could describe some really practicable
plan for disposing of the body. That is, and always has been, the great
stumbling-block to the murderer: to get rid of the body. The human
body," he continued, thoughtfully regarding his pipe, just as, in the
days of my pupilage, he was wont to regard the black-board chalk, "is a
very remarkable object. It presents a combination of properties that
makes it singularly difficult to conceal permanently. It is bulky and of
an awkward shape, it is heavy, it is completely incombustible, it is
chemically unstable, and its decomposition yields great volumes of
highly odorous gases, and it nevertheless contains identifiable
structures of the highest degree of permanence. It is extremely
difficult to preserve unchanged, and it is still more difficult
completely to destroy. The essential permanence of the human body is
well shown in the classical case of Eugene Aram; but a still more
striking instance is that of Seqenen-Ra the Third, one of the last kings
of the seventeenth Egyptian dynasty. Here, after a lapse of some four
thousand years, it has been possible to determine, not only the cause of
death and the manner of its occurrence, but the way in which the king
fell, the nature of the weapon with which the fatal wound was inflicted,
and even the position of the assailant. And the permanence of the body
under other conditions is admirably shown in the case of Doctor Parkman,
of Boston, U.S.A., in which identification was actually effected by
means of remains collected from the ashes of a furnace."

"Then we may take it," said Jervis, "that the world has not yet seen
the last of John Bellingham."

"I think we may regard that as almost a certainty," replied Thorndyke.
"The only question--and a very important one--is as to when the
reappearance may take place. It may be to-morrow or it may be centuries
hence, when all the issues involved have been forgotten."

"Assuming," said I, "for the sake of argument, that Hurst did murder him
and that the body was concealed in the study at the time the search was
made. How could it have been disposed of? If you had been in Hurst's
place, how would you have gone to work?"

Thorndyke smiled at the bluntness of my question.

"You are asking me for an incriminating statement," said he, "delivered
in the presence of a witness too. But, as a matter of fact, there is no
use in speculating _a priori_; we should have to reconstruct a purely
imaginary situation, the circumstances of which are unknown to us, and
we should almost certainly reconstruct it wrong. What we may fairly
assume is that no reasonable person, no matter how immoral, would find
himself in the position that you suggest. Murder is usually a crime of
impulse, and the murderer a person of feeble self-control. Such persons
are most unlikely to make elaborate and ingenious arrangements for the
disposal of the bodies of their victims. Even the cold-blooded
perpetrators of the most carefully planned murders appear, as I have
said, to break down at this point. The almost insuperable difficulty of
getting rid of a human body is not appreciated until the murderer
suddenly finds himself face to face with it.

"In the case that you are suggesting, the choice would seem to lie
between burial on the premises or dismemberment and dispersal of the
fragments; and either method would be pretty certain to lead to
discovery."

"As illustrated by the remains of which you were speaking to Mr.
Bellingham," Jervis remarked.

"Exactly," Thorndyke answered, "though we could hardly imagine a
reasonably intelligent criminal adopting a watercress-bed as a
hiding-place."

"No. That was certainly an error of judgment. By the way, I thought it
best to say nothing while you were talking to Bellingham, but I noticed
that, in discussing the possibility of those being the bones of his
brother, you made no comment on the absence of the third finger of the
left hand. I am sure you didn't overlook it, but isn't it a point of
some importance?"

"As to identification? Under the present circumstances, I think not. If
there were a man missing who had lost that finger it would, of course,
be an important fact. But I have not heard of any such man. Or, again,
if there were any evidence that the finger had been removed before
death, it would be highly important. But there is no such evidence. It
may have been cut off after death, and there is where the real
significance of its absence lies."

"I don't quite see what you mean," said Jervis.

"I mean that, if there is no report of any missing man who had lost that
particular finger, the probability is that the finger was removed after
death. And then arises the interesting question of motive. Why should it
have been removed? It could hardly have become detached accidentally.
What do you suggest?"

"Well," said Jervis, "it might have been a peculiar finger; a finger,
for instance, with some characteristic deformity, such as an ankylosed
joint, which would be easy to identify."

"Yes; but that explanation introduces the same difficulty. No person
with a deformed or ankylosed finger has been reported as missing."

Jervis puckered up his brows and looked at me.

"I'm hanged if I see any other explanation," he said. "Do you,
Berkeley?"

I shook my head.

"Don't forget which finger it is that is missing," said Thorndyke. "The
third finger on the left hand."

"Oh, I see!" said Jervis. "The ring-finger. You mean it may have been
removed for the sake of a ring that wouldn't come off."

"Yes. It would not be the first instance of the kind. Fingers have been
severed from dead hands--and even from living ones--for the sake of
rings that were too tight to be drawn off. And the fact that it is the
left hand supports this suggestion; for a ring that was inconveniently
tight would be worn by preference on the left hand, as that is usually
slightly smaller than the right. What is the matter, Berkeley?"

A sudden light had burst upon me, and I suppose my countenance betrayed
the fact.

"I am a confounded fool!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, don't say that," said Jervis. "Give your friends a chance."

"I ought to have seen this long ago and told you about it. John
Bellingham did wear a ring, and it was so tight that, when once he had
got it on, he could never get it off again."

"Do you happen to know on which hand he wore it?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes. It was the left hand; because Miss Bellingham, who told me about
it, said that he would never have been able to get the ring on at all
but for the fact that his left hand was slightly smaller than his
right."

"There it is, then," said Thorndyke. "With this new fact in our
possession, the absence of this finger furnishes the starting-point of
some very curious speculations."

"As, for instance?" said Jervis.

"Ah, under the circumstances, I must leave you to pursue those
speculations independently. I am now acting for Mr. Bellingham."

Jervis grinned and was silent for a while, refilling his pipe
thoughtfully; but when he had got it alight he resumed.

"To return to the question of the disappearance; you don't consider it
highly improbable that Bellingham might have been murdered by Hurst?"

"Oh, don't imagine that I am making an accusation. I am considering the
various probabilities merely in the abstract. The same reasoning applies
to the Bellinghams. As to whether any of them did commit the murder,
that is a question of personal character. I certainly do not suspect the
Bellinghams after having seen them, and with regard to Hurst, I know
nothing, or at least very little, to his disadvantage."

"Do you know anything?" asked Jervis.

"Well," Thorndyke said, with some hesitation, "it seems a thought unkind
to rake up the little details of a man's past, and yet it has to be
done. I have, of course, made the usual routine inquiries concerning
the parties to this affair, and this is what they have brought to
light:

"Hurst, as you know, is a stockbroker--a man of good position and
reputation; but, about ten years ago, he seems to have committed an
indiscretion, to put it mildly, which nearly got him into rather serious
difficulties. He appears to have speculated rather heavily and
considerably beyond his means, for when a sudden spasm of the market
upset his calculations, it turned out that he had been employing his
clients' capital and securities. For a time it looked as if there was
going to be serious trouble; then, quite unexpectedly, he managed to
raise the necessary amount in some way and settle all claims. Whence he
got the money has never been discovered to this day, which is a curious
circumstance, seeing that the deficiency was rather over five thousand
pounds; but the important fact is that he did get it and that he paid up
all that he owed. So that he was only a potential defaulter, so to
speak; and, discreditable as the affair undoubtedly was, it does not
seem to have any direct bearing on this present case."

"No," Jervis agreed, "though it makes one consider his position with
more attention than one would otherwise."

"Undoubtedly," said Thorndyke. "A reckless gambler is a man whose
conduct cannot be relied on. He is subject to sudden vicissitudes of
fortune which may force him into other kinds of wrongdoing. Many an
embezzlement has been preceded by an unlucky plunge on the turf."

"Assuming the responsibility for this disappearance to lie between Hurst
and--and the Bellinghams," said I, with an uncomfortable gulp as I
mentioned the name of my friends, "to which side does the balance of
probability incline?"

"To the side of Hurst, I should say, without doubt," replied Thorndyke.
"The case stands thus--on the facts presented to us: Hurst appears to
have had no motive for killing the deceased (as we will call him); but
the man was seen to enter his house, was never seen to leave it, and was
never again seen alive. Bellingham, on the other hand, had a motive, as
he believed himself to be the principal beneficiary under the will. But
the deceased was not seen at his house, and there is no evidence that he
went to the house or to the neighbourhood of the house, excepting the
scarab that was found there. But the evidence of the scarab is vitiated
by the fact that Hurst was present when it was picked up, and that it
was found on a spot over which Hurst had passed only a few minutes
previously. Until Hurst is cleared, it seems to me that the presence of
the scarab proves nothing against the Bellinghams."

"Then your opinions on the case," said I, "are based entirely on the
facts that have been made public."

"Yes, mainly. I do not necessarily accept those facts just as they are
presented, and I may have certain views of my own on the case. But if I
have, I do not feel in a position to discuss them. For the present,
discussion has to be limited to the facts and inferences offered by the
parties concerned."

"There!" exclaimed Jervis, rising to knock out his pipe, "that is where
Thorndyke has you. He lets you think you're in the very thick of the
'know' until one fine morning you wake up and discover that you have
only been a gaping outsider; and then you are mightily astonished--and
so are the other side, too, for that matter. But we must really be off
now, mustn't we, reverend senior?"

"I suppose we must," replied Thorndyke; and, as he drew on his gloves,
he asked: "Have you heard from Barnard lately?"

"Oh, yes," I answered. "I wrote to him at Smyrna to say that the
practice was flourishing and that I was quite happy and contented, and
that he might stay away as long as he liked. He writes by return that he
will prolong his holiday if an opportunity offers, but will let me know
later."

"Gad," said Jervis, "it was a stroke of luck for Barnard that Bellingham
happened to have such a magnificent daughter--there! don't mind me, old
man. You go in and win--she's worth it, isn't she, Thorndyke?"

"Miss Bellingham is a very charming young lady," replied Thorndyke. "I
am most favourably impressed by both the father and the daughter, and I
only trust that we may be able to be of some service to them." With this
sedate little speech Thorndyke shook my hand, and I watched my two
friends go on their way until their fading shapes were swallowed up in
the darkness of Fetter Lane.




CHAPTER XII

A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY


It was some two or three mornings after my little supper-party that, as
I stood in the consulting-room brushing my hat preparatory to starting
on my morning round, Adolphus appeared at the door to announce two
gentlemen waiting in the surgery. I told him to bring them in, and a
moment later Thorndyke entered, accompanied by Jervis. I noted that they
looked uncommonly large in the little apartment, especially Thorndyke,
but I had no time to consider this phenomenon, for the latter, when he
had shaken my hand, proceeded at once to explain the object of their
visit.

"We have come to ask a favour, Berkeley," he said; "to ask you to do us
a very great service in the interests of your friends, the Bellinghams."

"You know I shall be delighted," I said warmly. "What is it?"

"I will explain. You know--or perhaps you don't--that the police have
collected all the bones that have been discovered and deposited them in
the mortuary at Woodford, where they are to be viewed by the coroner's
jury. Now, it has become imperative that I should have more definite and
reliable information about them than I can get from the newspapers. The
natural thing would be for me to go down and examine them myself, but
there are circumstances that make it very desirable that my connection
with the case should not leak out. Consequently, I can't go myself,
and, for the same reason, I can't send Jervis. On the other hand, as it
is now stated pretty openly that the police consider the bones to be
almost certainly those of John Bellingham, it would seem perfectly
natural that you, as Godfrey Bellingham's doctor, should go down to view
them on his behalf."

"I should like to go," I said. "I would give anything to go; but how is
it to be managed? It would mean a whole day off and leaving the practice
to take care of itself."

"I think that could be arranged," said Thorndyke; "and the matter is
really important for two reasons. One is that the inquest opens
to-morrow, and someone certainly ought to be there to watch the
proceedings on Godfrey's behalf; and the other is that our client has
received notice from Hurst's solicitors that the application would be
heard in the Probate Court in a few days."

"Isn't that rather sudden?" I asked.

"It certainly suggests that there has been a good deal more activity
than we were given to understand. But you see the importance of the
affair. The inquest will be a sort of dress rehearsal for the Probate
Court, and it is quite essential that we should have a chance of
estimating the management."

"Yes, I see that. But how are we to manage about the practice?"

"We shall find you a substitute."

"Through a medical agent?"

"Yes," said Jervis. "Turcival will find us a man; in fact, he has done
it. I saw him this morning; he has a man who is waiting up in town to
negotiate for the purchase of a practice and who would do the job for a
couple of guineas. Quite a reliable man. Only say the word, and I will
run off to Adam Street and engage him definitely."

"Very well. You engage the locum tenens, and I will be prepared to start
for Woodford as soon as he turns up."

"Excellent!" said Thorndyke. "That is a great weight off my mind. And if
you could manage to drop in this evening and smoke a pipe with us we
could talk over the plan of campaign and let you know what items of
information we are particularly in want of."

I promised to turn up at King's Bench Walk as soon after half-past eight
as possible, and my two friends then took their departure, leaving me to
set out in high spirits on my scanty round of visits.

It is surprising what different aspects things present from different
points of view; how relative are our estimates of the conditions and
circumstances of life. To the urban workman--the journeyman baker or
tailor, for instance, labouring year in year out in a single building--a
holiday ramble on Hampstead Heath is a veritable voyage of discovery;
whereas to the sailor the shifting panorama of the whole wide world is
but the commonplace of the day's work.

So I reflected as I took my place in the train at Liverpool Street on
the following day. There had been a time when a trip by rail to the
borders of Epping Forest would have been far from a thrilling
experience; now, after vegetating in the little world of Fetter Lane, it
was quite an adventure.

The enforced inactivity of a railway journey is favourable to thought,
and I had much to think about. The last few weeks had witnessed
momentous changes in my outlook. New interests had arisen, new
friendships had grown up; and, above all, there had stolen into my life
that supreme influence that, for good or for evil, according to my
fortune, was to colour and pervade it even to its close. Those few days
of companionable labour in the reading-room, with the homely
hospitalities of the milk-shop and the pleasant walks homeward through
the friendly London streets, had called into existence a new world--a
world in which the gracious personality of Ruth Bellingham was the one
dominating reality. And thus, as I leaned back in a corner of the
railway carriage with an unlighted pipe in my hand, the events of the
immediate past, together with those more problematical ones of the
impending future, occupied me rather to the exclusion of the business of
the moment, which was to review the remains collected in the Woodford
mortuary, until, as the train approached Stratford, the odours of the
soap and bone-manure factories poured in at the open window and (by a
natural association of ideas) brought me back to the object of my quest.

As to the exact purpose of this expedition, I was not very clear; but I
knew that I was acting as Thorndyke's proxy and thrilled with pride at
the thought. But what particular light my investigations were to throw
upon the intricate Bellingham case I had no very definite idea. With a
view to fixing the course of procedure in my mind, I took Thorndyke's
written instructions from my pocket and read them over carefully. They
were very full and explicit, making ample allowance for my lack of
experience in medico-legal matters:--

   1. Do not appear to make minute investigations or in any way
      excite remark.

   2. Ascertain if all the bones belonging to each region are
      present, and if not, which are missing.

   3. Measure the extreme length of the principal bones and compare
      those of opposite sides.

   4. Examine the bones with reference to the age, sex, and muscular
      development of the deceased.

   5. Note the presence or absence of signs of constitutional
      disease, local disease of bone or adjacent structures, old or
      recent injuries, and any other departures from the normal or
      usual.

   6. Observe the presence or absence of adipocere and its position,
      if present.

   7. Note any remains of tendons, ligaments, or other soft
      structures.

   8. Examine the Sidcup hand with reference to the question as to
      whether the finger was separated before or after death.

   9. Estimate the probable period of submersion and note any changes
      (as, e.g., mineral or organic staining) due to the character of
      the water or mud.

  10. Ascertain the circumstances (immediate and remote) that led to
      the discovery of the bones and the names of the persons
      concerned in those circumstances.

  11. Commit all information to writing as soon as possible, and make
      plans and diagrams on the spot, if circumstances permit.

  12. Preserve an impassive exterior; listen attentively but without
      eagerness; ask as few questions as possible; pursue any inquiry
      that your observations on the spot may suggest.

These were my instructions, and, considering that I was going merely to
inspect a few dry bones, they appeared rather formidable; in fact, the
more I read them over the greater became my misgivings as to my
qualifications for the task.

As I approached the mortuary it became evident that some, at least, of
Thorndyke's admonitions were by no means unnecessary. The place was in
charge of a police-sergeant, who watched my approach suspiciously; and
some half-dozen men, obviously newspaper reporters, hovered about the
entrance like a pack of jackals. I presented the coroner's order which
Mr. Marchmont had obtained, and which the sergeant read with his back
against the wall, to prevent the newspaper men from looking over his
shoulder.

My credentials being found satisfactory, the door was unlocked and I
entered, accompanied by three enterprising reporters, whom, however, the
sergeant summarily ejected and locked out, returning to usher me into
the presence and to observe my proceedings with intelligent but highly
embarrassing interest.

The bones were laid out on a large table and covered with a sheet, which
the sergeant slowly turned back, watching my face intently as he did so
to note the impression that the spectacle made upon me. I imagine that
he must have been somewhat disappointed by my impassive demeanour, for
the remains suggested to me nothing more than a rather shabby set of
"student's osteology." The whole collection had been set out (by the
police-surgeon, as the sergeant informed me) in their proper anatomical
order; notwithstanding which I counted them over carefully to make sure
that none were missing, checking them by the list with which Thorndyke
had furnished me.

"I see you have found the left thigh-bone," I remarked, observing that
this did not appear in the list.

"Yes," said the sergeant; "that turned up yesterday evening in a big
pond called Baldwin's Pond in the Sand-pit plain, near Little Monk
Wood."

"Is that near here?" I asked.

"In the forest up Loughton way," was the reply.

I made a note of the fact (on which the sergeant looked as if he was
sorry he had mentioned it), and then turned my attention to a general
consideration of the bones before examining them in detail. Their
appearance would have been improved and examination facilitated by a
thorough scrubbing, for they were just as they had been taken from their
respective resting-places, and it was difficult to decide whether their
reddish-yellow colour was an actual stain or due to a deposit on the
surface. In any case, as it affected them all alike, I thought it an
interesting feature and made a note of it. They bore numerous traces of
their sojourn in the various ponds from which they had been recovered,
but these gave me little help in determining the length of time during
which they had been submerged. They were, of course, encrusted with mud,
and little wisps of pond-weed stuck to them in places; but these facts
furnished only the vaguest measure of time.

Some of the traces were, indeed, more informing. To several of the
bones, for instance, there adhered the dried egg-clusters of the common
pond-snail, and in one of the hollows of the right shoulder-blade (the
"infra-spinous fossa") was a group of the mud-built tubes of the red
river-worm. These remains gave proof of a considerable period of
submersion, and since they could not have been deposited on the bones
until all the flesh had disappeared, they furnished evidence that some
time--a month or two, at any rate--had elapsed since this had happened.
Incidentally, too, their distribution showed the position in which the
bones had lain, and though this appeared to be of no importance in the
existing circumstances, I made careful notes of the situation of each
adherent body, illustrating their position by rough sketches.

The sergeant watched my proceedings with an indulgent smile.

"You're making a regular inventory, sir," he remarked, "as if you were
going to put 'em up for auction. I shouldn't think those snails' eggs
would be much help in identification. And all that has been done
already," he added as I produced my measuring-tape.

"No doubt," I replied; "but my business is to make independent
observations, to check the others, if necessary." And I proceeded to
measure each of the principal bones separately and to compare those of
the opposite sides. The agreement in dimensions and general
characteristics of the pairs of bones left little doubt that all were
parts of one skeleton, a conclusion that was confirmed by the eburnated
patch on the head of the right thigh-bone and the corresponding patch in
the socket of the right hip-bone. When I had finished my measurements I
went over the entire series of bones in detail, examining each with the
closest attention for any of those signs which Thorndyke had indicated,
and eliciting nothing but a monotonously reiterated negative. They were
distressingly and disappointingly normal.

"Well, sir, and what do you make of 'em?" the sergeant asked cheerfully
as I shut up my note-book and straightened my back. "Whose bones are
they? Are they Mr. Bellingham's, think ye?"

"I should be very sorry to say whose bones they are," I replied. "One
bone is very much like another, you know."

"I suppose it is," he agreed; "but I thought that, with all that
measuring and all those notes, you might have arrived at something
definite." Evidently he was disappointed in me; and I was somewhat
disappointed in myself when I contrasted Thorndyke's elaborate
instructions with the meagre result of my investigations. For what did
my discoveries amount to? And how much was the inquiry advanced by the
few entries in my note-book?

The bones were apparently those of a man of fair though not remarkable
muscular development; over thirty years of age, but how much older I was
unable to say. His height I judged roughly to be five feet eight inches,
but my measurements would furnish data for a more exact estimate by
Thorndyke. Beyond this the bones were quite uncharacteristic. There were
no signs of disease either local or general, no indications of injuries
either old or recent, no departures of any kind from the normal or
usual; and the dismemberment had been effected with such care that there
was not a single scratch on any of the separated surfaces. Of adipocere
(the peculiar waxy or soapy substance that is commonly found in bodies
that have slowly decayed in damp situations) there was not a trace; and
the only remnant of the soft structures was a faint indication, like a
spot of dried glue, of the tendon on the tip of the right elbow.

The sergeant was in the act of replacing the sheet, with the air of a
showman who has just given an exhibition, when there came a sharp
rapping on the mortuary door. The officer finished spreading the sheet
with official precision, and having ushered me out into the lobby,
turned the key and admitted three persons, holding the door open after
they had entered for me to go out. But the appearance of the new-comers
inclined me to linger. One of them was a local constable, evidently in
official charge; a second was a labouring man, very muddy and wet, who
carried a small sack; while in the third I thought I scented a
professional brother.

The sergeant continued to hold the door open.

"Nothing more I can do for you, sir?" he asked genially.

"Is that the divisional surgeon?" I inquired.

"Yes. I am the divisional surgeon," the new-comer answered. "Did you
want anything of me?"

"This," said the sergeant, "is a medical gentleman who has got
permission from the coroner to inspect the remains. He is acting for the
family of the deceased--I mean, for the family of Mr. Bellingham," he
added in answer to an inquiring glance from the surgeon.

"I see," said the latter. "Well, they have found the rest of the trunk,
including, I understand, the ribs that were missing from the other part.
Isn't that so, Davis?"

"Yes, sir," replied the constable. "Inspector Badger says all the ribs
is here, and all the bones of the neck as well."

"The inspector seems to be an anatomist," I remarked.

The sergeant grinned. "He's a very knowing gentleman, is Mr. Badger. He
came down here this morning quite early and spent a long time looking
over the bones and checking them by some notes in his pocket-book. I
fancy he's got something on, but he was precious close about it."

Here the sergeant shut up rather suddenly--perhaps contrasting his own
conduct with that of his superior.

"Let us have these new bones out on the table," said the police-surgeon.
"Take that sheet off, and don't shoot them out as if they were coals.
Hand them out carefully."

The labourer fished out the wet and muddy bones one by one from the
sack, and as he laid them on the table the surgeon arranged them in
their proper relative positions.

"This has been a neatly executed job," he remarked; "none of your clumsy
hacking with a chopper or a saw. The bones have been cleanly separated
at the joints. The fellow who did this must have had some anatomical
knowledge, unless he was a butcher, which, by the way, is not
impossible. He has used his knife uncommonly skilfully, and you notice
that each arm was taken off with the scapula attached, just as a butcher
takes off a shoulder of mutton. Are there any more bones in that bag?"

"No, sir," replied the labourer, wiping his hands with an air of
finality on the posterior aspect of his trousers; "that's the lot."

The surgeon looked thoughtfully at the bones as he gave a final touch
to their arrangement, and remarked:

"The inspector is right. All the bones of the neck are there. Very odd.
Don't you think so?"

"You mean--"

"I mean that this very eccentric murderer seems to have given himself
such an extraordinary amount of trouble for no reason that one can see.
There are these neck vertebrae, for instance. He must have carefully
separated the skull from the atlas instead of just cutting through the
neck. Then there is the way he divided the trunk; the twelfth ribs have
just come in with this lot, but the twelfth dorsal vertebra to which
they belong was attached to the lower half. Imagine the trouble he must
have taken to do that, and without cutting or hacking the bones about,
either. It is extraordinary. This is rather interesting, by the way.
Handle it carefully."

He picked up the breast-bone daintily--for it was covered with wet
mud--and handed it to me with the remark: "That is the most definite
piece of evidence we have."

"You mean," I said, "that the union of the two parts into a single mass
fixes this as the skeleton of an elderly man?"

"Yes, that is the obvious suggestion, which is confirmed by the deposit
of bone in the rib-cartilages. You can tell the inspector, Davis, that I
have checked this lot of bones and that they are all here."

"Would you mind writing it down, sir?" said the constable. "Inspector
Badger said I was to have everything in writing."

The surgeon took out his pocket-book, and, while he was selecting a
suitable piece of paper, he asked: "Did you form any opinion as to the
height of the deceased?"

"Yes, I thought he would be about five feet eight" (here I caught the
sergeant's eyes fixed on me with a knowing leer).

"I made it five eight and a half," said the police-surgeon; "but we
shall know better when we have seen the lower leg-bones. Where was this
lot found, Davis?"

"In the pond just off the road in Lord's Bushes, sir, and the inspector
has gone off now to--"

"Never mind where he's gone," interrupted the sergeant. "You just answer
questions and attend to your business."

The sergeant's reproof conveyed a hint to me on which I was not slow to
act. Friendly as my professional colleague was, it was clear that the
police were disposed to treat me as an interloper who was to be kept out
of the "know" as far as possible. Accordingly I thanked my colleague and
the sergeant for their courtesy, and bidding them adieu until we should
meet at the inquest, took my departure and walked away quickly until I
found an inconspicuous position from which I could keep the door of the
mortuary in view. A few moments later I saw Constable Davis emerge and
stride away up the road.

I watched his rapidly diminishing figure until he had gone as far as I
considered desirable, and then I set forth in his wake. The road led
straight away from the village, and in less than half a mile entered the
outskirts of the forest. Here I quickened my pace to close up somewhat,
and it was well that I did so, for suddenly he diverged from the road
into a green lane, where for a while I lost sight of him. Still
hurrying forward, I again caught sight of him just as he turned off into
a narrow path that entered a beech wood with a thickish undergrowth of
holly, along which I followed him for several minutes, gradually
decreasing the distance between us, until suddenly there fell on my ear
a rhythmical, metallic sound like the clank of a pump. Soon after I
caught the sound of men's voices, and then the constable struck off the
path into the wood.

I now advanced more cautiously, endeavouring to locate the search party
by the sound of the pump, and when I had done this I made a little
detour so that I might approach from the opposite direction to that from
which the constable had appeared.

Still guided by the noise of the pump, I at length came out into a small
opening among the trees and halted to survey the scene. The centre of
the opening was occupied by a small pond, not more than a dozen yards
across, by the side of which stood a builder's handcart. The little
two-wheeled vehicle had evidently been used to convey the appliances
which were deposited on the ground near it, and which consisted of a
large tub--now filled with water--a shovel, a rake, a sieve, and a
portable pump, the latter being fitted with a long delivery hose. There
were three men besides the constable, one of whom was working the handle
of the pump, while another was glancing at a paper that the constable
had just delivered to him. He looked up sharply as I appeared, and
viewed me with unconcealed disfavour.

"Hallo, sir!" said he. "You can't come here."

Now, seeing that I actually was here, this was clearly a mistake, and I
ventured to point out the fallacy.

"Well, I can't allow you to stay here. Our business is of a private
nature."

"I know exactly what your business is, Inspector Badger."

"Oh, do you?" said he, surveying me with a foxy smile. "And I expect I
know what yours is, too. But we can't have any of you newspaper gentry
spying on us just at present, so you just be off."

I thought it best to undeceive him at once, and accordingly, having
explained who I was, I showed him the coroner's permit, which he read
with manifest annoyance.

"This is all very well, sir," said he as he handed me back the paper,
"but it doesn't authorise you to come spying on the proceedings of the
police. Any remains that we discover will be deposited in the mortuary,
where you can inspect them to your heart's content; but you can't stay
here and watch us."

I had no defined object in keeping a watch on the inspector's
proceedings; but the sergeant's indiscreet hint had aroused my
curiosity, which was further excited by Mr. Badger's evident desire to
get rid of me. Moreover, while we had been talking, the pump had stopped
(the muddy floor of the pond being now pretty fully exposed), and the
inspector's assistant was handling the shovel impatiently.

"Now, I put it to you, Inspector," said I, persuasively, "is it politic
of you to allow it to be said that you refused an authorised
representative of the family facilities for verifying any statements
that you may make hereafter?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that if you should happen to find some bone which could be
identified as part of the body of Mr. Bellingham, that fact would be of
more importance to his family than to anyone else. You know that there
is a very valuable estate and a rather difficult will."

"I didn't know it, and I don't see the bearing of it now" (neither did
I, for that matter); "but if you make such a point of being present at
the search, I can't very well refuse. Only you mustn't get in our way,
that's all."

On hearing this conclusion, his assistant, who looked like a
plain-clothes officer, took up his shovel and stepped into the mud that
formed the bottom of the pond, stooping as he went and peering among the
masses of weed that had been left stranded by the withdrawal of the
water. The inspector watched him anxiously, cautioning him from time to
time to "look out where he was treading"; the labourer left the pump and
craned forward from the margin of the mud, and the constable and I
looked on from our respective points of vantage. For some time the
search was fruitless. Once the searcher stooped and picked up what
turned out to be a fragment of decayed wood; then the remains of a
long-deceased jay were discovered, examined, and rejected. Suddenly the
man bent down by the side of a small pool that had been left in one of
the deeper hollows, stared intently into the mud, and stood up.

"There's something here that looks like a bone, sir," he sang out.

"Don't grub about, then," said the inspector. "Drive your shovel right
into the mud where you saw it and bring it to the sieve."

The man followed out these instructions, and as he came shorewards with
a great pile of the slimy mud on his shovel we all converged on the
sieve, which the inspector took up and held over the tub, directing the
constable and labourer to "lend a hand," meaning thereby that they were
to crowd round the tub and exclude me as completely as possible. This,
in fact, they did very effectively with his assistance, for, when the
shovelful of mud had been deposited on the sieve, the four men leaned
over it and so nearly hid it from view that it was only by craning over,
first on one side and then on the other, that I was able to catch an
occasional glimpse of it and to observe it gradually melting away as the
sieve, immersed in the water, was shaken to and fro.

Presently the inspector raised the sieve from the water and stooped over
it more closely to examine its contents. Apparently the examination
yielded no very conclusive results, for it was accompanied by a series
of rather dubious grunts.

At length the officer stood up, and turning to me with a genial but foxy
smile, held out the sieve for my inspection.

"Like to see what we have found, Doctor?" said he.

I thanked him and stooped over the sieve. It contained the sort of
litter of twigs, skeleton leaves, weed, pond-snails, dead shells, and
fresh-water mussels that one would expect to strain out from the mud of
an ancient pond; but in addition to these there were three small bones
which at the first glance gave me quite a start until I saw what they
were.

The inspector looked at me inquiringly. "H'm?" said he.

"Yes," I replied. "Very interesting."

"Those will be human bones, I fancy; h'm?"

"I should say so, undoubtedly," I answered.

"Now," said the inspector, "could you say, off-hand, which finger those
bones belong to?"

I smothered a grin (for I had been expecting this question), and
answered:

"I can say off-hand that they don't belong to any finger. They are the
bones of the left great toe."

The inspector's jaw dropped. "The deuce they are!" he muttered. "H'm. I
thought they looked a bit stout."

"I expect," said I, "that if you go through the mud close to where this
came from you'll find the rest of the foot."

The plain-clothes man proceeded at once to act on my suggestion, taking
the sieve with him to save time. And sure enough, after filling it twice
with the mud from the bottom of the pool, the entire skeleton of the
foot was brought to light.

"Now you're happy, I suppose," said the inspector when I had checked the
bones and found them all present.

"I should be more happy," I replied, "if I knew what you were searching
for in this pond. You weren't looking for the foot, were you?"

"I was looking for anything that I might find," he answered. "I shall go
on searching until we have the whole body. I shall go through all the
streams and ponds around here, except Connaught Water. That I shall
leave to the last, as it will be a case of dredging from a boat and
isn't so likely as the smaller ponds. Perhaps the head will be there;
it's deeper than any of the others."

It now occurred to me that as I had learned all that I was likely to
learn, which was little enough, I might as well leave the inspector to
pursue his researches unembarrassed by my presence. Accordingly I
thanked him for his assistance and departed by the way I had come.

But as I retraced my steps along the shady path I speculated profoundly
on the officer's proceedings. My examination of the mutilated hand had
yielded the conclusion that the finger had been removed either after
death or shortly before, but more probably after. Someone else had
evidently arrived at the same conclusion, and had communicated his
opinion to Inspector Badger; for it was clear that that gentleman was in
full cry after the missing finger. But why was he searching for it here
when the hand had been found at Sidcup? And what did he expect to learn
from it when he found it? There is nothing particularly characteristic
about a finger, or, at least, the bones of one; and the object of the
present researches was to determine the identity of the person of whom
these bones were the remains. There was something mysterious about the
affair, something suggesting that Inspector Badger was in possession of
private information of some kind. But what information could he have?
And whence could he have obtained it? These were questions to which I
could find no answer, and I was still fruitlessly revolving them when I
arrived at the modest inn where the inquest was to be held, and where I
proposed to fortify myself with a correspondingly modest lunch as a
preparation for my attendance at that inquiry.




CHAPTER XIII

THE CROWNER'S QUEST


The proceedings of that fine old institution, the coroner's court, are
apt to have their dignity impaired by the somewhat unjudicial
surroundings amidst which they are conducted. The present inquiry was to
be held in a long room attached to the inn, ordinarily devoted, as its
various appurtenances testified, to gatherings of a more convivial
character.

Hither I betook myself after a protracted lunch and a meditative pipe,
and, being the first to arrive--the jury having already been sworn and
conducted to the mortuary to view the remains--whiled away the time by
considering the habits of the customary occupants of the room by the
light of the objects contained in it. A wooden target with one or two
darts sticking in it hung on the end wall and invited the Robin Hoods of
the village to try their skill; a system of incised marks on the oaken
table made sinister suggestions of shove-halfpenny; and a large open
box, filled with white wigs, gaudily coloured robes and wooden spears,
swords and regalia, crudely coated with gilded paper, obviously
appertained to the puerile ceremonials of the Order of Druids.

I had exhausted the interest of these relics and had transferred my
attentions to the picture gallery when the other spectators and the
witnesses began to arrive. Hastily I seated myself in the only
comfortable chair besides the one placed at the head of the table,
presumably for the coroner; and I had hardly done so when the latter
entered accompanied by the jury. Immediately after them came the
sergeant, Inspector Badger, one or two plain-clothes men, and finally
the divisional surgeon.

The coroner took his seat at the head of the table and opened his book,
and the jury seated themselves on a couple of benches on one side of the
long table. I looked with some interest at the twelve "good men and
true." They were a representative group of British tradesmen, quiet,
attentive, and rather solemn; but my attention was particularly
attracted by a small man with a very large head and a shock of
upstanding hair whom I had diagnosed, after a glance at his intelligent
but truculent countenance and the shiny knees of his trousers, as the
village cobbler. He sat between the broad-shouldered foreman, who looked
like a blacksmith, and a dogged, red-faced man whose general aspect of
prosperous greasiness suggested the calling of a butcher.

"The inquiry, gentlemen," the coroner commenced, "upon which we are now
entering concerns itself with two questions. The first is that of
identity: Who was this person whose body we have just viewed? The second
is, How, when, and by what means did he come by his death? We will take
the identity first and begin with the circumstances under which the body
was discovered."

Here the cobbler stood up and raised an excessively dirty hand.

"I rise, Mr. Chairman," said he, "to a point of order." The other
jurymen looked at him curiously and some of them, I regret to say,
grinned. "You have referred, sir," he continued, "to the body which we
have just viewed. I wish to point out that we have not viewed a body: we
have viewed a collection of bones."

"We will refer to them as the remains, if you prefer it," said the
coroner.

"I do prefer it," was the reply, and the objector sat down.

"Very well," rejoined the coroner, and he proceeded to call the
witnesses, of whom the first was the labourer who had discovered the
bones in the watercress-bed.

"Do you happen to know how long it was since the beds had been cleaned
out previously?" the coroner asked, when the witness had told the story
of the discovery.

"They was cleaned out by Mr. Tapper's orders just before he gave them
up. That will be a little better than two years ago. In May it were. I
helped to clean 'em. I worked on this very same place and there wasn't
no bones there then."

The coroner glanced at the jury. "Any questions, gentlemen?" he asked.

The cobbler directed an intimidating scowl at the witness and demanded:

"Were you searching for bones when you came on these remains?"

"Me!" exclaimed the witness. "What should I be searching for bones for?"

"Don't prevaricate," said the cobbler sternly; "answer the question: Yes
or no."

"No; of course I wasn't."

The juryman shook his enormous head dubiously as though implying that
he would let it pass this time but it mustn't happen again; and the
examination of the witnesses continued, without eliciting anything that
was new to me or giving rise to any incident, until the sergeant had
described the finding of the right arm in the Cuckoo Pits.

"Was this an accidental discovery?" the coroner asked.

"No. We had instructions from Scotland Yard to search any likely ponds
in this neighbourhood."

The coroner discreetly forbore to press this matter any farther, but my
friend the cobbler was evidently on the qui vive, and I anticipated a
brisk cross-examination for Mr. Badger when his turn came. The inspector
was apparently of the same opinion, for I saw him cast a glance of the
deepest malevolence at the too inquiring disciple of St. Crispin. In
fact, his turn came next, and the cobbler's hair stood up with unholy
joy.

The finding of the lower half of the trunk in Staple's Pond at Loughton
was the inspector's own achievement, but he was not boastful about it.
The discovery, he remarked, followed naturally on the previous one in
the Cuckoo Pits.

"Had you any private information that led you to search this particular
neighbourhood?" the cobbler asked.

"We had no private information whatever," replied Badger.

"Now I put it to you," pursued the juryman, shaking a forensic, and very
dirty, forefinger at the inspector; "here are certain remains found at
Sidcup; here are certain other remains found at St. Mary Cray, and
certain others at Lee. All those places are in Kent. Now isn't it very
remarkable that you should come straight down to Epping Forest, which is
in Essex, and search for those bones and find 'em?"

"We were making a systematic search of all likely places," replied
Badger.

"Exactly," said the cobbler, with a ferocious grin, "that's just my
point. I say, isn't it very funny that, after finding remains in Kent
some twenty miles from here with the River Thames between, you should
come here to look for the bones and go straight to Staple's Pond, where
they happen to be--and find 'em?"

"It would have been more funny," Badger replied sourly, "if we'd gone
straight to a place where they happened _not_ to be--and found them."

A gratified snigger arose from the other eleven good men and true, and
the cobbler grinned savagely; but before he could think of a suitable
rejoinder the coroner interposed.

"The question is not very material," he said, "and we mustn't embarrass
the police by unnecessary inquiries."

"It's my belief," said the cobbler, "that he knew they were there all
the time."

"The witness has stated that he had no private information," said the
coroner; and he proceeded to take the rest of the inspector's evidence,
watched closely by the critical juror.

The account of the finding of the remains having been given in full, the
police-surgeon was called and sworn; the jurymen straightened their
backs with an air of expectancy, and I turned over a page of my
note-book.

"You have examined the bones at present lying in the mortuary and
forming the subject of this inquiry?" the coroner asked.

"I have."

"Will you kindly tell us what you have observed?"

"I find that the bones are human bones, and are, in my opinion, all
parts of the same person. They form a skeleton which is complete with
the exception of the skull, the third finger of the left hand, the
knee-caps, and the leg-bones--I mean the bones between the knees and the
ankles."

"Is there anything to account for the absence of the missing finger?"

"No. There is no deformity and no sign of its having been amputated
during life. In my opinion it was removed after death."

"Can you give us any description of the deceased?"

"I should say that these are the bones of an elderly man, probably over
sixty years of age, about five feet eight and a half inches in height,
of rather stout build, fairly muscular, and well preserved. There are no
signs of disease excepting some old-standing rheumatic gout of the right
hip-joint."

"Can you form any opinion as to the cause of death?"

"No. There are no marks of violence or signs of injury. But it will be
impossible to form any opinion as to the cause of death until we have
seen the skull."

"Did you note anything else of importance?"

"Yes. I was struck by the appearance of anatomical knowledge and skill
on the part of the person who dismembered the body. The knowledge of
anatomy is proved by the fact that the corpse has been divided into
definite anatomical regions. For instance, the bones of the neck are
complete and include the top joint of the backbone known as the atlas;
whereas a person without anatomical knowledge would probably take off
the head by cutting through the neck. Then the arms have been separated
with the scapula (or shoulder-blade) and clavicle (or collar-bone)
attached, just as an arm would be removed for dissection.

"The skill is shown by the neat way in which the dismemberment has been
carried out. The parts have not been rudely hacked asunder, but have
been separated at the joints so skilfully that I have not discovered a
single scratch or mark of the knife on any of the bones."

"Can you suggest any class of person who would be likely to possess the
knowledge and skill to which you refer?"

"It would, of course, be possessed by a surgeon or medical student, and
possibly by a butcher."

"You think that the person who dismembered this body may have been a
surgeon or a medical student?"

"Yes; or a butcher. Someone accustomed to the dismemberment of bodies
and skilful with the knife."

Here the cobbler suddenly rose to his feet.

"I rise, Mr. Chairman," said he, "to protest against the statement that
has just been made."

"What statement?" demanded the coroner.

"Against the aspersion," continued the cobbler, with an oratorical
flourish, "that has been cast upon a honourable calling."

"I don't understand you," said the coroner.

"Doctor Summers has insinuated that this murder was committed by a
butcher. Now a member of that honourable calling is sitting on this
jury--"

"You let me alone," growled the butcher.

"I will not let you alone," persisted the cobbler. "I desire--"

"Oh, shut up, Pope!" This was from the foreman, who, at the same moment,
reached out an enormous hairy hand with which he grabbed the cobbler's
coat-tails and brought him into a sitting posture with a thump that
shook the room.

But Mr. Pope, though seated, was not silenced. "I desire," said he, "to
have my protest put on record."

"I can't do that," said the coroner, "and I can't allow you to interrupt
the witnesses."

"I am acting," said Mr. Pope, "in the interests of my friend here and
the members of a honourable----"

But here the butcher turned on him savagely, and, in a hoarse
stage-whisper, exclaimed:

"Look here, Pope; you've got too much of what the cat licks--"

"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" the coroner protested, sternly; "I cannot permit
this unseemly conduct. You are forgetting the solemnity of the occasion
and your own responsible positions. I must insist on more decent and
decorous behaviour."

There was profound silence, in the midst of which the butcher concluded
in the same hoarse whisper:

"--licks 'er paws with."

The coroner cast a withering glance at him, and turning to the witness,
resumed the examination.

"Can you tell us, Doctor, how long a time has elapsed since the death of
the deceased?"

"I should say not less than eighteen months, but probably more. How much
more it is impossible from inspection alone to say. The bones are
perfectly clean--that is, clean of all soft structures--and will remain
substantially in their present condition for many years."

"The evidence of the man who found the remains in the watercress-bed
suggests that they could not have been there more than two years. Do the
appearances, in your opinion, agree with that view?"

"Yes; perfectly."

"There is one more point, Doctor; a very important one. Do you find
anything in any of the bones, or all of them together, which would
enable you to identify them as the bones of any particular individual?"

"No," replied Dr. Summers; "I found no peculiarity that could furnish
the means of personal identification."

"The description of a missing individual has been given to us," said the
coroner; "a man, fifty-nine years of age, five feet eight inches in
height, healthy, well preserved, rather broad in build, and having an
old Pott's fracture of the left ankle. Do the remains that you have
examined agree with that description?"

"Yes, in so far as agreement is possible. There is no disagreement."

"The remains might be those of that individual?"

"They might; but there is no positive evidence that they are. The
description would apply to a large proportion of elderly men, except as
to the fracture."

"You found no signs of such a fracture?"

"No. Pott's fracture affects the bone called the fibula. That is one of
the bones that has not yet been found, so there is no evidence on that
point. The left foot was quite normal, but then it would be in any case,
unless the fracture had resulted in great deformity."

"You estimated the height of the deceased as half an inch greater than
that of the missing person. Does that constitute a disagreement?"

"No; my estimate is only approximate. As the arms are complete and the
legs are not, I have based my calculations on the width across the two
arms. But measurement of the thigh-bones gives the same result. The
length of the thigh-bones is one foot seven inches and five-eighths."

"So the deceased might not have been taller than five feet eight?"

"That is so: from five feet eight to five feet nine."

"Thank you. I think that is all we want to ask you, Doctor; unless the
jury wish to put any questions."

He glanced uneasily at that august body, and instantly the irrepressible
Pope rose to the occasion.

"About that finger that is missing," said the cobbler. "You say that it
was cut off after death."

"That is my opinion."

"Now, can you tell us why it was cut off?"

"No, I cannot."

"Oh, come now, Doctor Summers, you must have formed some opinion on the
subject."

Here the coroner interposed. "The Doctor is only concerned with evidence
arising out of the actual examination of the remains. Any personal
opinions or conjectures that he may have formed are not evidence, and he
must not be asked about them."

"But, sir," objected Pope, "we want to know why that finger was cut off.
It couldn't have been took off for no reason. May I ask, sir, if the
person who is missing had anything peculiar about that finger?"

"Nothing is stated to that effect in the written description," replied
the coroner.

"Perhaps," suggested Pope, "Inspector Badger can tell us."

"I think," said the coroner, "we had better not ask the police too many
questions. They will tell us anything that they wish to be made public."

"Oh, very well," snapped the cobbler. "If it's a matter of hushing it up
I've got no more to say; only I don't see how we are to arrive at a
verdict if we don't have the facts put before us."

All the witnesses having now been examined, the coroner proceeded to sum
up and address the jury.

"You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, of the various witnesses, and
you will have perceived that it does not enable us to answer either of
the questions that form the subject of this inquiry. We now know that
the deceased was an elderly man, about sixty years of age, and about
five feet eight or nine in height; and that his death took place from
eighteen months to two years ago. That is all we know. From the
treatment to which the body has been subjected we may form certain
conjectures as to the circumstances of his death. But we have no actual
knowledge. We do not know who the deceased was or how he came by his
death. Consequently, it will be necessary to adjourn this inquiry until
fresh facts are available, and as soon as that is the case, you will
receive due notice that your attendance is required."

The silence of the Court gave place to the confused noise of moving
chairs and a general outbreak of eager talk, amidst which I rose and
made my way out into the street. At the door I encountered Dr. Summers,
whose dog-cart was waiting close by.

"Are you going back to town now?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered; "as soon as I can catch a train."

"If you jump into my cart I'll run you down in time for the five-one.
You'll miss it if you walk."

I accepted his offer thankfully, and a minute later was spinning briskly
down the road to the station.

"Queer little devil, that man, Pope," Dr. Summers remarked. "Quite a
character; socialist, labourite, agitator, general crank; anything for a
row."

"Yes," I answered, "that was what his appearance suggested. It must be
trying for the coroner to get a truculent rascal like that on a jury."

Summers laughed. "I don't know. He supplies the comic relief. And then,
you know, those fellows have their uses. Some of his questions were
pretty pertinent."

"So Badger seemed to think."

"Yes, by Jove," chuckled Summers, "Badger didn't like him a bit; and I
suspect the worthy inspector was sailing pretty close to the wind in his
answers."

"You think he really has some private information?"

"Depends upon what you mean by 'information.' The police are not a
speculative body. They wouldn't be taking all this trouble unless they
had a pretty straight tip from somebody. How are Mr. and Miss
Bellingham? I used to know them slightly when they lived here."

I was considering a discreet answer to this question when we swept into
the station yard. At the same moment the train drew up at the platform,
and, with a hurried hand-shake and hastily spoken thanks, I sprang from
the dog-cart and darted into the station.

During the rather slow journey homewards I read over my notes and
endeavoured to extract from the facts they set forth some significance
other than that which lay on the surface, but without much success. Then
I fell to speculating on what Thorndyke would think of the evidence at
the inquest and whether he would be satisfied with the information that
I had collected. These speculations lasted me, with occasional
digressions, until I arrived at the Temple and ran up the stairs rather
eagerly to my friend's chambers.

But here a disappointment awaited me. The nest was empty with the
exception of Polton, who appeared at the laboratory door in his white
apron, with a pair of flat-nosed pliers in his hand.

"The Doctor has had to go down to Bristol to consult over an urgent
case," he explained, "and Doctor Jervis has gone with him. They'll be
away a day or two, I expect, but the Doctor left this note for you."

He took a letter from a shelf, where it had been stood conspicuously on
edge, and handed it to me. It was a short note from Thorndyke
apologising for his sudden departure and asking me to give Polton my
notes with any comments that I had to make.

"You will be interested to learn," he added, "that the application will
be heard in the Probate Court the day after to-morrow. I shall not be
present, of course, nor will Jervis, so I should like you to attend and
keep your eyes open for anything that may happen during the hearing and
that may not appear in the notes that Marchmont's clerk will be
instructed to take. I have retained Dr. Payne to stand by and help you
with the practice, so that you can attend the Court with a clear
conscience."

This was highly flattering and quite atoned for the small
disappointment; with deep gratification at the trust that Thorndyke had
reposed in me, I pocketed the letter, handed my notes to Polton, wished
him "Good evening," and betook myself to Fetter Lane.




CHAPTER XIV

WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE PROBATE COURT


The Probate Court wore an air of studious repose when I entered with
Miss Bellingham and her father. Apparently the great and inquisitive
public had not become aware of the proceedings that were about to take
place, or had not realised their connection with the sensational
"Mutilation Case"; but barristers and Press-men, better informed, had
gathered in some strength, and the hum of their conversation filled the
air like the droning of the voluntary that ushers in a cathedral
service.

As we entered, a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman rose and came forward
to meet us, shaking Mr. Bellingham's hand cordially and saluting Miss
Bellingham with a courtly bow.

"This is Mr. Marchmont, Doctor," said the former, introducing me; and
the solicitor, having thanked me for the trouble I had taken in
attending at the inquest, led us to a bench, at the farther end of which
was seated a gentleman whom I recognised as Mr. Hurst.

Mr. Bellingham recognised him at the same moment and glared at him
wrathfully.

"I see that scoundrel is here!" he exclaimed in a distinctly audible
voice, "pretending that he doesn't see me, because he is ashamed to look
me in the face, but--"

"Hush! hush! my dear sir," exclaimed the horrified solicitor; "we
mustn't talk like that, especially in this place. Let me beg you--let me
entreat you to control your feelings, to make no indiscreet remarks; in
fact, to make no remarks at all," he added, with the evident conviction
that any remarks that Mr. Bellingham might make would be certain to be
indiscreet.

"Forgive me, Marchmont," Mr. Bellingham replied contritely. "I will
control myself; I will really be quite discreet. I won't even look at
him again--because, if I do, I shall probably go over and pull his
nose."

This particular form of discretion did not appear to be quite to Mr.
Marchmont's liking, for he took the precaution of insisting that Miss
Bellingham and I should sit on the farther side of his client, and thus
effectually separate him from his enemy.

"Who's the long-nosed fellow talking to Jellicoe?" Mr. Bellingham asked.

"That is Mr. Loram, K.C., Mr. Hurst's counsel; and the convivial-looking
gentleman next to him is our counsel, Mr. Heath, a most able man
and"--here Mr. Marchmont whispered behind his hand--"fully instructed by
Doctor Thorndyke."

At this juncture the judge entered and took his seat; the usher
proceeded with great rapidity to swear in the jury, and the Court
gradually settled down into that state of academic quiet which it
maintained throughout the proceedings, excepting when the noisy
swing-doors were set oscillating by some bustling clerk or reporter.

The judge was a somewhat singular-looking old gentleman, very short as
to his face and very long as to his mouth; which peculiarities, together
with a pair of large and bulging eyes (which he usually kept closed),
suggested a certain resemblance to a frog. And he had a curious
frog-like trick of flattening his eyelids--as if in the act of
swallowing a large beetle--which was the only outward and visible sign
of emotion that he ever displayed.

As soon as the swearing-in of the jury was completed Mr. Loram rose to
introduce the case; whereupon his lordship leaned back in his chair and
closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for a painful operation.

"The present proceedings," Mr. Loram explained, "are occasioned by the
unaccountable disappearance of Mr. John Bellingham, of 141 Queen Square,
Bloomsbury, which occurred about two years ago, or, to be more precise,
on the twenty-third of November, nineteen hundred and two. Since that
date nothing has been heard of Mr. Bellingham, and, as there are certain
substantial reasons for believing him to be dead, the principal
beneficiary under his will, Mr. George Hurst, is now applying to the
Court for permission to presume the death of the testator and prove the
will. As the time which has elapsed since the testator was last seen
alive is only two years, the application is based upon the circumstances
of the disappearance, which were, in many respects, very singular, the
most remarkable feature of that disappearance being, perhaps, its
suddenness and completeness."

Here the judge remarked in a still, small voice that "It would, perhaps,
have been even more remarkable if the testator had disappeared gradually
and incompletely."

"No doubt, my Lord," agreed Mr. Loram; "but the point is that the
testator, whose habits had always been regular and orderly, disappeared
on the date mentioned without having made any of the usual provisions
for the conduct of his affairs, and has not since then been seen or
heard of."

With this preamble Mr. Loram proceeded to give a narrative of the events
connected with the disappearance of John Bellingham, which was
substantially identical with that which I had read in the newspapers;
and having laid the actual facts before the jury, he went on to discuss
their probable import.

"Now, what conclusion," he asked, "will this strange, this most
mysterious train of events suggest to an intelligent person who shall
consider it impartially? Here is a man who steps forth from the house of
his cousin or his brother, as the case may be, and forthwith, in the
twinkling of an eye, vanishes from human ken. What is the explanation?
Did he steal forth and, without notice or hint of his intention, take
train to some seaport, thence to embark for some distant land, leaving
his affairs to take care of themselves and his friends to speculate
vainly as to his whereabouts? Is he now in hiding abroad, or even at
home, indifferent alike to the safety of his own considerable property
and the peace of mind of his friends? Or is it that death has come upon
him unawares by sickness, by accident, or, more probably, by the hand of
some unknown criminal? Let us consider the probabilities.

"Can he have disappeared by his own deliberate act? Why not? it may be
asked. Men undoubtedly do disappear from time to time, to be discovered
by chance or to reappear voluntarily after intervals of years and find
their names almost forgotten and their places filled by new-comers. Yes;
but there is always some reason for a disappearance of this kind, even
though it be a bad one. Family discords that make life a weariness;
pecuniary difficulties that make life a succession of anxieties;
distaste for particular circumstances and surroundings from which there
seems no escape; inherent restlessness and vagabond tendencies, and so
on.

"Do any of these explanations apply to the present case? No, they do
not. Family discords--at least those capable of producing chronic
misery--appertain exclusively to the married state. But the testator was
a bachelor with no encumbrances whatever. Pecuniary anxieties can be
equally excluded. The testator was in easy, in fact, in affluent
circumstances. His mode of life was apparently agreeable and full of
interest and activity, and he had full liberty to change it if he
wished. He had been accustomed to travel, and could do so again without
absconding. He had reached an age when radical changes do not seem
desirable. He was a man of fixed and regular habits, and his regularity
was of his own choice and not due to compulsion or necessity. When last
seen by his friends, as I shall prove, he was proceeding to a definite
destination with the expressed intention of returning for purposes of
his own appointing. He did return and then vanished, leaving those
purposes unachieved.

"If we conclude that he has voluntarily disappeared and is at present in
hiding, we adopt an opinion that is entirely at variance with all these
weighty facts. If, on the other hand, we conclude that he has died
suddenly, or has been killed by an accident or otherwise, we are
adopting a view that involves no inherent improbabilities and that is
entirely congruous with the known facts; facts that will be proved by
the testimony of the witnesses whom I shall call. The supposition that
the testator is dead is not only more probable than that he is alive; I
submit that it is the only reasonable explanation of the circumstances
of his disappearance.

"But this is not all. The presumption of death which arises so
inevitably out of the mysterious and abrupt manner in which the testator
disappeared has recently received most conclusive and dreadful
confirmation. On the fifteenth of July last there were discovered at
Sidcup the remains of a human arm--a left arm, gentlemen, from the hand
of which the third, or ring, finger was missing. The doctor who has
examined that arm will tell you that that finger was cut off either
after death or immediately before; and his evidence will prove
conclusively that that arm must have been deposited in the place where
it was found just about the time when the testator disappeared. Since
that first discovery, other portions of the same mutilated body have
come to light; and it is a strange and significant fact that they have
all been found in the immediate neighbourhood of Eltham or Woodford. You
will remember, gentlemen, that it was either at Eltham or Woodford that
the testator was last seen alive.

"And now observe the completeness of the coincidence. These human
remains, as you will be told presently by the experienced and learned
medical gentleman who has examined them most exhaustively, are those of
a man of about sixty years of age, about five feet eight inches in
height, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy, and
rather stoutly built. Another witness will tell you that the missing
man was about sixty years of age, about five feet eight inches in
height, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy, and
rather stoutly built. And--another most significant and striking
fact--the testator was accustomed to wear upon the third finger of his
left hand--the very finger that is missing from the remains that were
found--a most peculiar ring, which fitted so tightly that he was unable
to get it off after once putting it on; a ring, gentlemen, of so
peculiar a pattern that had it been found on the body must have
instantly established the identity of the remains. In a word, gentlemen,
the remains which have been found are those of a man exactly like the
testator; they differ from him in no respect whatever; they display a
mutilation which suggests an attempt to conceal an identifying
peculiarity which he undoubtedly presented; and they were deposited in
their various hiding-places about the time of the testator's
disappearance. Accordingly, when you have heard these facts proved by
the sworn testimony of competent witnesses, together with the facts
relating to the disappearance, I shall ask you for a verdict in
accordance with that evidence."

Mr. Loram sat down, and adjusting a pair of pince-nez, rapidly glanced
over his brief while the usher was administering the oath to the first
witness.

This was Mr. Jellicoe, who stepped into the box and directed a stony
gaze at the (apparently) unconscious judge. The usual preliminaries
having been gone through, Mr. Loram proceeded to examine him.

"You were the testator's solicitor and confidential agent, I believe?"

"I was--and am."

"How long have you known him?"

"Twenty-seven years."

"Judging from your experience of him, should you say that he was a
person likely to disappear voluntarily and suddenly to cease to
communicate with his friends?"

"No."

"Kindly give your reasons for that opinion."

"Such conduct on the part of the testator would be entirely opposed to
his habits and character as they are known to me. He was exceedingly
regular and business-like in his dealings with me. When travelling
abroad he always kept me informed as to his whereabouts, or, if he was
likely to be beyond reach of communications, he always advised me
beforehand. One of my duties was to collect a pension which he drew from
the Foreign Office, and on no occasion, previous to his disappearance,
has he ever failed to furnish me punctually with the necessary
documents."

"Had he, so far as you know, any reasons for wishing to disappear?"

"No."

"When and where did you last see him alive?"

"At six o'clock in the evening, on the fourteenth of October, nineteen
hundred and two, at 141 Queen Square, Bloomsbury."

"Kindly tell us what happened on that occasion."

"The testator had called for me at my office at a quarter past three,
and asked me to come with him to his house to meet Doctor Norbury. I
accompanied him to 141 Queen Square, and shortly after we arrived Doctor
Norbury came to look at some antiquities that the testator proposed to
give to the British Museum. The gift consisted of a mummy with the four
Canopic jars and other tomb-furniture, which the testator stipulated
should be exhibited together in a single case and in the state in which
they were then presented. Of these objects, the mummy only was ready for
inspection. The tomb-furniture had not yet arrived in England, but was
expected within a week. Doctor Norbury accepted the gift on behalf of
the Museum, but could not take possession of the objects until he had
communicated with the Director and obtained his formal authority. The
testator accordingly gave me certain instructions concerning the
delivery of the gift, as he was leaving England that evening."

"Are those instructions relevant to the subject of this inquiry?"

"I think they are. The testator was going to Paris, and perhaps from
thence to Vienna. He instructed me to receive and unpack the
tomb-furniture on its arrival, and to store it, with the mummy, in a
particular room, where it was to remain for three weeks. If he returned
within that time he was to hand it over in person to the Museum
authorities; if he had not returned within that time, he desired me to
notify the Museum authorities that they were at liberty to take
possession of and remove the collection at their convenience. From these
instructions I gathered that the testator was uncertain as to the length
of his absence from England and the extent of his journey."

"Did he state precisely where he was going?"

"No. He said that he was going to Paris and perhaps to Vienna, but he
gave no particulars and I asked for none."

"Do you, in fact, know where he went?"

"No. He left the house at six o'clock wearing a long, heavy overcoat
and carrying a suit-case and an umbrella. I wished him 'Good-bye' at the
door and watched him walk away as if going towards Southampton Row. I
have no idea where he went, and I never saw him again."

"Had he no other luggage than the suit-case?"

"I do not know, but I believe not. He was accustomed to travel with the
bare necessaries, and to buy anything further that he wanted _en
route_."

"Did he say nothing to the servants as to the probable date of his
return?"

"There were no servants excepting the caretaker. The house was not used
for residential purposes. The testator slept and took his meals at his
club, though he kept his clothes at the house."

"Did you receive any communication from him after he left?"

"No. I never heard from him again in any way. I waited for three weeks
as he had instructed me, and then notified the Museum authorities that
the collection was ready for removal. Five days later Doctor Norbury
came and took formal possession of it, and it was transferred to the
Museum forthwith."

"When did you next hear of the testator?"

"On the twenty-third of November following at a quarter past seven in
the evening. Mr. George Hurst came to my rooms, which are over my
office, and informed me that the testator had called at his house during
his absence and had been shown into the study to wait for him. That on
his--Mr. Hurst's--arrival it was found that the testator had disappeared
without acquainting the servants with his intended departure, and
without being seen by anyone to leave the house. Mr. Hurst thought this
so remarkable that he had hastened up to town to inform me. I also
thought it a remarkable circumstance, especially as I had received no
communication from the testator, and we both decided that it was
advisable to inform the testator's brother, Godfrey, of what had
happened.

"Accordingly Mr. Hurst and I proceeded as quickly as possible to
Liverpool Street and took the first train available to Woodford, where
Mr. Godfrey Bellingham then resided. We arrived at his house at five
minutes to nine, and were informed by the servant that he was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which was a detached
building situated in the grounds. The servant lighted a lantern and
conducted us through the grounds to the library, where we found Mr.
Godfrey Bellingham and Miss Bellingham. Mr. Godfrey had only just come
in and had entered by the back gate, which had a bell that rang in the
library. Mr. Hurst informed Mr. Godfrey of what had occurred, and then
we all left the library to walk up to the house. A few paces from the
library I noticed by the light of the lantern, which Mr. Godfrey was
carrying, a small object lying on the lawn. I pointed it out to him and
he picked it up, and then we all recognised it as a scarab that the
testator was accustomed to wear on his watch-chain. It was fitted with a
gold wire passed through the suspension hole and a gold ring. Both the
wire and the ring were in position, but the ring was broken. We went to
the house and questioned the servants as to visitors; but none of them
had seen the testator, and they all agreed that no visitor whatsoever
had come to the house during the afternoon, or evening. Mr. Godfrey and
Miss Bellingham both declared that they had neither seen nor heard
anything of the testator, and were both unaware that he had returned to
England. As the circumstances were somewhat disquieting, I communicated,
on the following morning, with the police and requested them to make
inquiries; which they did, with the result that a suit-case, bearing the
initials 'J.B.', was found to be lying unclaimed in the cloak-room at
Charing Cross Station. I was able to identify the suit-case as that
which I had seen the testator carry away from Queen Square. I was also
able to identify some of the contents. I interviewed the cloak-room
attendant, who informed me that the suit-case had been deposited on the
twenty-third at about 4.15 P.M. He had no recollection of the person who
deposited it. It remained unclaimed in the possession of the railway
company for three months, and was then surrendered to me."

"Were there any marks or labels on it showing the route by which it had
travelled?"

"There were no labels on it and no marks other than the initials 'J.B.'"

"Do you happen to know the testator's age?"

"Yes. He was fifty-nine on the eleventh of October, nineteen hundred and
two."

"Can you tell us what his height was?"

"Yes. He was exactly five feet eight inches."

"What sort of health had he?"

"So far as I know his health was good. I am not aware that he suffered
from any disease. I am only judging by his appearance, which was that of
a healthy man."

"Should you describe him as well preserved or otherwise?"

"I should describe him as a well-preserved man for his age."

"How should you describe his figure?"

"I should describe him as rather broad and stout in build, and fairly
muscular, though not exceptionally so."

Mr. Loram made a rapid note of these answers, and then said:

"You have told us, Mr. Jellicoe, that you have known the testator
intimately for twenty-seven years. Now, did you ever notice whether he
was accustomed to wear any rings upon his fingers?"

"He wore upon the third finger of his left hand a copy of an antique
ring which bore the device of the Eye of Osiris. That was the only ring
he ever wore as far as I know."

"Did he wear it constantly?"

"Yes, necessarily; because it was too small for him, and having once
squeezed it on he was never able to get it off again."

This was the sum of Mr. Jellicoe's evidence, and at its conclusion the
witness glanced inquiringly at Mr. Bellingham's counsel. But Mr. Heath
remained seated, attentively considering the notes that he had just
made, and finding that there was to be no cross-examination, Mr.
Jellicoe stepped down from the box. I leaned back on my bench, and,
turning my head, observed Miss Bellingham deep in thought.

"What do you think of it?" I asked.

"It seems very complete and conclusive," she replied. And then, with a
sigh, she murmured: "Poor old Uncle John! How horrid it sounds to talk
of him in this cold-blooded, business-like way, as 'the testator,' as if
he were nothing but a sort of algebraical sign."

"There isn't much room for sentiment, I suppose, in the proceedings of
the Probate Court," I replied. To which she assented, and then asked:
"Who is this lady?"

"This lady" was a fashionably dressed young woman who had just bounced
into the witness-box and was now being sworn. The preliminaries being
finished, she answered Miss Bellingham's question and Mr. Loram's by
stating that her name was Augustina Gwendoline Dobbs, and that she was
housemaid to Mr. George Hurst, of "The Poplars," Eltham.

"Mr. Hurst lives alone, I believe?" said Mr. Loram.

"I don't know what you mean by that," Miss Dobbs began; but the
barrister explained:

"I mean that I believe he is unmarried?"

"Well, and what about it?" the witness demanded tartly.

"I am asking you a question."

"I know that," said the witness viciously; "and I say that you've no
business to make any such insinuations to a respectable young lady when
there's a cook-housekeeper and a kitchenmaid living in the house, and
him old enough to be my father----"

Here his lordship flattened his eyelids with startling effect, and Mr.
Loram interrupted: "I make no insinuations. I merely ask, Is your
employer, Mr. Hurst, an unmarried man, or is he not?"

"I never asked him," said the witness sulkily.

"Please answer my question--yes or no?"

"How can I answer your question? He may be unmarried or he may not. How
do I know? I'm not a private detective."

Mr. Loram directed a stupefied gaze at the witness, and in the ensuing
silence a plaintive voice came from the bench:

"Is the point material?"

"Certainly, my lord," replied Mr. Loram.

"Then, as I see that you are calling Mr. Hurst, perhaps you had better
put the question to him. He will probably know."

Mr. Loram bowed, and as the judge subsided into his normal state of coma
he turned to the triumphant witness.

"Do you remember anything remarkable occurring on the twenty-third of
November the year before last?"

"Yes. Mr. John Bellingham called at our house."

"How did you know he was Mr. John Bellingham?"

"I didn't; but he said he was, and I supposed he knew."

"At what time did he arrive?"

"At twenty minutes past five in the evening."

"What happened then?"

"I told him that Mr. Hurst had not come home yet, and he said he would
wait for him in the study and write some letters; so I showed him into
the study and shut the door."

"What happened next?"

"Nothing. Then Mr. Hurst came home at his usual time--a quarter to
six--and let himself in with his key. He went straight through into the
study, where I supposed Mr. Bellingham still was, so I took no notice,
but laid the table for two. At six o'clock Mr. Hurst came into the
dining-room--he has tea in the City and dines at six--and when he saw
the table laid for two he asked the reason. I said I thought Mr.
Bellingham was staying to dinner.

"'Mr. Bellingham!' says he. 'I didn't know he was here. Why didn't you
tell me?' he says. 'I thought he was with you, sir,' I said. 'I showed
him into the study,' I said. 'Well, he wasn't there when I came in,' he
said, 'and he isn't there now,' he said. 'Perhaps he has gone to wait in
the drawing-room,' he said. So we went and looked in the drawing-room,
but he wasn't there. Then Mr. Hurst said he thought Mr. Bellingham must
have got tired of waiting and gone away; but I told him I was quite sure
he hadn't, because I had been watching all the time. Then he asked me if
Mr. Bellingham was alone or whether his daughter was with him, and I
said that it wasn't that Mr. Bellingham at all, but Mr. John Bellingham,
and then he was more surprised than ever. I said we had better search
the house to make sure whether he was there or not, and Mr. Hurst said
he would come with me; so we went all over the house and looked in all
the rooms, but there was not a sign of Mr. Bellingham in any of them.
Then Mr. Hurst got very nervous and upset, and when he had just snatched
a little dinner he ran off to catch the six-thirty train up to town."

"You say that Mr. Bellingham could not have left the house because you
were watching all the time. Where were you while you were watching?"

"I was in the kitchen. I could see the front gate from the kitchen
window."

"You say that you laid the table for two. Where did you lay it?"

"In the dining-room, of course."

"Could you see the front gate from the dining-room?"

"No, but I could see the study door. The study is opposite the
dining-room."

"Do you have to come upstairs to get from the kitchen to the
dining-room?"

"Yes, of course you do!"

"Then might not Mr. Bellingham have left the house while you were coming
up the stairs?"

"No, he couldn't have done."

"Why not?"

"Because it would have been impossible."

"But why would it have been impossible?"

"Because he couldn't have done it."

"I suggest that Mr. Bellingham left the house quietly while you were on
the stairs?"

"No, he didn't."

"How do you know he did not?"

"I am quite sure he didn't."

"What makes you feel sure he did not?"

"I am quite certain he didn't."

"But how can you be certain?"

"Because I should have seen him if he had."

"But I mean when you were on the stairs."

"He was in the study when I was on the stairs."

"How do you know he was in the study?"

"Because I showed him in there and he hadn't come out."

Mr. Loram paused and took a deep breath, and his lordship flattened his
eyelids.

"Is there a side gate to the premises?" the barrister resumed wearily.

"Yes. It opens into a narrow lane at the side of the house."

"And there is a French window in the study, is there not?"

"Yes; it opens on to the small grass plot opposite the side gate."

"Were the window and the gate locked, or would it have been possible for
Mr. Bellingham to let himself out into the lane?"

"The window and the gate both have catches on the inside. He could have
got out that way, but, of course, he didn't."

"Why not?"

"Well, no gentleman would go creeping out by the back way like a thief."

"Did you look to see if the French window was shut and fastened after
you missed Mr. Bellingham?"

"I looked at it when we shut the house up for the night. It was then
shut and fastened on the inside."

"And the side gate?"

"That was shut and latched. You have to slam the gate to make the latch
fasten, so no one could have gone out of that gate without being heard."

Here the examination-in-chief ended, and Mr. Loram sat down with an
audible sigh of relief. Miss Dobbs was about to step down from the
witness-box when Mr. Heath rose to cross-examine.

"Did you see Mr. Bellingham in a good light?" he asked.

"Pretty good. It was dark outside, but the hall-lamp was alight."

"Kindly look at this"--here a small object was passed across to the
witness. "It is a trinket that Mr. Bellingham is stated to have carried
suspended from his watch-guard. Can you remember if he was wearing it in
that manner when he came to the house?"

"No, he was not."

"You are sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"Thank you. And now I want to ask you about the search that you have
mentioned. You say that you went all over the house. Did you go into the
study?"

"No--at least, not until Mr. Hurst had gone to London."

"When you did go in, was the window fastened?"

"Yes."

"Could it have been fastened from the outside?"

"No; there is no handle outside."

"What furniture is there in the study?"

"There is a writing-table, a revolving-chair, two easy chairs, two large
bookcases, and a wardrobe that Mr. Hurst keeps his overcoats and hats
in."

"Does the wardrobe lock?"

"Yes."

"Was it locked when you went in?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I don't go about trying the cupboards and
drawers."

"What furniture is there in the drawing-room?"

"A cabinet, six or seven chairs, a Chesterfield sofa, a piano, a
silver-table, and one or two occasional tables."

"Is the piano a grand or an upright."

"It is an upright grand."

"In what position is it placed?"

"It stands across a corner near the window."

"Is there sufficient room behind it for a man to conceal himself?"

Miss Dobbs was amused and did not dissemble. "Oh, yes," she sniggered,
"there's plenty of room for a man to hide behind it."

"When you searched the drawing-room, did you look behind the piano?"

"No, I didn't!" Miss Dobbs replied scornfully.

"Did you look under the sofa?"

"Certainly not!"

"What did you do, then?"

"We opened the door and looked into the room. We were not looking for a
cat or a monkey; we were looking for a middle-aged gentleman."

"And am I to take it that your search over the rest of the house was
conducted in a similar manner?"

"Certainly. We looked into the rooms, but we did not search under the
beds or in the cupboards."

"Are all the rooms in the house in use as living or sleeping rooms?"

"No; there is one room on the second floor that is used as a store and
lumber room, and one on the first floor that Mr. Hurst uses to store
trunks and things that he is not using."

"Did you look in those rooms when you searched the house?"

"No."

"Have you looked in them since?"

"I have been in the lumber-room since, but not in the other. It is
always kept locked."

At this point an ominous flattening became apparent in his lordship's
eyelids, but these symptoms passed off when Mr. Heath sat down and
indicated that he had no further questions to ask.

Miss Dobbs once more prepared to step down from the witness-box, when
Mr. Loram shot up like a jack-in-the-box.

"You have made certain statements," said he, "concerning the scarab
which Mr. Bellingham was accustomed to wear suspended from his
watch-guard. You say that he was not wearing it when he came to Mr.
Hurst's house on the twenty-third of November, nineteen hundred and two.
Are you quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"I must ask you to be very careful in your statement on this point. The
question is a highly important one. Do you swear that the scarab was not
hanging from his watch-guard?"

"Yes, I do."

"Did you notice the watch-guard particularly?"

"No, not particularly."

"Then what makes you so sure that the scarab was not attached to it?"

"It couldn't have been."

"Why could it not?"

"Because if it had been there I should have seen it."

"What kind of a watch-guard was Mr. Bellingham wearing?"

"Oh, an ordinary sort of watch-guard."

"I mean, was it a chain or a ribbon or a strap?"

"A chain, I think--or perhaps a ribbon--or it might have been a strap."

His lordship flattened his eyelids, but made no further sign, and Mr.
Loram continued:

"Did you or did you not notice what kind of watch-guard Mr. Bellingham
was wearing?"

"I did not. Why should I? It was no business of mine."

"But yet you are sure about the scarab?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"You noticed that, then?"

"No, I didn't. How could I when it wasn't there?"

Mr. Loram paused and looked helplessly at the witness; a suppressed
titter arose from the body of the Court, and a faint voice from the
bench inquired:

"Are you _quite_ incapable of giving a straightforward answer?"

Miss Dobbs' only reply was to burst into tears; whereupon Mr. Loram
abruptly sat down and abandoned his re-examination.

The witness-box vacated by Miss Dobbs was occupied successively by Dr.
Norbury, Mr. Hurst, and the cloak-room attendant, none of whom
contributed any new facts, but merely corroborated the statements made
by Mr. Jellicoe and the housemaid. Then came the labourer who discovered
the bones at Sidcup, and who repeated the evidence that he had given at
the inquest, showing that the remains could not have been lying in the
watercress-bed more than two years. Finally Dr. Summers was called, and,
after he had given a brief description of the bones that he had
examined, was asked by Mr. Loram:

"You have heard the description that Mr. Jellicoe has given of the
testator?"

"I have."

"Does that description apply to the person whose remains you examined?"

"In a general way, it does."

"I must ask you for a direct answer--yes or no. Does it apply?"

"Yes. But I ought to say that my estimate of the height of the deceased
is only approximate."

"Quite so. Judging from your examination of those remains and from Mr.
Jellicoe's description, might those remains be the remains of the
testator, John Bellingham?"

"Yes, they might."

On receiving this admission Mr. Loram sat down, and Mr. Heath
immediately rose to cross-examine.

"When you examined these remains, Doctor Summers, did you discover any
personal peculiarities which would enable you to identify them as the
remains of any one individual rather than any other individual of
similar size, age, and proportions?"

"No. I found nothing that would identify the remains as those of any
particular individual."

As Mr. Heath asked no further questions, the witness received his
dismissal, and Mr. Loram informed the Court that that was his case. The
judge bowed somnolently, and then Mr. Heath rose to address the Court on
behalf of the respondent. It was not a long speech, nor was it enriched
by any displays of florid rhetoric; it concerned itself exclusively with
a rebutment of the arguments of the counsel for the petitioner.

Having briefly pointed out that the period of absence was too short to
give rise of itself to the presumption of death, Mr. Heath continued:

"The claim therefore rests upon evidence of a positive character. My
learned friend asserts that the testator is presumably dead, and it is
for him to prove what he has affirmed. Now, has he done this? I submit
that he has not. He has argued with great force and ingenuity that the
testator, being a bachelor, a solitary man without wife or child,
dependent or master, public or private office or duty, or any bond,
responsibility, or any other condition limiting his freedom of action,
had no reason or inducement for absconding. This is my learned friend's
argument, and he has conducted it with so much skill and ingenuity that
he has not only succeeded in proving his case; he has proved a great
deal too much. For if it is true, as my learned friend so justly argues,
that a man thus unfettered by obligations of any kind has no reason for
disappearing, is it not even more true that he has no reason for _not_
disappearing? My friend has urged that the testator was at liberty to go
where he pleased, when he pleased, and how he pleased; and that
therefore there was no need for him to abscond. I reply, if he was at
liberty to go away, whither, when, and how he pleased, why do we express
surprise that he has made use of his liberty? My learned friend points
out that the testator notified to nobody his intention of going away and
has acquainted no one with his whereabouts; but, I ask, whom should he
have notified? He was responsible to nobody; there was no one dependent
upon him; his presence or absence was the concern of nobody but himself.
If circumstances suddenly arising made it desirable that he should go
abroad, why should he not go? I say there was no reason whatever.

"My learned friend has said that the testator went away leaving his
affairs to take care of themselves. Now, gentlemen, I ask you if this
can fairly be said of a man whose affairs are, as they have been for
years, in the hands of a highly capable, completely trustworthy agent
who is better acquainted with them than the testator himself? Clearly it
cannot.

"To conclude this part of the argument: I submit that the circumstances
of the so-called disappearance of the testator present nothing out of
the ordinary. The testator is a man of ample means, without any
responsibilities to fetter his movements and has been in the constant
habit of travelling, often into remote and distant regions. The mere
fact that he has been absent somewhat longer than usual affords no
ground whatever for the drastic proceeding of presuming his death and
taking possession of his property.

"With reference to the human remains which have been mentioned in
connection with the case I need say but little. The attempt to connect
them with the testator has failed completely. You yourselves have heard
Doctor Summers state on oath that they cannot be identified as the
remains of any particular person. That would seem to dispose of them
effectually. I must remark upon a very singular point that has been
raised by the learned counsel for the petitioner, which is this:

"My learned friend points out that these remains were discovered near
Eltham and near Woodford and that the testator was last seen alive at
one of these two places. This he considers for some reason to be a
highly significant fact. But I cannot agree with him. If the testator
had been last seen alive at Woodford and the remains had been found at
Woodford, or if he had disappeared from Eltham and the remains had been
found at Eltham, that would have had some significance. But he can only
have been last seen at one of the places, whereas the remains have been
found at both places. Here again my learned friend seems to have proved
too much."

"But I need not occupy your time further. I repeat that, in order to
justify us in presuming the death of the testator, clear and positive
evidence would be necessary. That no such evidence has been brought
forward. Accordingly, seeing that the testator may return at any time
and is entitled to find his property intact, I shall ask you for a
verdict that will secure to him this measure of ordinary justice."

At the conclusion of Mr. Heath's speech the judge, as if awakening from
a refreshing nap, opened his eyes; and uncommonly shrewd, intelligent
eyes they were, when the expressive eyelids were duly tucked up out of
the way. He commenced by reading over a part of the will and certain
notes--which he appeared to have made in some miraculous fashion with
his eyes shut--and then proceeded to review the evidence and the
counsels' arguments for the instruction of the jury.

"Before considering the evidence which you have heard, gentlemen," he
said, "it will be well for me to say a few words to you on the general
legal aspects of the case which is occupying our attention."

"If a person goes abroad or disappears from his home and his ordinary
places of resort and is absent for a long period of time, the
presumption of death arises at the expiration of seven years from the
date on which he was last heard of. That is to say, that the total
disappearance of an individual for seven years constitutes presumptive
evidence that the said individual is dead; and the presumption can be
set aside only by the production of evidence that he was alive at some
time within that period of seven years. But if, on the other hand, it
is sought to presume the death of a person who has been absent for a
shorter period than seven years, it is necessary to produce such
evidence as shall make it highly probable that the said person is dead.
Of course, presumption implies supposition as opposed to actual
demonstration; but, nevertheless, the evidence in such a case must be of
a kind that tends to create a very strong belief that death has
occurred; and I need hardly say that the shorter the period of absence,
the more convincing must be the evidence.

"In the present case, the testator, John Bellingham, has been absent
somewhat under two years. This is a relatively short period, and in
itself gives rise to no presumption of death. Nevertheless, death has
been presumed in a case where the period of absence was even shorter and
the insurance recovered; but here the evidence supporting the belief in
the occurrence of death was exceedingly weighty.

"The testator in this case was a shipmaster, and his disappearance was
accompanied by the disappearance of the ship and the entire ship's
company in the course of a voyage from London to Marseilles. The loss of
the ship and her crew was the only reasonable explanation of the
disappearance, and, short of actual demonstration, the facts offered
convincing evidence of the death of all persons on board. I mention this
case as an illustration. You are not dealing with speculative
probabilities. You are contemplating a very momentous proceeding, and
you must be very sure of your ground. Consider what it is that you are
asked to do.

"The petitioner asks permission to presume the death of the testator in
order that the testator's property may be distributed among the
beneficiaries under the will. The granting of such permission involves
us in the gravest responsibility. An ill-considered decision might be
productive of a serious injustice to the testator, an injustice that
could never be remedied. Hence it is incumbent upon you to weigh the
evidence with the greatest care, to come to no decision without the
profoundest consideration of all the facts.

"The evidence that you have heard divides itself into two parts--that
relating to the circumstances of the testator's disappearance, and that
relating to certain human remains. In connection with the latter I can
only express my surprise and regret that the application was not
postponed until the completion of the coroner's inquest, and leave you
to consider the evidence. You will bear in mind that Doctor Summers has
stated explicitly that the remains cannot be identified as those of any
particular individual, but that the testator and the unknown deceased
had so many points of resemblance that they might possibly be one and
the same person.

"With reference to the circumstances of the disappearance, you have
heard the evidence of Mr. Jellicoe to the effect that the testator has
on no previous occasion gone abroad without informing him as to his
proposed destination. But in considering what weight you are to give to
this statement you will bear in mind that when the testator set out for
Paris after his interview with Doctor Norbury he left Mr. Jellicoe
without any information as to his specific destination, his address in
Paris, or the precise date when he should return, and that Mr. Jellicoe
was unable to tell us where the testator went or what was his business.
Mr. Jellicoe was, in fact, for a time without any means of tracing the
testator or ascertaining his whereabouts.

"The evidence of the housemaid, Dobbs, and of Mr. Hurst is rather
confusing. It appears that the testator came to the house, was shown
into a certain room, and when looked for later was not to be found. A
search of the premises showed that he was not in the house, whence it
seems to follow that he must have left it; but since no one was informed
of his intention to leave, and he had expressed the intention of staying
to see Mr. Hurst, his conduct in thus going away surreptitiously must
appear somewhat eccentric. The point that you have to consider,
therefore, is whether a person who is capable of thus departing in a
surreptitious and eccentric manner from a house, without giving notice
to the servants, is capable also of departing in a surreptitious and
eccentric manner from his usual places of resort without giving notice
to his friends or thereafter informing them of his whereabouts.

"The questions, then, gentlemen, that you have to ask yourselves before
deciding on your verdict are two: first, Are the circumstances of the
testator's disappearance and his continued absence incongruous with his
habits and personal peculiarities as they are known to you? and second,
Are there any facts which indicate in a positive manner that the
testator is dead? Ask yourselves these questions, gentlemen, and the
answers to them, furnished by the evidence that you have heard, will
guide you to your decision."

Having delivered himself of the above instructions, the judge applied
himself to the perusal of the will with professional gusto, in which
occupation he was presently disturbed by the announcement of the foreman
of the jury that a verdict had been agreed upon.

The judge sat up and glanced at the jury-box, and when the foreman
proceeded to state that "We find no sufficient reason for presuming the
testator, John Bellingham, to be dead," he nodded approvingly. Evidently
that was his opinion, too, as he was careful to explain when he conveyed
to Mr. Loram the refusal of the Court to grant the permission applied
for.

The decision was a great relief to me, and also, I think, to Miss
Bellingham; but most of all to her father, who, with instinctive good
manners, since he could not suppress a smile of triumph, rose hastily
and stumped out of the Court, so that the discomfited Hurst should not
see him. His daughter and I followed, and as we left the Court she
remarked, with a smile:

"So our pauperism is not, after all, made absolute. There is still a
chance for us in the Chapter of Accidents--and perhaps even for poor old
Uncle John."




CHAPTER XV

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE


The morning after the hearing saw me setting forth on my round in more
than usually good spirits. The round itself was but a short one, for my
list contained only a couple of "chronics," and this, perhaps,
contributed to my cheerful outlook on life. But there were other
reasons. The decision of the Court had come as an unexpected reprieve
and the ruin of my friends' prospects was at least postponed. Then, I
had learned that Thorndyke was back from Bristol and wished me to look
in on him; and, finally, Miss Bellingham had agreed to spend this very
afternoon with me, browsing round the galleries at the British Museum.

I had disposed of my two patients by a quarter to eleven, and three
minutes later was striding down Mitre Court, all agog to hear what
Thorndyke had to say with reference to my notes on the inquest. The
"oak" was open when I arrived at his chambers, and a modest flourish on
the little brass knocker of the inner door was answered by my quondam
teacher himself.

"How good of you, Berkeley," he said, shaking hands genially, "to look
me up so early. I am all alone, just looking through the report of the
evidence in yesterday's proceedings."

He placed an easy chair for me, and, gathering up a bundle of
type-written papers, laid them aside on the table.

"Were you surprised at the decision?" I asked.

"No," he answered. "Two years is a short period of absence; but still,
it might easily have gone the other way. I am greatly relieved. The
respite gives us time to carry out our investigations without undue
hurry."

"Did you find my notes of any use?" I asked.

"Heath did. Polton handed them to him, and they were invaluable to him
for his cross-examination. I haven't seen them yet; in fact, I have only
just got them back from him. Let us go through them together now."

He opened a drawer, and taking from it my note-book, seated himself, and
began to read through my notes with grave attention, while I stood and
looked shyly over his shoulder. On the page that contained my sketches
of the Sidcup arm, showing the distribution of the snails' eggs on the
bones, he lingered with a faint smile that made me turn hot and red.

"Those sketches look rather footy," I said; "but I had to put something
in my note-book."

"You didn't attach any importance, then, to the facts that they
illustrated?"

"No. The egg-patches were there, so I noted the fact. That's all."

"I congratulate you, Berkeley. There is not one man in twenty who would
have the sense to make a careful note of what he considers an
unimportant or irrelevant fact; and the investigator who notes only
those things that appear significant is perfectly useless. He gives
himself no material for reconsideration. But you don't mean that these
egg-patches and worm-tubes appeared to you to have no significance at
all?"

"Oh, of course, they show the position in which the bones were lying."

"Exactly. The arm was lying, fully extended, with the dorsal side
uppermost. There is nothing remarkable in that. But we also learn from
these egg-patches that the hand had been separated from the arm before
it was thrown into the pond; and there is something very remarkable in
that."

I leaned over his shoulder and gazed at my sketches, amazed at the
rapidity with which he had reconstructed the limb from my rough drawings
of the individual bones.

"I don't quite see how you arrived at it, though," I said.

"Well, look at your drawings. The egg-patches are on the dorsal surface
of the scapula, the humerus, and the bones of the fore-arm. But here you
have shown six of the bones of the hand: two metacarpals, the os magnum,
and three phalanges; and they all have egg-patches on the _palmar_
surface. Therefore the hand was lying palm upwards."

"But the hand may have been pronated."

"If you mean pronated in relation to the arm, that is impossible, for
the position of the egg-patches shows clearly that the bones of the arm
were lying in the position of supination. Thus the dorsal surface of the
arm and the palmar surface of the hand respectively were uppermost,
which is an anatomical impossibility so long as the hand is attached to
the arm."

"But might not the hand have become detached after lying in the pond
some time?"

"No. It could not have been detached until the ligaments had decayed,
and if it had been separated after the decay of the soft parts, the
bones would have been thrown into disorder. But the egg-patches are all
on the palmar surface, showing that the bones were still in their normal
relative positions. No, Berkeley, that hand was thrown into the pond
separately from the arm."

"But why should it have been?" I asked.

"Ah, there is a very pretty little problem for you to consider. And,
meantime, let me tell you that your expedition has been a brilliant
success. You are an excellent observer. Your only fault is that when you
have noted certain facts you don't seem fully to appreciate their
significance--which is merely a matter of inexperience. As to the facts
that you have collected, several of them are of prime importance."

"I am glad you are satisfied," said I, "though I don't see that I have
discovered much excepting those snails' eggs; and they don't seem to
have advanced matters very much."

"A definite fact, Berkeley, is a definite asset. Perhaps we may
presently find a little space in our Chinese puzzle which this fact of
the detached hand will just drop into. But, tell me, did you find
nothing unexpected or suggestive about those bones--as to their number
and condition, for instance?"

"Well, I thought it a little queer that the scapula and clavicle should
be there. I should have expected him to cut the arm off at the
shoulder-joint."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "so should I; and so it has been done in every
case of dismemberment that I am acquainted with. To an ordinary person,
the arm seems to join on to the trunk at the shoulder-joint, and that is
where he would naturally sever it. What explanation do you suggest of
this unusual mode of severing the arm?"

"Do you think the fellow could have been a butcher?" I asked,
remembering Dr. Summers' remark. "This is the way a shoulder of mutton
is taken off."

"No," replied Thorndyke. "A butcher includes the scapula in a shoulder
of mutton for a specific purpose, namely, to take off a given quantity
of meat. And also, as a sheep has no clavicle, it is the easiest way to
detach the limb. But I imagine a butcher would find himself in
difficulties if he attempted to take off a man's arm in that way. The
clavicle would be a new and perplexing feature. Then, too, a butcher
does not deal very delicately with his subject; if he has to divide a
joint, he just cuts through it and does not trouble himself to avoid
marking the bones. But you note here that there is not a single scratch
or score on any one of the bones, not even where the finger was removed.
Now, if you have ever prepared bones for a museum, as I have, you will
remember the extreme care that is necessary in disarticulating joints to
avoid disfiguring the articular ends of the bones with cuts and
scratches."

"Then you think that the person who dismembered this body must have had
some anatomical knowledge and skill?"

"That is what has been suggested. The suggestion is not mine."

"Then I infer that you don't agree?"

Thorndyke smiled. "I am sorry to be so cryptic, Berkeley, but you
understand that I can't make statements. Still, I am trying to lead you
to make certain inferences from the facts that are in your possession."

"If I make the right inference, will you tell me?" I asked.

"It won't be necessary," he answered, with the same quiet smile. "When
you have fitted a puzzle together you don't need to be told that you
have done it."

It was most infernally tantalising. I pondered on the problem with a
scowl of such intense cogitation that Thorndyke laughed outright.

"It seems to me," I said, at length, "that the identity of the remains
is the primary question and that is a question of fact. It doesn't seem
any use to speculate about it."

"Exactly. Either these bones are the remains of John Bellingham or they
are not. There will be no doubt on the subject when all the bones are
assembled--if ever they are. And the settlement of that question will
probably throw light on the further question: Who deposited them in the
places in which they were found? But to return to your observations: did
you gather nothing from the other bones? From the complete state of the
neck vertebrae, for instance?"

"Well, it did strike me as rather odd that the fellow should have gone
to the trouble of separating the atlas from the skull. He must have been
pretty handy with the scalpel to have done it as cleanly as he seems to
have done; but I don't see why he should have gone about the business in
the most inconvenient way."

"You notice the uniformity of method. He has separated the head from the
spine, instead of cutting through the spine lower down, as most persons
would have done: he removed the arms with the entire shoulder-girdle,
instead of simply cutting them off at the shoulder-joints. Even in the
thighs the same peculiarity appears; for in neither case was the
knee-cap found with the thigh-bone, although it seems to have been
searched for. Now the obvious way to divide the leg is to cut through
the patellar ligament, leaving the knee-cap attached to the thigh. But
in this case, the knee-cap appears to have been left attached to the
shank. Can you explain why this person should have adopted this unusual
and rather inconvenient method? Can you suggest a motive for this
procedure, or can you think of any circumstances which might lead a
person to adopt this method by preference?"

"It seems as if he wished, for some reason, to divide the body into
definite anatomical regions."

Thorndyke chuckled. "You are not offering that suggestion as an
explanation, are you? Because it would require more explaining than the
original problem. And it is not even true. Anatomically speaking, the
knee-cap appertains to the thigh rather than to the shank. It is a
sesamoid bone belonging to the thigh muscles; yet in this case it has
been left attached, apparently, to the shank. No, Berkeley, that cat
won't jump. Our unknown operator was not preparing a skeleton as a
museum specimen; he was dividing a body up into convenient-sized
portions for the purpose of conveying them to various ponds. Now what
circumstances might have led him to divide it in this peculiar manner?"

"I am afraid I have no suggestion to offer. Have you?"

Thorndyke suddenly lapsed into ambiguity. "I think," he said, "it is
possible to conceive such circumstances, and so, probably, will you if
you think it over."

"Did you gather anything of importance from the evidence at the
inquest?" I asked.

"It is difficult to say," he replied. "The whole of my conclusions in
this case are based on what is virtually circumstantial evidence. I have
not one single fact of which I can say that it admits only of a single
interpretation. Still, it must be remembered that even the most
inconclusive facts, if sufficiently multiplied, yield a highly
conclusive total. And my little pile of evidence is growing, particle by
particle; but we mustn't sit here gossiping at this hour of the day; I
have to consult with Marchmont and you say that you have an early
afternoon engagement. We can walk together as far as Fleet Street."

A minute or two later we went our respective ways, Thorndyke towards
Lombard Street and I to Fetter Lane, not unmindful of those coming
events that were casting so agreeable a shadow before them.

There was only one message awaiting me, and when Adolphus had delivered
it (amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement, premonitory of
fried plaice), I pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to Gunpowder
Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient, joyfully threading the now
familiar passages of Gough Square and Wine Office Court, and meditating
pleasantly on the curious literary flavour that pervades these
little-known regions. For the shade of the author of _Rasselas_ still
seems to haunt the scenes of his Titanic labours and his ponderous but
homely and temperate rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of books
and of the making of books; forms of type, trundled noisily on trollies
by ink-smeared boys, salute the wayfarer at odd corners; piles of
strawboard, rolls or bales of paper, drums of printing-ink or
roller-composition stand on the pavement outside dark entries; basement
windows give glimpses into Hadean caverns tenanted by legions of
printer's devils; and the very air is charged with the hum of press and
with odours of glue and paste and oil. The entire neighbourhood is given
up to the printer and binder; and even my patient turned out to be a
guillotine-knife grinder--a ferocious and revolutionary calling
strangely at variance with his harmless appearance and meek bearing.

I was in good time at my tryst, despite the hindrances of fried plaice
and invalid guillotinists; but, early as I was, Miss Bellingham was
already waiting in the garden--she had been filling a bowl with
flowers--ready to sally forth.

"It is quite like old times," she said, as we turned into Fetter Lane,
"to be going to the Museum together. It brings back the Tell el Amarna
tablets and all your kindness and unselfish labour. I suppose we shall
walk there to-day?"

"Certainly," I replied; "I am not going to share your society with the
common mortals who ride in omnibuses. That would be sheer, sinful waste.
Besides, it is more companionable to walk."

"Yes, it is; and the bustle of the streets makes one more appreciative
of the quiet of the Museum. What are we going to look at when we get
there?"

"You must decide that," I replied. "You know the collection much better
than I do."

"Well, now," she mused, "I wonder what you would like to see; or, in
other words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery is
rather fascinating, especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shall
take you to see that."

She reflected awhile, and then, just as we reached the gate of Staple
Inn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully down the Gray's Inn Road.

"You have taken a great interest in our 'case,' as Doctor Thorndyke
calls it. Would you like to see the churchyard where Uncle John wished
to be buried? It is a little out of our way, but we are not in a hurry,
are we?"

I, certainly, was not. Any deviation that might prolong our walk was
welcome, and, as to the place--why, all places were alike to me if only
she were by my side. Besides, the churchyard was really of some
interest, since it was undoubtedly the "exciting cause" of the obnoxious
paragraph two of the disputed will. I accordingly expressed a desire to
make its acquaintance, and we crossed to the entrance to Gray's Inn
Road.

"Do you ever try," she asked, as we turned down the dingy thoroughfare,
"to picture to yourself familiar places as they looked a couple of
hundred years ago?"

"Yes," I answered, "and very difficult I find it. One has to manufacture
the materials for reconstruction, and then the present aspect of the
place will keep obtruding itself. But some places are easier to
reconstitute than others."

"That is what I find," said she. "Now Holborn, for example, is quite
easy to reconstruct, though I daresay the imaginary form isn't a bit
like the original. But there are fragments left, like Staple Inn and the
front of Gray's Inn; and then one has seen prints of the old Middle Row
and some of the taverns, so that one has some material with which to
help out one's imagination. But this road that we are walking in always
baffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the most part, so new that I
find it impossible to make a satisfactory picture of its appearance,
say, when Sir Roger de Coverley might have strolled in Gray's Inn Walks,
or farther back, when Francis Bacon had chambers in the Inn."

"I imagine," said I, "that part of the difficulty is in the mixed
character of the neighbourhood. Here, on the one side, is old Gray's
Inn, not much changed since Bacon's time--his chambers are still to be
seen, I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell side, is
a dense and rather squalid neighbourhood which has grown up over a
region partly rural and wholly fugitive in character. Places like
Bagnigge Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had many buildings
that were likely to survive; and in the absence of surviving specimens
the imagination hasn't much to work from."

"I daresay you are right," said she. "Certainly, the purlieus of old
Clerkenwell present a very confused picture to me; whereas, in the case
of an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweep
away the modern buildings and replace them with glorious old houses like
the few that remain, dig up the roadway and pavements and lay down
cobble-stones, plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil-lamps,
and the transformation is complete. And a very delightful transformation
it is."

"Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy thought. For we
ought to be doing better work than our forefathers; whereas what we
actually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways,
porticoes, panelling, and mantels in our museums, and then run up
something inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in their
place."

My companion looked at me and laughed softly. "For a naturally cheerful,
and even gay young man," said she, "you are most amazingly pessimistic.
The mantle of Jeremiah--if he ever wore one--seems to have fallen on
you, but without in the least impairing your good spirits excepting in
regard to matters architectural."

"I have much to be thankful for," said I. "Am I not taken to the Museum
by a fair lady? And does she not stay me with mummy cases and comfort me
with crockery?"

"Pottery," she corrected; and then, as we met a party of grave-looking
women emerging from a side-street, she said: "I suppose those are lady
medical students."

"Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital. Note the gravity of their
demeanour and contrast it with the levity of the male student."

"I was doing so," she answered, "and wondering why professional women
are usually so much more serious than men."

"Perhaps," I suggested, "it is a matter of selection. A peculiar type of
woman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has to earn his
living as a matter of course."

"Yes, I daresay that is the explanation. This is our turning."

We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of which was an open gate
giving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial-grounds
that are to be met with in the older districts of London; in which the
dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room for the living.
Many of the headstones were still standing, and others, displaced to
make room for asphalted walks and seats, were ranged around by the
walls, exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their removal. It was
a pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon, contrasted with the
dingy street whence we had come, though its grass was faded and yellow
and the twitter of the birds in the trees mingled with the hideous
Board-school drawl of the children who played around the seats and the
few remaining tombs.

"So this is the last resting-place of the illustrious house of
Bellingham," said I.

"Yes; and we are not the only distinguished people who repose in this
place. The daughter of no less a person than Richard Cromwell is buried
here; the tomb is still standing--but perhaps you have been here before,
and know it."

"I don't think I have ever been here before; and yet there is something
about the place that seems familiar." I looked around, cudgelling my
brains for the key to the dimly reminiscent sensations that the place
evoked; until, suddenly, I caught sight of a group of buildings away to
the west, enclosed within a wall heightened by a wooden trellis.

"Yes, of course!" I exclaimed. "I remember the place now. I have never
been in this part before, but in that enclosure beyond which opens at
the end of Henrietta Street, there used to be and may be still, for all
I know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended in my first year; in
fact, I did my first dissection there."

"There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in the position of the
school," remarked Miss Bellingham. "It would have been really convenient
in the days of the resurrection men. Your material would have been
delivered at your very door. Was it a large school?"

"The attendance varied according to the time of the year. Sometimes I
worked there quite alone. I used to let myself in with a key and hoist
my subject out of a sort of sepulchral tank by means of a chain tackle.
It was a ghoulish business. You have no idea how awful the body used to
look, to my unaccustomed eyes, as it rose slowly out of the tank. It was
like the resurrection scenes that you see on some old tombstones, where
the deceased is shown rising out of his coffin while the skeleton,
Death, falls vanquished with his dart shattered and his crown toppling
off.

"I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to wear a blue apron, which
created a sort of impression of a cannibal butcher's shop. But I am
afraid I am shocking you."

"No, you are not. Every profession has its unpresentable aspects, which
ought not to be seen by out-siders. Think of a sculptor's studio and of
the sculptor himself when he is modelling a large figure or group in the
clay. He might be a bricklayer or a road-sweeper if you judge by his
appearance. This is the tomb I was telling you about."

We halted before the plain coffer of stone, weathered and wasted by age,
but yet kept in decent repair by some pious hands, and read the
inscription, setting forth with modest pride, that here reposed Anna,
sixth daughter of Richard Cromwell, "The Protector." It was a simple
monument and commonplace enough, with the crude severity of the ascetic
age to which it belonged. But still, it carried the mind back to those
stirring times when the leafy shades of Gray's Inn Lane must have
resounded with the clank of weapons and the tramp of armed men; when
this bald recreation-ground was a rustic churchyard, standing amidst
green fields and hedgerows, and countrymen leading their pack-horses
into London through the Lane would stop to look in over the wooden gate.

Miss Bellingham looked at me critically as I stood thus reflecting, and
presently remarked, "I think you and I have a good many mental habits in
common."

I looked up inquiringly, and she continued: "I notice that an old
tombstone seems to set you meditating. So it does me. When I look at an
ancient monument, and especially an old headstone, I find myself almost
unconsciously retracing the years to the date that is written on the
stone. Why do you think that is? Why should a monument be so stimulating
to the imagination? And why should a common headstone be more so than
any other?"

"I suppose it is," I answered reflectively, "that a churchyard monument
is a peculiarly personal thing and appertains in a peculiar way to a
particular time. And the circumstance that it has stood untouched by the
passing years while everything around has changed, helps the imagination
to span the interval. And the common headstone, the memorial of some
dead and gone farmer or labourer who lived and died in the village hard
by, is still more intimate and suggestive. The rustic, childish
sculpture of the village mason and the artless doggerel of the village
schoolmaster, bring back the time and place and the conditions of life
much more vividly than the more scholarly inscriptions and the more
artistic enrichments of monuments of greater pretensions. But where are
your own family tombstones?"

"They are over in that farther corner. There is an intelligent, but
inopportune, person apparently copying the epitaphs. I wish he would go
away. I want to show them to you."

I now noticed, for the first time, an individual engaged, note-book in
hand, in making a careful survey of a group of old headstones. Evidently
he was making a copy of the inscriptions, for not only was he poring
attentively over the writing on the face of the stone, but now and again
he helped out his vision by running his fingers over the worn lettering.

"That is my grandfather's tombstone that he is copying now," said Miss
Bellingham; and even as she spoke, the man turned and directed a
searching glance at us with a pair of keen, spectacled eyes.

Simultaneously we uttered an exclamation of surprise; for the
investigator was Mr. Jellicoe.




CHAPTER XVI

"O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"


Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossible to
say. His countenance (which served the ordinary purposes of a face,
inasmuch as it contained the principal organs of special sense, with the
inlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was, as an apparatus
for the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-reader
it would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon the handle
of an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certain
resemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding his open note-book
and pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned
flourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waited for us to
speak.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe," said Miss Bellingham.

"It is very good of you to say so," he replied.

"And quite a coincidence--that we should all happen to come here on the
same day."

"A coincidence, certainly," he admitted; "and if we had all happened not
to come--which must have occurred frequently--that also would have been
a coincidence."

"I suppose it would," said she, "but I hope we are not interrupting
you."

"Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure of
perceiving you."

"You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine," said
I. It was an impertinent question, put with malice aforethought for the
mere pleasure of hearing him evade it.

"The case?" he repeated. "You are referring, perhaps, to Stevens versus
the Parish Council?"

"I think Doctor Berkeley was referring to the case of my uncle's will,"
Miss Bellingham said quite gravely, though with a suspicious dimpling
about the corners of her mouth.

"Indeed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "There is a case, is there; a suit?"

"I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hurst."

"Oh, but that was merely an application to the Court, and is, moreover,
finished and done with. At least, so I understand. I speak, of course,
subject to correction; I am not acting for Mr. Hurst, you will be
pleased to remember. As a matter of fact," he continued, after a brief
pause, "I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording of the
inscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather,
Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear by
the finding of the coroner's jury that your uncle is deceased, it would
be proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here. But, as
the burial-ground is closed, there might be some difficulty about
erecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none in adding
an inscription to one already existing. Hence these investigations. For
if the inscription on your grandfather's stone had set forth that 'here
rests the body of Francis Bellingham,' it would have been manifestly
improper to add 'also that of John Bellingham, son of the above.'
Fortunately the inscription was more discreetly drafted, merely
recording the fact that this monument is 'sacred to the memory of the
said Francis,' and not committing itself as to the whereabouts of the
remains. But perhaps I am interrupting you?"

"No, not at all," replied Miss Bellingham (which was grossly untrue; he
was interrupting _me_ most intolerably); "we were going to the British
Museum and just looked in here on our way."

"Ha," said Mr. Jellicoe, "now, I happen to be going to the Museum too,
to see Doctor Norbury. I suppose that is another coincidence?"

"Certainly it is," Miss Bellingham replied; and then she asked: "Shall
we walk there together?" and the old curmudgeon actually said
"yes"--confound him!

We returned to the Gray's Inn Road, where, as there was now room for us
to walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer's
unwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject of the
missing man.

"Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John Bellingham's state of
health that would make it probable that he might die suddenly?"

The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments and then
remarked:

"You seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham and his affairs."

"I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them, and the case itself is
of more than common interest from a professional point of view."

"And what is the bearing of this particular question?"

"Surely it is obvious," said I. "If a missing man is known to have
suffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurism, or
arterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact will
surely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probably
dead or alive."

"No doubt you are right," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I have little knowledge of
medical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the question itself,
I am Mr. Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a matter
that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you heard my evidence in Court,
to the effect that the testator appeared, to my untutored observation,
to be a healthy man. I can say no more now."

"If the question is of any importance," said Miss Bellingham, "I wonder
they did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My own impression
is that he was--or is--rather a strong and sound man. He certainly
recovered very quickly and completely after his accident."

"What accident was that?" I asked.

"Oh, hasn't my father told you? It occurred while he was staying with
us. He slipped from a high kerb and broke one of the bones of the left
ankle--somebody's fracture--"

"Pott's?"

"Yes, that was the name--Pott's fracture; and he broke both his
knee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet had to perform an operation, or he
would have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in a
few weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight weakness of
the left ankle."

"Could he walk upstairs?" I asked.

"Oh, yes; and play golf and ride a bicycle."

"You are sure he broke both knee-caps?"

"Quite sure. I remember that it was mentioned as an uncommon injury, and
that Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it."

"That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was pleased with the
result of the operation. He might well be."

Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and, even as I was
trying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe, that gentleman took the
opportunity to change the subject.

"Are you going to the Egyptian Rooms?" he asked.

"No," replied Miss Bellingham; "we are going to look at the pottery."

"Ancient or modern?"

"The old Fulham ware is what chiefly interests us at present; that of
the seventeenth century. I don't know whether you would call that
ancient or modern."

"Neither do I," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Antiquity and modernity are terms
that have no fixed connotation. They are purely relative and their
application in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort of
sliding scale. To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a Jacobean
chest is ancient; to an architect, their period is modern, whereas an
eleventh-century church is ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomed
to remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periods
separated by an insignificant interval. And, I suppose," he added,
reflectively, "that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliest dawn
of human history appertain only to the recent period. Conceptions of
time, like all other conceptions, are relative."

"You appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer," I remarked.

"I am a disciple of Arthur Jellicoe, sir," he retorted. And I believed
him.

By the time we had reached the Museum he had become almost genial; and,
if less amusing in this frame, he was so much more instructive and
entertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted him to
discuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially since my companion
listened with lively interest. Nor, when we entered the great hall, did
he relinquish possession of us, and we followed submissively, as he led
the way past the winged bulls of Nineveh and the great seated statues,
until we found ourselves, almost without the exercise of our volition,
in the upper room amidst the glaring mummy cases that had witnessed the
birth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham.

"Before I leave you," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I should like to show you that
mummy that we were discussing the other evening; the one, you remember,
that my friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum a little time
before his disappearance. The point that I mentioned is only a trivial
one, but it may become of interest hereafter if any plausible
explanation should be forthcoming." He led us along the room until we
arrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift, where he halted
and gazed in at the mummy with the affectionate reflectiveness of the
connoisseur.

"The bitumen coating was what we were discussing, Miss Bellingham,"
said he. "You have seen it, of course."

"Yes," she answered. "It is a dreadful disfigurement, isn't it?"

"Aesthetically it is to be deplored, but it adds a certain speculative
interest to the specimen. You notice that the black coating leaves the
principal decoration and the whole of the inscription untouched, which
is precisely the part that one would expect to find covered up; whereas
the feet and the back, which probably bore no writing, are quite thickly
encrusted. If you stoop down, you can see that the bitumen was daubed
freely into the lacings of the back, where it served no purpose, so that
even the strings are embedded." He stooped, as he spoke, and peered up
inquisitively at the back of the mummy, where it was visible between the
supports.

"Has Doctor Norbury any explanation to offer?" asked Miss Bellingham.

"None whatever," replied Mr. Jellicoe. "He finds it as great a mystery
as I do. But he thinks that we may get some suggestion from the Director
when he comes back. He is a very great authority, as you know, and a
practical excavator of great experience too. But I mustn't stay here
talking of these things, and keeping you from your pottery. Perhaps I
have stayed too long already. If I have I ask your pardon, and I will
now wish you a very good afternoon." With a sudden return to his
customary wooden impassivity, he shook hands with us, bowed stiffly, and
took himself off towards the curator's office.

"What a strange man that is," said Miss Bellingham, as Mr. Jellicoe
disappeared through the doorway at the end of the room, "or perhaps I
should say, a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a man. I
have never met any other human creature at all like him."

"He is certainly a queer old fogey," I agreed.

"Yes, but there is something more than that. He is so emotionless, so
remote and aloof from all mundane concerns. He moves among ordinary men
and women, but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of their
actions, quite dispassionate and impersonal."

"Yes, he is astonishingly self-contained; in fact, he seems, as you say,
to go to and fro among men, enveloped in a sort of infernal atmosphere
of his own, like Marley's ghost. But he is lively and human enough as
soon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is broached."

"Lively, but not human. He is always, to me, quite unhuman. Even when he
is most interested, and even enthusiastic, he is a mere personification
of knowledge. Nature ought to have furnished him with an ibis' head like
Tahuti; then he would have looked his part."

"He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's Inn if she had," said
I; and we both laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of Tahuti
Jellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business in
Lincoln's Inn and the Law Courts.

Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the mummy of Artemidorus,
and now my companion halted before the case with her thoughtful grey
eyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched her with
reverent admiration. How charming she looked as she stood with her
sweet, grave face turned so earnestly to the object of her mystical
affection! How dainty and full of womanly dignity and grace! And then,
suddenly, it was borne in upon me that a great change had come over her
since the day of our first meeting. She had grown younger, more girlish,
and more gentle. At first she had seemed much older than I; a sad-faced
woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almost gloomy, with a bitter, ironic
humour and a bearing distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly and
sweet; tinged, it is true, with a certain seriousness, but frank and
gracious and wholly lovable.

Could the change be due to our growing friendship? As I asked myself the
question, my heart leaped with a new-born hope. I yearned to tell her
all that she was to me--all that I hoped we might be to one another in
the years to come.

At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.

"What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady?"

She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that looked
frankly into mine. "I was wondering," said she, "if he was jealous of my
new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!"

She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.

"Why should he be jealous?" I asked.

"Well, you see, before--we were friends, he had me all to himself. I
have never had a man-friend before--except my father--and no really
intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our
troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a
girl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to come
here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the
sadness of my life and sympathised with me. It was very silly, I know,
but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me."

"It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a gentle,
sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as this
beautiful memorial tells us; and it was wise and good of you to sweeten
the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human love that
blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you were not
silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend."

"Are you sure?" She still smiled as she asked the question, but her
glance was soft--almost tender--and there was a note of whimsical
anxiety in her voice.

"Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance."

She laughed gaily. "Then," said she, "I am satisfied, for I am sure you
know. But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even of
a mummy. A most formidable companion. But tell me how you know."

"I know, because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don't you
remember?"

"Yes, I remember," she answered, softly. "It was when you were so
sympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends."

"And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for the
gift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it,
above everything on earth."

She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness in her manner, and
cast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments' almost embarrassed
silence, as if to bring our talk back to a less emotional plane, she
said:

"Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself up
into two distinct parts?"

"How do you mean?" I asked, a little disconcerted by the sudden descent.

"I mean that there is a part of it that is purely decorative and a part
that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design and
scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows rigidly
the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the Greek
manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to be
spoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar characters."

"Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they have
kept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with the
decoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would have
spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme."

"Yes, it would." She assented absently as if she were thinking of
something else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I watched
her with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the soft
masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow, and
thought her the most wonderful creature that had ever trod the earth.
Suddenly she looked at me reflectively.

"I wonder," she said, "what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It was a
rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have told
anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that you
would sympathise and understand?"

She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious, grey eyes
looking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash,
with the beating of my own heart.

"I will tell you how you knew, Ruth," I whispered passionately. "It was
because I loved you more than anyone in the world has ever loved you,
and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy."

I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then turned deathly
pale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.

"Have I shocked you, Ruth, dearest?" I exclaimed penitently, "have I
spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I have
been eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how long. I
think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn't
have spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you
are, you wouldn't blame me."

"I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself. I
have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me.
I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; I can't say
what you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one another
than friends."

A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lost
all that I cared for--all that made life desirable.

"Why can't we?" I asked. "Do you mean that--that the gods have been
gracious to some other man?"

"No, no," she answered, hastily--almost indignantly, "of course I don't
mean that."

"Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Why
should you? But you will, dear, some day. And I will wait patiently
until that day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will wait
for you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the long years seemed to him
but as a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall be with
me, if only you will not send me away quite without hope."

She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips as if
she were in bodily pain. "You don't understand," she whispered. "It
can't be--it can never be. There is something that makes it impossible,
now and always. I can't tell you more than that."

"But, Ruth, dearest," I pleaded despairingly, "may it not become
possible some day? Can it not be made possible? I can wait, but I can't
give you up. Is there no chance whatever that this obstacle may be
removed?"

"Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul; it is hopeless, and I can't
bear to talk about it. Let me go now. Let us say good-bye here and see
one another no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friends again some
day--when you have forgiven me."

"Forgiven you, dearest!" I exclaimed. "There is nothing to forgive. And
we are friends, Ruth. Whatever happens, you are the dearest friend I
have on earth, or can ever have."

"Thank you, Paul," she said faintly. "You are very good to me. But let
me go, please. I must go. I must be alone."

She held out a trembling hand, and, as I took it, I was shocked to see
how terribly agitated and ill she looked.

"May I not come with you, dear?" I pleaded.

"No, no!" she exclaimed breathlessly; "I must go away by myself. I want
to be alone. Good-bye!"

"Before I let you go, Ruth--if you must go--I must have a solemn promise
from you."

Her sad grey eyes met mine and her lips quivered with an unspoken
question.

"You must promise me," I went on, "that if ever this barrier that parts
us should be removed, you will let me know instantly. Remember that I
love you always, and that I am waiting for you always on this side of
the grave."

She caught her breath in a little quick sob, and pressed my hand.

"Yes," she whispered: "I promise. Good-bye." She pressed my hand again
and was gone; and, as I gazed at the empty doorway through which she had
passed, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass case on the
landing, where she had paused for a moment to wipe her eyes. I felt it,
in a manner, indelicate to have seen her, and turned away my head
quickly; and yet I was conscious of a certain selfish satisfaction in
the sweet sympathy that her grief bespoke.

But now that she was gone a horrible sense of desolation descended on
me. Only now, by the consciousness of irreparable loss, did I begin to
realise the meaning of this passion of love that had stolen unawares
into my life. How it had glorified the present and spread a glamour of
delight over the dimly considered future: how all pleasures and desires,
all hopes and ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus; how it had
stood out as the one great reality behind which the other circumstances
of life were as a background, shimmering, half seen, immaterial, and
unreal. And now it was gone--lost, as it seemed, beyond hope; and that
which was left to me was but the empty frame from which the picture had
vanished.

I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot where she had left
me, wrapped in a dull consciousness of pain, immersed in a half-numb
reverie. Recent events flitted, dream-like, through my mind; our happy
labours in the reading-room; our first visit to the Museum; and this
present day that had opened so brightly and with such joyous promise.
One by one these phantoms of a vanished happiness came and went.
Occasional visitors sauntered into the room--but the galleries were
mostly empty that day--gazed inquisitively at my motionless figure, and
went their way. And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breast went
on, the only vivid consciousness that was left to me.

Presently I raised my eyes and met those of the portrait. The sweet,
pensive face of the old Greek settler looked out at me wistfully as
though he would offer comfort; as though he would tell me that he, too,
had known sorrow when he lived his life in the sunny Fayyum. And a
subtle consolation, like the faint scent of old rose leaves, seemed to
exhale from that friendly face that had looked on the birth of my
happiness and had seen it wither and fade. I turned away, at last, with
a silent farewell; and when I looked back, he seemed to speed me on my
way with gentle valediction.




CHAPTER XVII

THE ACCUSING FINGER


Of my wanderings after I left the Museum on that black and dismal _dies
irae_, I have but a dim recollection. But I must have travelled a quite
considerable distance, since it wanted an hour or two to the time for
returning to the surgery, and I spent the interval walking swiftly
through streets and squares, unmindful of the happenings around, intent
only on my present misfortune, and driven by a natural impulse to seek
relief in bodily exertion. For mental distress sets up, as it were, a
sort of induced current of physical unrest; a beneficent arrangement, by
which a dangerous excess of emotional excitement may be transformed into
motor energy, and so safely got rid of. The motor apparatus acts as a
safety-valve to the psychical; and if the engine races for a while, with
the onset of bodily fatigue the emotional pressure-gauge returns to a
normal reading.

And so it was with me. At first I was conscious of nothing but a sense
of utter bereavement, of the shipwreck of all my hopes. But, by degrees,
as I threaded my way among the moving crowds, I came to a better and
more worthy frame of mind. After all, I had lost nothing that I had ever
had. Ruth was still all that she had ever been to me--perhaps even more;
and if that had been a rich endowment yesterday, why not to-day also?
And how unfair it would be to her if I should mope and grieve over a
disappointment that was no fault of hers and for which there was no
remedy! Thus I reasoned with myself, and to such purpose that, by the
time I reached Fetter Lane, my dejection had come to quite manageable
proportions and I had formed the resolution to get back to the _status
quo ante bellum_ as soon as possible.

About eight o'clock, as I was sitting alone in the consulting-room,
gloomily persuading myself that I was now quite resigned to the
inevitable, Adolphus brought me a registered packet, at the handwriting
on which my heart gave such a bound that I had much ado to sign the
receipt. As soon as Adolphus had retired (with undissembled contempt of
the shaky signature) I tore open the packet, and as I drew out a letter
a tiny box dropped on the table.

The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over and over again with
the eagerness of a condemned man reading a reprieve:--

"My Dear Paul,

"Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this afternoon, and leaving you
so unhappy, too. I am more sane and reasonable now, and so send you
greeting and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. It is
quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as you care for me,
never to speak of it again; never again to make me feel that I can give
so little when you have given so much. And do not try to see me for a
little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will my father, who is
very fond of you; but it is better that we should not meet, until we can
take up the old relations--if that can ever be.

"I am sending you a little keepsake in case we should drift apart on
the eddies of life. It is the ring that I told you about--the one that
my uncle gave me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you have a small
hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance of our friendship. The
device on it is the Eye of Osiris, a mystic symbol for which I have a
sentimentally superstitious affection, as also had my poor uncle, who
actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his breast. It signifies that
the great judge of the dead looks down on men to see that justice is
done and that truth prevails. So I commend you to the good Osiris; may
his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your welfare in the absence of

"Your affectionate friend

"RUTH."

It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried little comfort;
quiet and reticent like its writer, but with an undertone of sincere
affection. I laid it down at length, and, taking the ring from its box,
examined it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintness and
feeling of the antique original, and, above all, it was fragrant with
the spirit of the giver. Dainty and delicate, wrought of silver and
gold, with an inlay of copper, I would not have exchanged it for the
Koh-i-noor; and when I had slipped it on my finger its tiny eye of blue
enamel looked up at me so friendly and companionable that I felt the
glamour of the old-world superstition stealing over me, too.

Not a single patient came in this evening, which was well for me (and
also for the patient), as I was able forthwith to write in reply a long
letter; but this I shall spare the long-suffering reader excepting its
concluding paragraph:--

"And now, dearest, I have said my say; once for all, I have said it, and
I will not open my mouth on the subject again (I am not actually opening
it now) 'until the times do alter.' And if the times do never alter--if
it shall come to pass, in due course, that we two shall sit side by
side, white-haired, and crinkly-nosed, and lean our poor old chins upon
our sticks and mumble and gibber amicably over the things that might
have been if the good Osiris had come up to the scratch--I will still be
content, because your friendship, Ruth, is better than another woman's
love. So you see, I have taken my gruel and come up to time smiling--if
you will pardon the pugilistic metaphor--and I promise you loyally to do
your bidding and never again to distress you.

"Your faithful and loving friend,

"PAUL."

This letter I addressed and stamped, and then, with a wry grimace which
I palmed off on myself (but not on Adolphus) as a cheerful smile, I went
out and dropped it into the post-box; after which I further deluded
myself by murmuring _Nunc dimittis_ and assuring myself that the
incident was now absolutely closed.

But, despite this comfortable assurance, I was, in the days that
followed, an exceedingly miserable young man. It is all very well to
write down troubles of this kind as trivial and sentimental. They are
nothing of the kind. When a man of an essentially serious nature has
found the one woman of all the world who fulfils his highest ideals of
womanhood, who is, in fact, a woman in ten thousand, to whom he has
given all that he has to give of love and worship, the sudden wreck of
all his hopes is no small calamity. And so I found it. Resign myself as
I would to the bitter reality, the ghost of the might-have-been haunted
me night and day, so that I spent my leisure wandering abstractedly
about the streets, always trying to banish thought and never for an
instant succeeding. A great unrest was upon me; and when I received a
letter from Dick Barnard announcing his arrival at Madeira, homeward
bound, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no plans for the future, but I
longed to be rid of the, now irksome, routine of the practice--to be
free to come and go when and how I pleased.

One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite my solitary supper,
there fell on me a sudden sense of loneliness. The desire that I had
hitherto felt to be alone with my own miserable reflections gave place
to a yearning for human companionship. That, indeed, which I craved for
most was forbidden, and I must abide by my lady's wishes; but there were
my friends in the Temple. It was more than a week since I had seen them;
in fact, we had not met since the morning of that unhappiest day of my
life. They would be wondering what had become of me. I rose from the
table, and, having filled my pouch from a tin of tobacco, set forth for
King's Bench Walk.

As I approached the entry of No. 5A in the gathering darkness I met
Thorndyke himself emerging, encumbered with two deck-chairs, a
reading-lantern, and a book.

"Why, Berkeley!" he exclaimed, "is it indeed thou? We have been
wondering what had become of you."

"It _is_ a long time since I looked you up," I admitted.

He scrutinised me attentively by the light of the entry lamp, and then
remarked: "Fetter Lane doesn't seem to be agreeing with you very well,
my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky."

"Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about ten days.
His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal and take in some cargo, and
then he is coming home. Where are you going with those chairs?"

"I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by the garden railings.
It's cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will fetch
another chair for Jervis, though he won't be back for a little while."
He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a third chair, and we
carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner at the bottom of the
Walk.

"So your term of servitude is coming to an end," said he when we had
placed the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. "Any other
news?"

"No. Have you any?"

"I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negative results.
There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it all seems
to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move without
something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmation or
otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item of evidence."

"I didn't know there was any evidence."

"Didn't you?" said Thorndyke. "But you know as much as I know. You have
all the essential facts; but apparently you haven't collated them and
extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found them
curiously significant."

"I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is?"

"No, I think not. When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to
nobody--not even to Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has
been no leakage. Don't think I distrust you. Remember that my thoughts
are my client's property, and that the essence of strategy is to keep
the enemy in the dark."

"Yes, I see that. Of course, I ought not to have asked."

"You ought not to need to ask," Thorndyke replied, with a smile; "you
should put the facts together and reason from them yourself."

While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me
inquisitively from time to time. Now, after an interval of silence, he
asked suddenly:

"Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends'
affairs?"

"No, not particularly; though their prospects don't look very rosy."

"Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look," said he. "But I am
afraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to have
evaporated." He paused for a few moments, and then added: "I don't want
to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or
otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic
offspring."

Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began to mumble a
half-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped. After all, why should I
not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of human
sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his
professional capacity. And I wanted a friend badly just now.

"I am afraid," I began shyly, "it is not a matter that admits of much
help, and it's hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by
talking about----"

"If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough to
merit serious consideration by your friend; so, if you don't mind
telling me----"

"Of course I don't, sir!" I exclaimed.

"Then fire away; and don't call me 'sir.' We are brother practitioners
now."

Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little romance; bashfully
at first and with halting phrases, but, later, with more freedom and
confidence. He listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a
question when my narrative became a little disconnected. When I had
finished he laid his hand softly on my arm.

"You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don't wonder that you are
miserable. I am more sorry than I can tell you."

"Thank you," I said. "It's exceedingly good of you to listen so
patiently, but it's a shame for me to pester you with my sentimental
troubles."

"Now, Berkeley, you don't think that, and I hope you don't think that I
do. We should be bad biologists and worse physicians if we should
under-estimate the importance of that which is Nature's chiefest care.
The one salient biological truth is the paramount importance of sex; and
we are deaf and blind if we do not hear and see it in everything that
lives when we look abroad upon the world; when we listen to the spring
song of the birds, or when we consider the lilies of the field. And as
is man to the lower organisms, so is human love to their merely reflex
manifestations of sex. I will maintain, and you will agree with me, I
know, that the love of a serious and honourable man for a woman who is
worthy of him is the most momentous of all human affairs. It is the
foundation of social life, and its failure is a serious calamity, not
only to those whose lives may be thereby spoilt, but to society at
large."

"It's a serious enough matter for the parties concerned," I agreed; "but
that is no reason why they should bore their friends."

"But they don't. Friends should help one another and think it a
privilege."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind coming to you for help, knowing you as I do. But
no one can help a poor devil in a case like this--and certainly not a
medical jurist."

"Oh, come, Berkeley!" he protested, "don't rate us too low. The humblest
of creatures has its uses--'even the little pismire,' you know, as Isaak
Walton tells us. Why, I have got substantial help from a
stamp-collector. And then reflect upon the motor-scorcher and the
earthworm and the blow-fly. All these lowly creatures play their parts
in the scheme of Nature; and shall we cast out the medical jurist as
nothing worth?"

I laughed dejectedly at my teacher's genial irony.

"What I meant," said I, "was that there is nothing to be done but
wait--perhaps for ever. I don't know why she isn't able to marry me, and
I mustn't ask her. She can't be married already."

"Certainly not. She told you explicitly that there was no man in the
case."

"Exactly. And I can think of no other valid reason, excepting that she
doesn't care enough for me. That would be a perfectly sound reason, but
then it would only be a temporary one, not the insuperable obstacle that
she assumes to exist, especially as we really got on excellently
together. I hope it isn't some confounded perverse feminine scruple. I
don't see how it could be; but women are most frightfully tortuous and
wrong-headed at times."

"I don't see," said Thorndyke, "why we should cast about for perversely
abnormal motives when there is a perfectly reasonable explanation
staring us in the face."

"Is there?" I exclaimed. "I see none."

"You are, not unnaturally, overlooking some of the circumstances that
affect Miss Bellingham; but I don't suppose she has failed to grasp
their meaning. Do you realise what her position really is? I mean with
regard to her uncle's disappearance?"

"I don't think I quite understand you."

"Well, there is no use in blinking the facts," said Thorndyke. "The
position is this: If John Bellingham ever went to his brother's house at
Woodford, it is nearly certain that he went there after his visit to
Hurst. Mind, I say '_if_ he went'; I don't say that I believe he did.
But it is stated that he appears to have gone there; and if he did go,
he was never seen alive afterwards. Now, he did not go in at the front
door. No one saw him enter the house. But there was a back gate, which
John Bellingham knew, and which had a bell which rang in the library.
And you will remember that, when Hurst and Jellicoe called, Mr.
Bellingham had only just come in. Previous to that time Miss Bellingham
had been alone in the library; that is to say, she was alone in the
library at the very time when John Bellingham is said to have made his
visit. That is the position, Berkeley. Nothing pointed has been said up
to the present. But, sooner or later, if John Bellingham is not found,
dead or alive, the question will be opened. Then it is certain that
Hurst, in self-defence, will make the most of any facts that may
transfer suspicion from him to someone else. And that someone else will
be Miss Bellingham."

I sat for some moments literally paralysed with horror. Then my dismay
gave place to indignation. "But, damn it!" I exclaimed, starting up--"I
beg your pardon--but could anyone have the infernal audacity to
insinuate that that gentle, refined lady murdered her uncle?"

"That is what will be hinted, if not plainly asserted; and she knows it.
And that being so, is it difficult to understand why she should refuse
to allow you to be publicly associated with her? To run the risk of
dragging your honourable name into the sordid transactions of the
police-court or the Old Bailey? To invest it, perhaps, with a dreadful
notoriety?"

"Oh, don't! for God's sake! It is too horrible! Not that I would care
for myself. I would be proud to share her martyrdom of ignominy, if it
had to be; but it is the sacrilege, the blasphemy of even thinking of
her in such terms, that enrages me."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "I understand and sympathise with you. Indeed, I
share your righteous indignation at this dastardly affair. So you
mustn't think me brutal for putting the case so plainly."

"I don't. You have only shown me the danger that I was fool enough not
to see. But you seem to imply that this hideous position has been
brought about deliberately."

"Certainly I do! This is no chance affair. Either the appearances
indicate the real events--which I am sure they do not--or they have been
created of a set purpose to lead to false conclusions. But the
circumstances convince me that there has been a deliberate plot; and I
am waiting--in no spirit of Christian patience, I can tell you--to lay
my hand on the wretch who has done this."

"What are you waiting for?" I asked.

"I am waiting for the inevitable," he replied; "for the false move that
the most artful criminal invariably makes. At present he is lying low;
but presently he must make a move, and then I shall have him."

"But he may go on lying low. What will you do then?"

"Yes, that is the danger. We may have to deal with the perfect villain
who knows when to leave well alone. I have never met him, but he may
exist, nevertheless."

"And then we should have to stand by and see our friends go under."

"Perhaps," said Thorndyke; and we both subsided into gloomy and silent
reflection.

The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London can be.
Occasional hoots from far-away tugs and steamers told of the busy life
down below in the crowded Pool. A faint hum of traffic was borne in from
the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices of newspaper
boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction of Carmelite Street.
They were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the excited
yells, toned down as they were by distance, nevertheless stirred the
very marrow in my bones, so dreadfully suggestive were they of those
possibilities of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted. They seemed
like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes.

Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke's
mind, for he remarked presently: "The newsvendor is abroad to-night like
a bird of ill-omen. Something unusual has happened: some public or
private calamity, most likely, and these yelling ghouls are out to feast
on the remains. The newspaper men have a good deal in common with the
carrion-birds that hover over a battle-field."

Again we subsided into silence and reflection. Then, after an interval,
I asked:

"Would it be possible for me to help in any way in this investigation of
yours?"

"That is exactly what I have been asking myself," replied Thorndyke. "It
would be right and proper that you should, and I think you might."

"How?" I asked eagerly.

"I can't say off-hand; but Jervis will be going away for his holiday
almost at once--in fact, he will go off actual duty to-night. There is
very little doing; the long vacation is close upon us, and I can do
without him. But if you would care to come down here and take his place,
you would be very useful to me; and if there should be anything to be
done in the Bellinghams' case, I am sure you would make up in enthusiasm
for any deficiency in experience."

"I couldn't really take Jervis's place," said I, "but if you would let
me help you in any way it would be a great kindness. I would rather
clean your boots than be out of it altogether."

"Very well. Let us leave it that you come here as soon as Barnard has
done with you. You can have Jervis's room, which he doesn't often use
nowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know. I may
as well give you my latchkey now. I have a duplicate upstairs, and you
understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment."

He handed me the latchkey and I thanked him warmly from my heart, for I
felt sure that the suggestion was made, not for any use that I should be
to him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly finished speaking
when a quick step on the paved walk caught my ear.

"Here is Jervis," said Thorndyke. "We will let him know that there is a
locum tenens ready to step into his shoes when he wants to be off." He
flashed the lantern across the path, and a few moments later his junior
stepped up briskly with a bundle of newspapers tucked under his arm.

It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly when he
recognised me in the dim light; also that he was a trifle constrained in
his manner, as if my presence were an embarrassment. He listened to
Thorndyke's announcement of our newly made arrangement without much
enthusiasm and with none of his customary facetious comments. And again
I noticed a quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, and wholly
puzzling to me.

"That's all right," he said when Thorndyke had explained the situation.
"I daresay you'll find Berkeley as useful as me, and, in any case, he'll
be better here than staying on with Barnard." He spoke with unwonted
gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude for me that attracted my
notice and that of Thorndyke as well, for the latter looked at him
curiously, though he made no comment. After a short silence, however, he
asked: "And what news does my learned brother bring? There is a mighty
shouting among the outer barbarians, and I see a bundle of newspapers
under my learned friend's arm. Has anything in particular happened?"

Jervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Well--yes," he replied
hesitatingly, "something has happened--there! It's no use beating about
the bush; Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from those yelling
devils outside." He took a couple of papers from his bundle and silently
handed one to me and the other to Thorndyke.

Jervis's ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed me not a little. I
opened the paper with a nameless dread. But whatever my vague fears,
they fell far short of the occasion; and when I saw those yells from
without crystallised into scare headlines and flaming capitals I turned
for a moment sick and dizzy with fear.

The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it through in less than a
minute:

"THE MISSING FINGER

"DRAMATIC DISCOVERY AT WOODFORD.

"The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a mutilated human body,
portions of which have been found in various places in Kent and Essex,
has received a partial and very sinister solution. The police have, all
along, suspected that these remains were those of a Mr. John Bellingham
who disappeared under circumstances of some suspicion about two years
ago. There is now no doubt upon the subject, for the finger which was
missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup has been discovered at
the bottom of a disused well _together with a ring_, which has been
identified as one habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham.

"The house in the garden of which the well is situated was the property
of the murdered man, and was occupied at the time of the disappearance
by his brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latter left it very soon
after, and it has been empty ever since. Just lately it has been put in
repair, and it was in this way that the well came to be emptied and
cleaned out. It seems that Detective-Inspector Badger, who was searching
the neighbourhood for further remains, heard of the emptying of the well
and went down in the bucket to examine the bottom, where he found the
three bones and the ring.

"Thus the identity of the body is established beyond all doubt, and the
question that remains is, Who killed John Bellingham? It may be
remembered that a trinket, apparently broken from his watch-chain, was
found in the grounds of this house on the day that he disappeared, and
that he was never again seen alive. What may be the import of these
facts time will show."

That was all; but it was enough. I dropped the paper to the ground and
glanced round furtively at Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toes
of his boots. It was horrible; It was incredible! The blow was so
crushing that it left my faculties numb, and for a while I seemed
unable even to think intelligibly.

I was aroused by Thorndyke's voice--calm, business-like, composed:

"Time will show, indeed! But meanwhile we must go warily. And don't be
unduly alarmed, Berkeley. Go home, take a good dose of bromide with a
little stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been rather a shock
to you."

I rose from my chair like one in a dream and held out my hand to
Thorndyke; and even in the dim light and in my dazed condition I noticed
that his face bore a look that I had never seen before: the look of a
granite mask of Fate--grim, stern, inexorable.

My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway at the top of Inner
Temple Lane, and as we reached the entry a stranger, coming quickly up
the Lane, overtook and passed us. In the glare of the lamp outside the
porter's lodge he looked at us quickly over his shoulder, and though he
passed on without halt or greeting, I recognised him with a certain dull
surprise which I did not understand then and do not understand now. It
was Mr. Jellicoe.

I shook hands once more with my friends and strode out into Fleet
Street, but as soon as I was outside the gate I made direct for Nevill's
Court. What was in my mind I do not know; only that some instinct of
protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious of the hideous
menace that hung over her. At the entrance to the court a tall, powerful
man was lounging against the wall, and he seemed to look at me curiously
as I passed; but I hardly noticed him and strode forward into the narrow
passage. By the shabby gateway of the house I halted and looked up at
such of the windows as I could see over the wall. They were all dark.
All the inmates, then, were in bed. Vaguely comforted by this, I walked
on to the New Street end of the court and looked out. Here, too, a
man--a tall, thick-set man--was loitering; and, as he looked
inquisitively into my face, I turned and reentered the court, slowly
retracing my steps. As I again reached the gate of the house I stopped
to look up once more at the windows, and turning, I found the man whom I
had last noticed close behind me. Then, in a flash of dreadful
comprehension, I understood. These two men were plain-clothes policemen.

For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane impulse urged me to
give battle to this intruder; to avenge upon his person the insult of
his presence. Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and I recovered
myself without making any demonstration. But the appearance of those two
policemen brought the peril into the immediate present, imparted to it a
horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood on my forehead, and
my ears were ringing when I walked with faltering steps out into Fetter
Lane.




CHAPTER XVIII

JOHN BELLINGHAM


The next few days were a very nightmare of horror and gloom. Of course,
I repudiated my acceptance of the decree of banishment that Ruth had
passed upon me. I was her friend, at least, and in time of peril my
place was at her side. Tacitly--though thankfully enough, poor
girl!--she had recognised the fact and made me once more free of the
house.

For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper boys yelled the
news up and down Fleet Street from morning to night; soul-shaking
posters grinned on gaping crowds; and the newspapers fairly wallowed in
the "Shocking details." It is true that no direct accusations were made;
but the original reports of the disappearance were reprinted with such
comments as made me gnash my teeth with fury.

The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory until my dying
day. Never can I forget the dread that weighed me down, the horrible
suspense, the fear that clutched at my heart as I furtively scanned the
posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives who prowled about
the entrances to Nevill's Court became grateful to my eyes, for,
embodying as they did the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady,
their presence at least told me that the blow had not yet fallen.
Indeed, we came, after a time, to exchange glances of mutual
recognition, and I thought that they seemed to be sorry for her and for
me, and had no great liking for their task. Of course, I spent most of
my leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more there than
elsewhere; and I tried, with but poor success, I fear, to maintain a
cheerful, confident manner, cracking my little jokes as of old, and even
essaying to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment was a dead
failure; and when she had suddenly broken down in a stream of brilliant
repartee to weep hysterically on my breast, I abandoned the attempt and
did not repeat it.

A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old house. Poor Miss Oman
crept silently but restlessly up and down the ancient stairs with dim
eyes and a tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentary
petition (demanding, if I remember rightly, the appointment of a female
judge to deal with divorce and matrimonial causes) which lay on her
table languidly awaiting signatures that never came. Mr. Bellingham,
whose mental condition at first alternated between furious anger and
absolute panic, was fast sinking into a state of nervous prostration
that I viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the only really
self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth herself, and even
she could not conceal the ravages of sorrow and suspense and
overshadowing peril. Her manner was almost unchanged; or rather, I
should say, she had gone back to that which I had first known--quiet,
reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter humour showing through her
unvarying amiability. When she and I were alone, indeed, her reserve
melted away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it wrung my
heart to look at her, to see how, day by day, she grew ever more thin
and haggard; to watch the growing pallor of her cheek; to look into her
solemn grey eyes, so sad and tragic and yet so brave and defiant of
fate.

It was a terrible time; and through it all the dreadful questions
haunted me continually: When will the blow fall? What is it that the
police are waiting for? And when they do strike, what will Thorndyke
have to say?

So things went on for four dreadful days. But on the fourth day, just as
the evening consultations were beginning and the surgery was filled with
waiting patients, Polton appeared with a note, which he insisted, to the
indignation of Adolphus, on delivering into my own hands. It was from
Thorndyke, and was to the following effect:----

"I learn from Dr. Norbury that he has recently heard from Herr
Lederbogen, of Berlin--a learned authority on Oriental antiquities--who
makes some reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met in Vienna
about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman's name, but there are
certain expressions in the letter which make Dr. Norbury suspect that he
is referring to John Bellingham.

"I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to my chambers this evening
at 8.30, to meet Dr. Norbury and talk over this letter; and in view of
the importance of the matter, I look to you not to fail me."

A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was still possible that this
Gordian knot might be cut; that the deliverance might come before it was
too late. I wrote a hasty note in reply to Thorndyke and another to
Ruth, making the appointment; and having given them both to the trusty
Polton, returned somewhat feverishly to my professional duties. To my
profound relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practice sank
into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able, without base and
mendacious subterfuge, to escape in good time to my tryst.

It was near upon eight o'clock when I passed through the archway into
Nevill's Court. The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer
was running out apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had faded
from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down in the narrow court
the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners. I was
due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I
sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar
scene and the well-known friendly faces.

The day's work was drawing to a close. The little shops were putting up
their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a
solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out
through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.

Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning
towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on
a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his
dahlias. There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand
and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an
older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning out the
gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette
in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children
were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.

All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers of the genuine
breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for
generations. And of such to a great extent was the population of the
place. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the
sweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous La
Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon
Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient
timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported
that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James
the First.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court: on the strange
phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering
in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean
of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I
raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of
the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for
she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she
saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her
hand.

"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's clock is striking now."

"Yes," I answered. "But where is your father?"

"He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough to come,
and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense
will kill him if it goes on much longer."

"Let us hope it won't," I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in
my tone. It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and
I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was
breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung
over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less
manifest.

We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us with
a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raised his
cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we passed
through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion paused and
looked about her.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"The detective," she answered quietly. "It would be a pity if the poor
man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don't see him"; and
she turned away towards Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise to
me that her sharp eyes had detected the secret spy upon her movements;
and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained me, too, recalling, as
it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the early
days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not but admire the cool
unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril.

"Tell me a little more about this conference," she said, as we walked
down Fetter Lane. "Your note was rather more concise than lucid; but I
suppose you wrote it in a hurry."

"Yes, I did. And I can't give you any details now. All I know is that
Doctor Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, an
Egyptologist, as I understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to an
English acquaintance of his and Norbury's whom he saw in Vienna about a
year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman's name, but from some of the
circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your Uncle
John. Of course, if this should turn out to be really the case, it would
set everything straight; so Thorndyke was anxious that you and your
father should meet Norbury and talk it over."

"I see," said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but by no means
enthusiastic.

"You don't seem to attach much importance to the matter," I remarked.

"No. It doesn't seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of
suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive--and behaving like an imbecile,
which he certainly was not--when his dead body has actually been found?"

"But," I suggested lamely, "there may be some mistake. It may not be his
body after all."

"And the ring?" she asked, with a bitter smile.

"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of
antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your
uncle. Besides," I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the
ring. It may not be his at all."

She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said quietly, "it is useless to
delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is
his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to
everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal
friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from
the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and
the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised
that the police have made no move yet."

The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with
horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident
attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.

"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still undismayed.
Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."

"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like
this. However, we shall see."

I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that
we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries
and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the
Treasury.

"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed
King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and
blank.

"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."

"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is
most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about his
engagements."

The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper
fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."

"A note for P.B. is on the table," was the laconic message: on reading
which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the
lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table and I brought it
out to the landing to read by the light of the staircase lamp.

"Apologise to our friends," it ran, "for the slight change of programme.
Norbury is anxious that I should get my experiments over before the
Director returns, so as to save discussion. He has asked me to begin
to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham here, at the
Museum. Please bring them along at once. The hall porters are instructed
to admit you and bring you to us. I think some matters of importance may
transpire at the interview.--J.E.T."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I hope you don't mind," I said apologetically, when I had read the note
to Ruth.

"Of course I don't," she replied. "I am rather pleased. We have so many
associations with the dear old Museum, haven't we?" She looked at me for
a moment with a strange and touching wistfulness and then turned to
descend the stone stairs.

At the Temple gate, I hailed a hansom and we were soon speeding westward
and north to the soft tinkle of the horse's bell.

"What are these experiments that Doctor Thorndyke refers to?" she asked
presently.

"I can only answer you rather vaguely," I replied. "Their object, I
believe, is to ascertain whether the penetrability of organic substances
by the X-rays becomes altered by age; whether, for instance, an ancient
block of wood is more or less transparent to the rays than a new block
of the same size."

"And of what use would the knowledge be, if it were obtained?"

"I can't say. Experiments are made to obtain knowledge without regard
to its utility. The use appears when the knowledge has been acquired.
But in this case, if it should be possible to determine the age of any
organic substance by its reaction to X-rays, the discovery might be of
some value in legal practice--as in demonstrating a new seal on an old
document, for instance. But I don't know whether Thorndyke has anything
definite in view; I only know that the preparations have been on a most
portentous scale."

"How do you mean?"

"In regard to size. When I went into the workshop yesterday morning, I
found Polton erecting a kind of portable gallows about nine feet high,
and he had just finished varnishing a pair of enormous wooden trays,
each over six feet long. It looked as if he and Thorndyke were
contemplating a few private executions with subsequent post-mortems on
the victims."

"What a horrible suggestion!"

"So Polton said, with his quaint, crinkly smile. But he was mighty close
about the use of the apparatus all the same. I wonder if we shall see
anything of the experiments, when we get there. This is Museum Street,
isn't it?"

"Yes." As she spoke, she lifted the flap of one of the little windows in
the back of the cab and peered out. Then, closing it with a quiet,
ironic smile, she said:

"It is all right; he hasn't missed us. It will be quite a nice little
change for him."

The cab swung round into Great Russell Street, and, glancing out as it
turned, I saw another hansom following; but before I had time to inspect
its solitary passenger, we drew up at the Museum gates. The
gate-porter, who seemed to expect us, ushered us up the drive to the
great portico and into the Central Hall, where he handed us over to
another official.

"Doctor Norbury is in one of the rooms adjoining the Fourth Egyptian
Room," the latter stated in answer to our inquiries: and, providing
himself with a wire-guarded lantern, he prepared to escort us thither.

Up the great staircase, now wrapped in mysterious gloom, we passed in
silence with bitter-sweet memories of that day of days when we had first
trodden its steps together: through the Central Saloon, the Mediaeval
Room and the Asiatic Saloon, and so into the long range of the
Ethnographical Galleries.

It was a weird journey. The swaying lantern shot its beams abroad into
the darkness of the great, dim galleries, casting instantaneous flashes
on the objects in the cases, so that they leaped into being and vanished
in the twinkling of an eye. Hideous idols with round, staring eyes
started forth from the darkness, glared at us for an instant and were
gone. Grotesque masks, suddenly revealed by the shimmering light, took
on the semblance of demon faces that seemed to mow and gibber at us as
we passed. As for the life-sized models--realistic enough by
daylight--their aspect was positively alarming; for the moving light and
shadow endowed them with life and movement, so that they seemed to watch
us furtively, to lie in wait and to hold themselves in readiness to
steal out and follow us. The illusion evidently affected Ruth as well as
me, for she drew nearer to me and whispered:

"These figures are quite startling. Did you see that Polynesian? I
really felt as if he were going to spring out on us."

"They are rather uncanny," I admitted, "but the danger is over now. We
are passing out of their sphere of influence."

We came out on a landing as I spoke and then turned sharply to the left
along the North Gallery, from the centre of which we entered the Fourth
Egyptian Room.

Almost immediately, a door in the opposite wall opened; a peculiar,
high-pitched humming sound became audible, and Jervis came out on tiptoe
with his hand raised.

"Tread as lightly as you can," he said. "We are just making an
exposure."

The attendant turned back with his lantern, and we followed Jervis into
the room from whence he had come. It was a large room, and little
lighter than the galleries, for the single glow-lamp that burned at the
end where we entered left the rest of the apartment in almost complete
obscurity. We seated ourselves at once on the chairs that had been
placed for us, and, when the mutual salutations had been exchanged, I
looked about me. There were three people in the room besides Jervis:
Thorndyke, who sat with his watch in his hand, a grey-headed gentleman
whom I took to be Dr. Norbury, and a smaller person at the dim farther
end--undistinguishable, but probably Polton. At our end of the room were
the two large trays that I had seen in the workshop, now mounted on
trestles and each fitted with a rubber drain-tube leading down to a
bucket. At the farther end of the room the sinister shape of the gallows
reared itself aloft in the gloom; only now I could see that it was not a
gallows at all. For affixed to the top cross-bar was a large,
bottomless glass basin, inside which was a glass bulb that glowed with a
strange green light; and in the heart of the bulb a bright spot of red.

It was all clear enough so far. The peculiar sound that filled the air
was the hum of the interrupter; the bulb was, of course, a Crookes tube,
and the red spot inside it, the glowing red-hot disc of the
anti-cathode. Clearly an X-ray photograph was being made; but of what? I
strained my eyes, peering into the gloom at the foot of the gallows, but
though I could make out an elongated object lying on the floor directly
under the bulb, I could not resolve the dimly seen shape into anything
recognisable. Presently, however, Dr. Norbury supplied the clue.

"I am rather surprised," said he, "that you chose so composite an object
as a mummy to begin on. I should have thought that a simpler object,
such as a coffin or a wooden figure, would have been more instructive."

"In some ways it would," replied Thorndyke, "but the variety of
materials that the mummy gives us has its advantages. I hope your father
is not ill, Miss Bellingham."

"He is not at all well," said Ruth, "and we agreed that it was better
for me to come alone. I knew Herr Lederbogen quite well. He stayed with
us for a time when he was in England."

"I trust," said Dr. Norbury, "that I have not troubled you for nothing.
Herr Lederbogen speaks of 'our erratic English friend with the long name
that I can never remember,' and it seemed to me that he might be
referring to your uncle."

"I should hardly have called my uncle erratic," said Ruth.

"No, no. Certainly not," Dr. Norbury agreed hastily. "However, you shall
see the letter presently and judge for yourself. We mustn't introduce
irrelevant topics while the experiment is in progress, must we, Doctor?"

"You had better wait until we have finished," said Thorndyke, "because I
am going to turn out the light. Switch off the current, Polton."

The green light vanished from the bulb, the hum of the interrupter swept
down an octave or two and died away. Then Thorndyke and Dr. Norbury rose
from their chairs and went towards the mummy, which they lifted tenderly
while Polton drew from beneath it what presently turned out to be a huge
black-paper envelope. The single glow-lamp was switched off, leaving the
room in total darkness, until there burst out suddenly a bright
orange-red light immediately above one of the trays.

We all gathered round to watch, as Polton--the high-priest of these
mysteries--drew from the black envelope a colossal sheet of bromide
paper, laid it carefully in the tray and proceeded to wet it with a
large brush which he had dipped in a pail of water.

"I thought you always used plates for this kind of work," said Dr.
Norbury.

"We do, by preference; but a six-foot plate would be impossible, so I
had a special paper made to the size."

There is something singularly fascinating in the appearance of a
developing photograph; in the gradual, mysterious emergence of the
picture from the blank, white surface of plate or paper. But a
skiagraph, or X-ray photograph, has a fascination all its own. Unlike
an ordinary photograph, which yields a picture of things already seen,
it gives a presentment of objects hitherto invisible; and hence, when
Polton poured the developer on the already wet paper, we all craned over
the tray with the keenest curiosity.

The developer was evidently a very slow one. For fully half a minute no
change could be seen in the uniform surface. Then, gradually, almost
insensibly, the marginal portion began to darken, leaving the outline of
the mummy in pale relief. The change, once started, proceeded apace.
Darker and darker grew the margin of the paper until from slaty grey it
had turned to black; and still the shape of the mummy, now in strong
relief, remained an elongated patch of bald white. But not for long.
Presently the white shape began to be tinged with grey, and, as the
colour deepened, there grew out of it a paler form that seemed to steal
out of the enshrouding grey like an apparition, spectral, awesome,
mysterious. The skeleton was coming into view.

"It is rather uncanny," said Dr. Norbury. "I feel as if I were assisting
at some unholy rite. Just look at it now!"

The grey shadow of the cartonnage, the wrappings and the flesh was
fading away into the black background and the white skeleton stood out
in sharp contrast. And it certainly was a rather weird spectacle.

"You'll lose the bones if you develop much farther," said Dr. Norbury.

"I must let the bones darken," Thorndyke replied, "in case there are any
metallic objects. I have three more papers in the envelope."

The white shape of the skeleton now began to grey over and, as Dr.
Norbury had said, its distinctness became less and yet less. Thorndyke
leaned over the tray with his eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the
breast and we all watched him in silence. Suddenly he rose. "Now,
Polton," he said sharply; "get the hypo on as quickly as you can."

Polton, who had been waiting with his hand on the stop-cock of the
drain-tube, rapidly ran off the developer into the bucket and flooded
the paper with the fixing solution.

"Now we can look at it at our leisure," said Thorndyke. After waiting a
few seconds, he switched on one of the glow-lamps, and as the flood of
light fell on the photograph, he added: "You see we haven't quite lost
the skeleton."

"No." Dr. Norbury put on a pair of spectacles and bent down over the
tray; and at this moment I felt Ruth's hand touch my arm, lightly, at
first, and then with a strong, nervous grasp; and I could feel that her
hand was trembling. I looked round at her anxiously and saw that she had
turned deathly pale.

"Would you rather go out into the gallery?" I asked; for the room with
its tightly shut windows was close and hot.

"No," she replied quietly, "I will stay here. I am quite well." But
still she kept hold of my arm.

Thorndyke glanced at her keenly and then looked away as Dr. Norbury
turned to him to ask a question.

"Why is it, think you, that some of the teeth show so much whiter than
others?"

"I think the whiteness of the shadows is due to the presence of metal,"
Thorndyke replied.

"Do you mean that the teeth have metal fillings?" asked Dr. Norbury.

"Yes."

"Really! This is very interesting. The use of gold stoppings--and
artificial teeth, too--by the ancient Egyptians is well known, but we
have no examples in the Museum. This mummy ought to be unrolled. Do you
think all those teeth are filled with the same metal? They are not
equally white."

"No," replied Thorndyke. "Those teeth that are perfectly white are
undoubtedly filled with gold, but that greyish one is probably filled
with tin."

"Very interesting," said Dr. Norbury. "_Very_ interesting! And what do
you make of that faint mark across the chest, near the top of the
sternum?"

It was Ruth who answered his question.

"It is the Eye of Osiris!" she exclaimed, in a hushed voice.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Dr. Norbury, "so it is. You are quite right. It is
the Utchat--the Eye of Horus--or Osiris, if you prefer to call it so.
That, I presume, will be a gilded device on some of the wrappings."

"No: I should say it is a tattoo mark. It is too indefinite for a gilded
device. And I should say further that the tattooing is done in
vermilion, as carbon tattooing would cast no visible shadow."

"I think you must be mistaken about that," said Dr. Norbury, "but we
shall see, if the Director allows us to unroll the mummy. By the way,
those little objects in front of the knees are metallic, I suppose?"

"Yes, they are metallic. But they are not in front of the knees; they
are _in_ the knees. They are pieces of silver wire which have been used
to repair fractured knee-caps."

"Are you sure of that?" exclaimed Dr. Norbury, peering at the little
white marks with ecstasy; "because, if you are, and if these objects are
what you say they are, the mummy of Sebek-hotep is an absolutely unique
specimen."

"I am quite certain of it," said Thorndyke.

"Then," said Dr. Norbury, "we have made a discovery, thanks to your
inquiring spirit. Poor John Bellingham! He little knew what a treasure
he was giving us! How I wish he could have known! How I wish he could
have been here with us to-night!"

He paused once more to gaze in rapture at the photograph. And then
Thorndyke, in his quiet, impassive way, said:

"John Bellingham is here, Doctor Norbury. This is John Bellingham."

Dr. Norbury started back and stared at Thorndyke in speechless
amazement.

"You don't mean," he exclaimed, after a long pause, "that this mummy is
the body of John Bellingham!"

"I do, indeed. There is no doubt of it."

"But it is impossible! The mummy was here in the gallery a full three
weeks before he disappeared."

"Not so," said Thorndyke. "John Bellingham was last seen alive by you
and Mr. Jellicoe on the fourteenth of October, more than three weeks
before the mummy left Queen Square. After that date he was never seen
alive or dead by any person who knew him and could identify him."

Dr. Norbury reflected awhile in silence. Then, in a faint voice, he
asked: "How do you suggest that John Bellingham's body came to be
inside that cartonnage?"

"I think Mr. Jellicoe is the most likely person to be able to answer
that question," Thorndyke replied drily.

There was another interval of silence, and then Dr. Norbury asked
suddenly:

"But what do you suppose has become of Sebek-hotep? The real
Sebek-hotep, I mean?"

"I take it," said Thorndyke, "that the remains of Sebek-hotep, or at
least a portion of them, are at present lying in the Woodford mortuary
awaiting an adjourned inquest."

As Thorndyke made this statement a flash of belated intelligence,
mingled with self-contempt, fell on me. Now that the explanation was
given, how obvious it was! And yet I, a competent anatomist and
physiologist and actually a pupil of Thorndyke's, had mistaken those
ancient bones for the remains of a recent body!

Dr. Norbury considered the last statement for some time in evident
perplexity. "It is all consistent enough, I must admit," said he, at
length, "and yet--are you quite sure there is no mistake? It seems so
incredible."

"There is no mistake, I assure you," Thorndyke answered. "To convince
you, I will give you the facts in detail. First, as to the teeth. I have
seen John Bellingham's dentist and obtained particulars from his
case-book. There were in all five teeth that had been filled. The right
upper wisdom-tooth, the molar next to it, and the second lower molar on
the left side, had all extensive gold fillings. You can see them all
quite plainly in the skiagraph. The left lower lateral incisor had a
very small gold filling, which you can see as a nearly circular white
dot. In addition to these, a filling of tin amalgam had been inserted
while the deceased was abroad, in the second left upper bicuspid, the
rather grey spot that we have already noticed. These would, by
themselves, furnish ample means of identification. But in addition,
there is the tattooed device of the Eye of Osiris--"

"Horus," murmured Dr. Norbury.

"Horus, then--in the exact locality in which it was borne by the
deceased and tattooed, apparently, with the same pigment. There are,
further, the suture wires in the knee-caps; Sir Morgan Bennet, having
looked up the notes of the operation, informs me that he introduced
three suture wires into the left patella and two into the right; which
is what the skiagraph shows. Lastly, the deceased had an old Pott's
fracture on the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw it
quite distinctly just now when the shadows of the bones were whiter. I
think that you may take it that the identification is beyond all doubt
or question."

"Yes," agreed Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation, "it sounds, as you
say, quite conclusive. Well, well, it is a most horrible affair. Poor
old John Bellingham! It looks uncommonly as if he had met with foul
play. Don't you think so?"

"I do," replied Thorndyke. "There was a mark on the right side of the
skull that looked rather like a fracture. It was not very clear, being
at the side, but we must develop up the next negative to show it."

Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. "This is a
gruesome business, Doctor," said he. "A terrible business. Awkward for
our people, too. By the way, what is our position in the matter? What
steps ought we to take?"

"You should give notice to the coroner--I will manage the police--and
you should communicate with one of the executors of the will."

"Mr. Jellicoe?"

"No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances. You had better
write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham."

"But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the co-executor," said Dr.
Norbury.

"He is surely, as matters stand," said Jervis.

"Not at all," replied Thorndyke. "He _was_ as matters _stood_; but he is
not now. You are forgetting the conditions of clause two. That clause
sets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inherit
the bulk of the estate and become the co-executor; and those conditions
are: 'that the body of the testator shall be deposited in some
authorised place for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate
within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place of worship
within, the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury, and St. Giles in the
Fields or St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr.' Now
Egyptian mummies are the bodies of the dead, and this Museum is an
authorised place for their reception; and this building is situate
within the boundaries of the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury. Therefore
the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out and therefore
Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under the will, and the
co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of the testator. Is that
quite clear?"

"Perfectly," said Dr. Norbury; "and a most astonishing coincidence--but,
my dear young lady, had you not better sit down? You are looking very
ill."

He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips and was now
leaning heavily on my arm.

"I think, Berkeley," said Thorndyke, "you had better take Miss
Bellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air. This has been
a tremendous climax to all the trials that she has borne so bravely. Go
out with Berkeley," he added gently, laying his hand on her shoulder,
"and sit down while we develop the other negatives. You mustn't break
down now, you know, when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning
to shine." He held the door open, and as we passed out his face softened
into a smile of infinite kindness. "You won't mind my locking you out,"
said he; "this is a photographic dark-room at present."

The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery. It
was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there
through the blinds that covered the sky-lights. We walked on slowly, her
arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The great rooms
were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush, the stillness, the
mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony
with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our
hearts.

We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke the
silence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and
clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: "How dreadful and tragic
it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from the
world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing. But, O God! what a
relief it is!" She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and
pressed my hand passionately.

"It is over, dearest," I said. "It is gone for ever. Nothing remains but
the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience."

"I can't realise it yet," she murmured. "It has been like a frightful,
interminable dream."

"Let us put it away," said I, "and think only of the happy life that is
opening."

She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again,
told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.

We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft
foot-falls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague
shapes of the mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out
dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories
of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts. They were an
awesome company. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked
out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace
or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on
the fleeting creatures of to-day.

Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from its
companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would have been.
With one accord we halted before it.

"Do you know who it is, Ruth?" I asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "It is Artemidorus."

We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting our memories fill in
the vague silhouette with its well-remembered details. Presently I drew
her nearer to me and whispered:

"Ruth! do you remember when we last stood here?"

"As if I could ever forget!" she answered passionately. "Oh, Paul! The
sorrow of it! The misery! How it wrung my heart to tell you! Were you
_very_ unhappy when I left you?"

"Unhappy! I never knew, until then, what real, heart-breaking sorrow
was. It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life for ever. But
there was just one little spot of brightness left."

"What was that?"

"You made me a promise, dear--a solemn promise; and I felt--at least I
hoped--that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when you
would be able to redeem it."

She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head nestled on my
shoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine.

"Dear heart," I whispered, "is it now? Is the time fulfilled?"

"Yes, dearest," she murmured softly. "It is now--and for ever."

Reverently I folded her in my arms; gathered her to the heart that
worshipped her utterly. Henceforth no sorrows could hurt us, no
misfortunes vex; for we should walk hand in hand on our earthly
pilgrimage and find the way all too short.

Time, whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness for the just and
the unjust, the happy and the wretched, lagged, no doubt, with the
toilers in the room that we had left. But for us its golden grains
trickled out apace and left the glass empty before we had begun to mark
their passage. The turning of a key and the opening of a door aroused us
from our dream of perfect happiness. Ruth raised her head to listen, and
our lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silent greeting to the
friend who had looked on our grief and witnessed our final happiness, we
turned and retraced our steps quickly, filling the great, empty rooms
with chattering echoes.

"We won't go back into the dark-room--which isn't dark now," said Ruth.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because--when I came out I was very pale; and I'm--well, I don't think
I am very pale now. Besides, poor Uncle John is in there--and--I should
be ashamed to look at him with my selfish heart overflowing with
happiness."

"You needn't be," said I. "It is the day of our lives and we have a
right to be happy. But you shan't go in, if you don't wish to," and I
accordingly steered her adroitly past the beam of light that streamed
from the open door.

"We have developed four negatives," said Thorndyke, as he emerged with
the others, "and I am leaving them in the custody of Doctor Norbury, who
will sign each when they are dry, as they may have to be put in
evidence. What are you going to do?"

I looked at Ruth to see what she wished.

"If you won't think me ungrateful," said she, "I should rather be alone
with my father to-night. He is very weak, and--"

"Yes, I understand," I said hastily. And I did. Mr. Bellingham was a man
of strong emotions and would probably be somewhat overcome by the sudden
change of fortune and the news of his brother's tragic death.

"In that case," said Thorndyke, "I will bespeak your services. Will you
go on and wait for me at my chambers, when you have seen Miss Bellingham
home?"

I agreed to this, and we set forth under the guidance of Dr. Norbury
(who carried an electric lamp) to return by the way we had come; two of
us, at least, in a vastly different frame of mind. The party broke up at
the entrance gates, and as Thorndyke wished my companion "Good night,"
she held his hand and looked up in his face with swimming eyes.

"I haven't thanked you, Doctor Thorndyke," she said, "and I don't feel
that I ever can. What you have done for me and my father is beyond all
thanks. You have saved his life and you have rescued me from the most
horrible ignominy. Good-bye! and God bless you!"

The hansom that bowled along eastward--at most unnecessary speed--bore
two of the happiest human beings within the wide boundaries of the town.
I looked at my companion as the lights of the street shone into the cab,
and was astonished at the transformation. The pallor of her cheek had
given place to a rosy pink; the hardness, the tension, the haggard
self-repression that had aged her face, were all gone, and the girlish
sweetness that had so bewitched me in the early days of our love had
stolen back. Even the dimple was there when the sweeping lashes lifted
and her eyes met mine in a smile of infinite tenderness. Little was said
on that brief journey. It was happiness enough to sit, hand clasped in
hand, and know that our time of trial was past; that no cross of Fate
could ever part us now.

The astonished cabman set us down, according to instructions, at the
entrance to Nevill's Court, and watched us with open mouth as we
vanished into the narrow passage. The court had settled down for the
night, and no one marked our return; no curious eye looked down on us
from the dark house-front as we said "Good-bye" just inside the gate.

"You will come and see us to-morrow, dear, won't you?" she asked.

"Do you think it possible that I could stay away, then?"

"I hope not. But come as early as you can. My father will be positively
frantic to see you; because I shall have told him, you know. And,
remember, that it is you who have brought us this great deliverance.
Good night, Paul."

"Good night, sweetheart."

She put up her face frankly to be kissed and then ran up to the ancient
door; whence she waved me a last good-bye. The shabby gate in the wall
closed behind me and hid her from my sight; but the light of her love
went with me and turned the dull street into a path of glory.




CHAPTER XIX

A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM


It came upon me with something of a shock of surprise to find the scrap
of paper still tacked to the oak of Thorndyke's chambers. So much had
happened since I had last looked on it that it seemed to belong to
another epoch of my life. I removed it thoughtfully and picked out the
tack before entering, and then, closing the inner door, but leaving the
oak open, I lit the gas and fell to pacing the room.

What a wonderful episode it had been! How the whole aspect of the world
had been changed in a moment by Thorndyke's revelation! At another time,
curiosity would have led me to endeavour to trace back the train of
reasoning by which the subtle brain of my teacher had attained this
astonishing conclusion. But now my own happiness held exclusive
possession of my thoughts. The image of Ruth filled the field of my
mental vision. I saw her again as I had seen her in the cab with her
sweet, pensive face and downcast eyes; I felt again the touch of her
soft cheek and the parting kiss by the gate, so frank and simple, so
intimate and final.

I must have waited quite a long time, though the golden minutes sped
unreckoned, for when my two colleagues arrived they tendered needless
apologies.

"And I suppose," said Thorndyke, "you have been wondering what I wanted
you for."

I had not, as a matter of fact, given the matter a moment's
consideration.

"We are going to call on Mr. Jellicoe," Thorndyke explained. "There is
something behind this affair, and until I have ascertained what it is,
the case is not complete from my point of view."

"Wouldn't it have done as well to-morrow?" I asked.

"It might; and then it might not. There is an old saying as to catching
a weasel asleep. Mr. Jellicoe is a somewhat wide-awake person, and I
think it best to introduce him to Inspector Badger at the earliest
possible moment."

"The meeting of a weasel and a badger suggests a sporting interview,"
remarked Jervis. "But you don't expect Jellicoe to give himself away, do
you?"

"He can hardly do that, seeing that there is nothing to give away. But I
think he may make a statement. There were some exceptional
circumstances, I feel sure."

"How long have you known that the body was in the Museum?" I asked.

"About thirty or forty seconds longer than you have, I should say."

"Do you mean," I exclaimed, "that you didn't know until the negative was
developed?"

"My dear fellow," he replied, "do you suppose that, if I had had certain
knowledge where the body was, I should have allowed that noble girl to
go on dragging out a lingering agony of suspense that I could have cut
short in a moment? Or that I should have made these humbugging pretences
of scientific experiments if a more dignified course had been open to
me?"

"As to the experiments," said Jervis, "Norbury could hardly have
refused if you had taken him into your confidence."

"Indeed he could, and probably would. My 'confidence' would have
involved a charge of murder against a highly respectable gentleman who
was well known to him. He would probably have referred me to the police,
and then what could I have done? I had plenty of suspicions, but not a
single solid fact."

Our discussion was here interrupted by hurried footsteps on the stairs
and a thundering rat-tat on our knocker.

As Jervis opened the door, Inspector Badger burst into the room in a
highly excited state.

"What is all this, Doctor Thorndyke?" he asked. "I see you've sworn an
information against Mr. Jellicoe, and I have a warrant to arrest him;
but before anything is done I think it right to tell you that we have
more evidence than is generally known pointing to quite a different
quarter."

"Derived from Mr. Jellicoe's information," said Thorndyke. "But the fact
is that I have just examined and identified the body at the British
Museum, where it was deposited by Mr. Jellicoe. I don't say that he
murdered John Bellingham--though that is what the appearances
suggest--but I do say that he will have to account for his secret
disposal of the body."

Inspector Badger was thunderstruck. Also he was visibly annoyed. The
salt which Mr. Jellicoe had so adroitly sprinkled on the constabulary
tail appeared to develop irritating properties, for when Thorndyke had
given him a brief outline of the facts he stuck his hands in his pockets
and exclaimed gloomily:

"Well, I'm hanged! And to think of all the time and trouble I've spent
on those damned bones! I suppose they were just a plant?"

"Don't let us disparage them," said Thorndyke. "They have played a
useful part. They represent the inevitable mistake that every criminal
makes sooner or later. The murderer will always do a little too much. If
he would only lie low and let well alone, the detective might whistle
for a clue. But it is time we were starting."

"Are we all going?" asked the inspector, looking at me in particular
with no very gracious recognition.

"We will all come with you," said Thorndyke; "but you will, naturally,
make the arrest in the way that seems best to you."

"It's a regular procession," grumbled the inspector; but he made no more
definite objection, and we started forth on our quest.

The distance from the Temple to Lincoln's Inn is not great. In five
minutes we were at the gateway in Chancery Lane, and a couple of minutes
later saw us gathered round the threshold of the stately old house in
New Square.

"Seems to be a light in the first floor front," said Badger. "You'd
better move away before I ring the bell."

But the precaution was unnecessary. As the inspector advanced to the
bell-pull a head was thrust out of the open window immediately above the
street door.

"Who are you?" inquired the owner of the head in a voice which I
recognised as that of Mr. Jellicoe.

"I am Inspector Badger, of the Criminal Investigation Department. I
wish to see Mr. Arthur Jellicoe."

"Then look at me. I am Mr. Arthur Jellicoe."

"I hold a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Jellicoe. You are charged with
the murder of Mr. John Bellingham, whose body has just been discovered
in the British Museum."

"By whom?"

"By Doctor Thorndyke."

"Indeed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Is he here?"

"Yes."

"Ha! And you wish to arrest me, I presume?"

"Yes. That is what I am here for."

"Well, I will agree to surrender myself subject to certain conditions."

"I can't make any conditions, Mr. Jellicoe."

"No. I will make them, and you will accept them. Otherwise you will not
arrest me."

"It's no use for you to talk like that," said Badger. "If you don't let
me in I shall have to break in. And I may as well tell you," he added
mendaciously, "that the house is surrounded."

"You may accept my assurance," Mr. Jellicoe replied calmly, "that you
will not arrest me if you do not accept my conditions."

"Well, what are your conditions?" demanded Badger impatiently.

"I desire to make a statement," said Mr. Jellicoe.

"You can do that, but I must caution you that anything you say may be
used in evidence against you."

"Naturally. But I wish to make the statement in the presence of Doctor
Thorndyke, and I desire to hear a statement from him of the method of
investigation by which he discovered the whereabouts of the body. That
is to say, if he is willing."

"If you mean that we should mutually enlighten one another, I am very
willing indeed," said Thorndyke.

"Very well. Then my conditions, Inspector, are that I shall hear Doctor
Thorndyke's statement and that I shall be permitted to make a statement
myself, and that until those statements are completed, with any
necessary interrogation and discussion, I shall remain at liberty and
shall suffer no molestation or interference of any kind. And I agree
that, on the conclusion of the said proceedings, I will submit without
resistance to any course that you may adopt."

"I can't agree to that," said Badger.

"Can't you?" said Mr. Jellicoe coldly; and, after a pause, he added:
"Don't be hasty. I have given you full warning."

There was something in Mr. Jellicoe's passionless tone that disturbed
the inspector exceedingly, for he turned to Thorndyke and said in a low
tone:

"I wonder what his game is? He can't get away, you know."

"There are several possibilities," said Thorndyke.

"M'yes," said Badger, stroking his chin perplexedly.

"After all, is there any objection? His statement might save trouble,
and you'd be on the safe side. It would take you some time to break in."

"Well," said Mr. Jellicoe, with his hand on the window, "do you
agree--yes or no?"

"All right," said Badger sulkily. "I agree."

"You promise not to molest me in any way until I have quite finished?"

"I promise."

Mr. Jellicoe's head disappeared and the window closed. After a short
interval we heard the jar of massive bolts and the clank of a chain,
and, as the heavy door swung open, Mr. Jellicoe stood revealed, calm and
impassive, with an old-fashioned office candlestick in his hand.

"Who are the others?" he inquired, peering out sharply through his
spectacles.

"O, they are nothing to do with me," replied Badger.

"They are Doctor Berkeley and Doctor Jervis," said Thorndyke.

"Ha!" said Mr. Jellicoe; "very kind and attentive of them to call. Pray
come in, gentlemen. I am sure you will be interested to hear our little
discussion."

He held the door open with a certain stiff courtesy, and we all entered
the hall led by Inspector Badger. He closed the door softly and preceded
us up the stairs and into the apartment from the window of which he had
dictated the terms of surrender. It was a fine old room, spacious,
lofty, and dignified, with panelled walls and a carved mantelpiece, the
central escutcheon of which bore the initials "J.W.P." with the date
"1671." A large writing-table stood at the farther end, and behind it an
iron safe.

"I have been expecting this visit," Mr. Jellicoe remarked tranquilly as
he placed four chairs opposite the table.

"Since when?" asked Thorndyke.

"Since last Monday evening, when I had the pleasure of seeing you
conversing with my friend Doctor Berkeley at the Inner Temple gate, and
then inferred that you were retained in the case. That was a
circumstance that had not been fully provided for. May I offer you
gentlemen a glass of sherry?" As he spoke he placed on the table a
decanter and a tray of glasses, and looked at us interrogatively with
his hand on the stopper.

"Well, I don't mind if I do, Mr. Jellicoe," said Badger, on whom the
lawyer's glance had finally settled. Mr. Jellicoe filled a glass and
handed it to him with a stiff bow; then, with the decanter still in his
hand, he said persuasively: "Doctor Thorndyke, pray allow me to fill you
a glass?"

"No, thank you," said Thorndyke, in a tone so decided that the inspector
looked round at him quickly. And as Badger caught his eye, the glass
which he was about to raise to his lips became suddenly arrested and was
slowly returned to the table untasted.

"I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Jellicoe," said the inspector, "but it's
rather late, and I should like to get this business settled. What is it
that you wish to do?"

"I desire," replied Mr. Jellicoe, "to make a detailed statement of the
events that have happened, and I wish to hear from Doctor Thorndyke
precisely how he arrived at his very remarkable conclusion. When this
has been done I shall be entirely at your service; and I suggest that it
would be more interesting if Doctor Thorndyke would give us his
statement before I furnish you with the actual facts."

"I am entirely of your opinion," said Thorndyke.

"Then in that case," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I suggest that you disregard
me, and address your remarks to your friends as if I were not present."

Thorndyke acquiesced with a bow, and Mr. Jellicoe, having seated himself
in his elbow-chair behind the table, poured himself out a glass of
water, selected a cigarette from a neat silver case, lighted it
deliberately, and leaned back to listen at his ease.

"My first acquaintance with this case," Thorndyke began without
preamble, "was made through the medium of the daily papers about two
years ago; and I may say that, although I had no interest in it beyond
the purely academic interest of a specialist in a case that lies in his
particular specialty, I considered it with deep attention. The newspaper
reports contained no particulars of the relations of the parties that
could furnish any hints as to motives on the part of any of them, but
merely a bare statement of the events. And this was a distinct
advantage, inasmuch as it left one to consider the facts of the case
without regard to motive--to balance the _prima facie_ probabilities
with an open mind. And it may surprise you to learn that those _prima
facie_ probabilities pointed from the very first to that solution which
has been put to the test of experiment this evening. Hence it will be
well for me to begin by giving the conclusions that I reached by
reasoning from the facts set forth in the newspapers before any of the
further facts came to my knowledge.

"From the facts as stated in the newspaper reports it is obvious that
there were four possible explanations of the disappearance.

"1. The man might be alive and in hiding. This was highly improbable,
for the reasons that were stated by Mr. Loram at the late hearing of the
application, and for a further reason that I shall mention presently.

"2. He might have died by accident or disease, and his body failed to be
identified. This was even more improbable, seeing that he carried on his
person abundant means of identification, including visiting cards.

"3. He might have been murdered by some stranger for the sake of his
portable property. This was highly improbable for the same reason: his
body could hardly have failed to be identified.

"These three explanations are what we may call the outside explanations.
They touched none of the parties mentioned; they were all obviously
improbable on general grounds; and to all of them there was one
conclusive answer--the scarab which was found in Godfrey Bellingham's
garden. Hence I put them aside and gave my attention to the fourth
explanation. This was that the missing man had been made away with by
one of the parties mentioned in the report. But, since the reports
mentioned three parties, it was evident that there was a choice of three
hypotheses, namely:

"(_a_) That John Bellingham had been made away with by Hurst; or (_b_)
by the Bellinghams; or (_c_) by Mr. Jellicoe.

"Now, I have constantly impressed on my pupils that the indispensable
question that must be asked at the outset of such an inquiry as this is,
'When was the missing person last undoubtedly seen or known to be
alive?' That is the question that I asked myself after reading the
newspaper report; and the answer was, that he was last certainly seen
alive on the fourteenth of October, nineteen hundred and two, at 141
Queen Square, Bloomsbury. Of the fact that he was alive at that time
and place there could be no doubt whatever; for he was seen at the same
moment by two persons, both of whom were intimately acquainted with him,
and one of whom, Doctor Norbury, was apparently a disinterested witness.
After that date he was never seen, alive or dead, by any person who knew
him and was able to identify him. It was stated that he had been seen on
the twenty-third of November following by the housemaid of Mr. Hurst;
but as this person was unacquainted with him, it was uncertain whether
the person whom she saw was or was not John Bellingham.

"Hence the disappearance dated, not from the twenty-third of November,
as everyone seems to have assumed, but from the fourteenth of October;
and the question was not, 'What became of John Bellingham after he
entered Mr. Hurst's house?' but, 'What became of him after his interview
in Queen Square?'

"But as soon as I had decided that that interview must form the real
starting-point of the inquiry, a most striking set of circumstances came
into view. It became obvious that if Mr. Jellicoe had had any reason for
wishing to make away with John Bellingham, he had such an opportunity as
seldom falls to the lot of an intending murderer.

"Just consider the conditions. John Bellingham was known to be setting
out alone upon a journey beyond the sea. His exact destination was not
stated. He was to be absent for an undetermined period, but at least
three weeks. His disappearance would occasion no comment; his absence
would lead to no inquiries, at least for several weeks, during which the
murderer would have leisure quietly to dispose of the body and conceal
all traces of the crime. The conditions were, from a murderer's point of
view, ideal.

"But that was not all. During that very period of John Bellingham's
absence Mr. Jellicoe was engaged to deliver to the British Museum what
was admittedly a dead human body; and that body was to be enclosed in a
sealed case. Could any more perfect or secure method of disposing of a
body be devised by the most ingenious murderer? The plan would have had
only one weak point: the mummy would be known to have left Queen Square
_after_ the disappearance of John Bellingham, and suspicion might in the
end have arisen. To this point I shall return presently; meanwhile we
will consider the second hypothesis--that the missing man was made away
with by Mr. Hurst.

"Now, there seemed to be no doubt that some person, purporting to be
John Bellingham, did actually visit Mr. Hurst's house; and he must
either have left that house or remained in it. If he left, he did so
surreptitiously; if he remained, there could be no reasonable doubt that
he had been murdered and that his body had been concealed. Let us
consider the probabilities in each case.

"Assuming--as everyone seems to have done--that the visitor was really
John Bellingham, we are dealing with a responsible, middle-aged
gentleman, and the idea that such a person would enter a house, announce
his intention of staying, and then steal away unobserved is very
difficult to accept. Moreover, he would appear to have come down to
Eltham by rail immediately on landing in England, leaving his luggage in
the cloak-room at Charing Cross. This pointed to a definiteness of
purpose quite inconsistent with his casual disappearance from the house.

"On the other hand, the idea that he might have been murdered by Hurst
was not inconceivable. The thing was physically possible. If Bellingham
had really been in the study when Hurst came home, the murder could have
been committed--by appropriate means--and the body temporarily concealed
in the cupboard or elsewhere. But, although possible, it was not at all
probable. There was no real opportunity. The risk and the subsequent
difficulties would be very great; there was not a particle of positive
evidence that a murder had occurred; and the conduct of Hurst in
immediately leaving the house in possession of the servants is quite
inconsistent with the supposition that there was a body concealed in it.
So that, while it is almost impossible to believe that John Bellingham
left the house of his own accord, it is equally difficult to believe
that he did not leave it.

"But there is a third possibility, which, strange to say, no one seems
to have suggested. Supposing that the visitor was not John Bellingham at
all, but someone who was personating him? That would dispose of the
difficulties completely. The strange disappearance ceases to be strange,
for a personator would necessarily make off before Mr. Hurst should
arrive and discover the imposture. But if we accept this supposition, we
raise two further questions: 'Who was the personator?' and 'What was the
object of the personation?'

"Now, the personator was clearly not Hurst himself, for he would have
been recognised by his housemaid; he was therefore either Godfrey
Bellingham or Mr. Jellicoe or some other person; and as no other person
was mentioned in the newspaper reports I confined my speculations to
these two.

"And, first, as to Godfrey Bellingham. It did not appear whether he was
or was not known to the housemaid, so I assumed--wrongly, as it turns
out--that he was not. Then he might have been the personator. But why
should he have personated his brother? He could not have already
committed the murder. There had not been time enough. He would have had
to leave Woodford before John Bellingham had set out from Charing Cross.
And even if he had committed the murder, he would have had no object in
raising this commotion. His cue would have been to remain quiet and know
nothing. The probabilities were all against the personator being Godfrey
Bellingham.

"Then could it be Mr. Jellicoe? The answer to this question is contained
in the answer to the further question: What could have been the object
of the personation?

"What motive could this unknown person have had in appearing, announcing
himself as John Bellingham, and forthwith vanishing? There could only
have been one motive: that, namely, of fixing the date of John
Bellingham's disappearance--of furnishing a definite moment at which he
was last seen alive.

"But who was likely to have had such a motive? Let us see.

"I said just now that if Mr. Jellicoe had murdered John Bellingham and
disposed of the body in the mummy-case, he would have been absolutely
safe for the time being. But there would be a weak spot in his armour.
For a month or more the disappearance of his client would occasion no
remark. But presently, when he failed to return, inquiries would be set
on foot; and then it would appear that no one had seen him since he left
Queen Square. Then it would be noted that the last person with whom he
was seen was Mr. Jellicoe. It might, further, be remembered that the
mummy had been delivered to the Museum some time _after_ the missing man
was last seen alive. And so suspicion might arise and be followed by
disastrous investigations. But supposing it should be made to appear
that John Bellingham had been seen alive more than a month after his
interview with Mr. Jellicoe and some weeks after the mummy had been
deposited in the Museum? Then Mr. Jellicoe would cease to be in any way
connected with the disappearance, and henceforth would be absolutely
safe.

"Hence, after carefully considering this part of the newspaper report, I
came to the conclusion that the mysterious occurrence at Mr. Hurst's
house had only one reasonable explanation, namely, that the visitor was
not John Bellingham, but someone personating him; and that that someone
was Mr. Jellicoe.

"It remains to consider the case of Godfrey Bellingham and his daughter,
though I cannot understand how any sane person can have seriously
suspected either" (here Inspector Badger smiled a sour smile). "The
evidence against them was negligible, for there was nothing to connect
them with the affair save the finding of the scarab on their premises;
and that event, which might have been highly suspicious under other
circumstances, was robbed of any significance by the fact that the
scarab was found on a spot which had been passed a few minutes
previously by the other suspected party, Hurst. The finding of the
scarab did, however, establish two important conclusions; namely, that
John Bellingham had probably met with foul play, and that of the four
persons present when it was found, one at least had had possession of
the body. As to which of the four was the one, the circumstances
furnished only a hint, which was this: If the scarab had been purposely
dropped, the most likely person to find it was the one who dropped it.
And the person who discovered it was Mr. Jellicoe.

"Following up this hint, if we ask ourselves what motive Mr. Jellicoe
could have had for dropping it--assuming him to be the murderer--the
answer is obvious. It would not be his policy to fix the crime on any
particular person, but rather to set up a complication of conflicting
evidence which would occupy the attention of investigators and divert it
from himself.

"Of course, if Hurst had been the murderer, he would have had a
sufficient motive for dropping the scarab, so that the case against Mr.
Jellicoe was not conclusive; but the fact that it was he who found it
was highly significant.

"This completes the analysis of the evidence contained in the original
newspaper report describing the circumstances of the disappearance. The
conclusions that followed from it were, as you will have seen:

"1. That the missing man was almost certainly dead, as proved by the
finding of the scarab after his disappearance.

"2. That he had probably been murdered by one or more of four persons,
as proved by the finding of the scarab on the premises occupied by two
of them and accessible to the others.

"3. That, of those four persons, one--Mr. Jellicoe--was the last person
who was known to have been in the company of the missing man; had had an
exceptional opportunity for committing the murder; and was known to have
delivered a dead body to the Museum subsequently to the disappearance.

"4. That the supposition that Mr. Jellicoe had committed the murder
rendered all the other circumstances of the disappearance clearly
intelligible, whereas on any other supposition they were quite
inexplicable.

"The evidence of the newspaper report, therefore, clearly pointed to the
probability that John Bellingham had been murdered by Mr. Jellicoe and
his body concealed in the mummy-case.

"I do not wish to give you the impression that I, then and there,
believed that Mr. Jellicoe was the murderer. I did not. There was no
reason to suppose that the report contained all the essential facts, and
I merely considered it speculatively as a study in probabilities. But I
did decide that that was the only probable conclusion from the facts
that were given.

"Nearly two years passed before I heard anything more of the case. Then
it was brought to my notice by my friend, Doctor Berkeley, and I became
acquainted with certain new facts, which I will consider in the order in
which they became known to me.

"The first new light on the case came from the will. As soon as I had
read that document I felt convinced that there was something wrong. The
testator's evident intention was that his brother should inherit the
property, whereas the construction of the will was such as almost
certainly to defeat that intention. The devolution of the property
depended on the burial clause--clause two; but the burial arrangements
would ordinarily be decided by the executor, who happened to be Mr.
Jellicoe. Thus the will left the disposition of the property under the
control of Mr. Jellicoe, though his action could have been contested.

"Now, this will, although drawn up by John Bellingham, was executed in
Mr. Jellicoe's office, as is proved by the fact that it was witnessed by
two of his clerks. He was the testator's lawyer, and it was his duty to
insist on the will being properly drawn. Evidently he did nothing of the
kind, and this fact strongly suggested some kind of collusion on his
part with Hurst, who stood to benefit by the miscarriage of the will.
And this was the odd feature in the case; for whereas the party
responsible for the defective provisions was Mr. Jellicoe, the party who
benefited was Hurst.

"But the most startling peculiarity of the will was the way in which it
fitted the circumstances of the disappearance. It looked as if clause
two had been drawn up with those very circumstances in view. Since,
however, the will was ten years old, this was impossible. But if clause
two could not have been devised to fit the disappearance, could the
disappearance have been devised to fit clause two? That was by no means
impossible: under the circumstances it looked rather probable. And if it
had been so contrived, who was the agent in that contrivance? Hurst
stood to benefit, but there was no evidence that he even knew the
contents of the will. There remained only Mr. Jellicoe, who had
certainly connived at the misdrawing of the will for some purpose of his
own--some dishonest purpose.

"The evidence of the will, then, pointed to Mr. Jellicoe as the agent
in the disappearance, and, after reading it, I definitely suspected him
of the crime.

"Suspicion, however, is one thing and proof is another. I had not nearly
enough evidence to justify me in laying an information, and I could not
approach the Museum officials without making a definite accusation. The
great difficulty of the case was that I could discover no motive. I
could not see any way in which Mr. Jellicoe would benefit by the
disappearance. His own legacy was secure, whenever and however the
testator died. The murder and concealment apparently benefited Hurst
alone; and, in the absence of any plausible motive, the facts required
to be much more conclusive than they were."

"Did you form absolutely no opinion as to motive?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.

He put the question in a quiet, passionless tone, as if he were
discussing some _cause célèbre_ in which he had nothing more than a
professional interest. Indeed, the calm, impersonal interest that he
displayed in Thorndyke's analysis, his unmoved attention, punctuated by
little nods of approval at each telling point in the argument, were the
most surprising features of this astounding interview.

"I did form an opinion," replied Thorndyke, "but it was merely
speculative, and I was never able to confirm it. I discovered that about
ten years ago Mr. Hurst had been in difficulties and that he had
suddenly raised a considerable sum of money, no one knew how or on what
security. I observed that this event coincided in time with the
execution of the will, and I surmised that there might be some
connection between them. But that was only a surmise; and, as the
proverb has it, 'He discovers who proves.' I could prove nothing, so
that I never discovered Mr. Jellicoe's motive, and I don't know it now."

"Don't you, really?" said Mr. Jellicoe, in something approaching a tone
of animation. He laid down the end of his cigarette, and, as he selected
another from the silver case, he continued: "I think that is the most
interesting feature of your really remarkable analysis. It does you
great credit. The absence of motive would have appeared to most persons
a fatal objection to the theory of, what I may call, the prosecution.
Permit me to congratulate you on the consistency and tenacity with which
you have pursued the actual, visible facts."

He bowed stiffly to Thorndyke (who returned his bow with equal
stiffness), lighted the fresh cigarette, and once more leaned back in
his chair with the calm, attentive manner of a man who is listening to a
lecture or a musical performance.

"The evidence, then, being insufficient to act upon," Thorndyke resumed,
"there was nothing for it but to wait for some new facts. Now, the study
of a large series of carefully conducted murders brings into view an
almost invariable phenomenon. The cautious murderer, in his anxiety to
make himself secure, does too much; and it is this excess of precaution
that leads to detection. It happens constantly; indeed, I may say that
it always happens--in those murders that are detected; of those that are
not we say nothing--and I had strong hopes that it would happen in this
case. And it did.

"At the very moment when my client's case seemed almost hopeless, some
human remains were discovered at Sidcup. I read the account of the
discovery in the evening paper, and, scanty as the report was, it
recorded enough facts to convince me that the inevitable mistake had
been made."

"Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe. "A mere, inexpert, hearsay report!
I should have supposed it to be quite valueless from a scientific point
of view."

"So it was," said Thorndyke. "But it gave the date of the discovery and
the locality, and it also mentioned what bones had been found. Which
were all vital facts. Take the question of time. These remains, after
lying _perdu_ for two years, suddenly come to light just as the
parties--who have also been lying _perdu_--have begun to take action in
respect of the will; in fact, within a week or two of the hearing of the
application. It was certainly a remarkable coincidence. And when the
circumstances that occasioned the discovery were considered, the
coincidence became still more remarkable. For these remains were found
on land actually belonging to John Bellingham, and their discovery
resulted from certain operations (the clearing of the watercress-beds)
carried out on behalf of the absent landlord. But by whose orders were
those works undertaken? Clearly by the orders of the landlord's agent.
But the landlord's agent was known to be Mr. Jellicoe. Therefore these
remains were brought to light at this peculiarly opportune moment by the
action of Mr. Jellicoe. The coincidence, I say again, was very
remarkable.

"But what instantly arrested my attention on reading the newspaper
report was the unusual manner in which the arm had been separated; for,
besides the bones of the arm proper, there were those of what anatomists
call the 'shoulder-girdle'--the shoulder-blade and collar-bone. This was
very remarkable. It seemed to suggest a knowledge of anatomy, and yet no
murderer, even if he possessed such knowledge, would make a display of
it on such an occasion. It seemed to me that there must be some other
explanation. Accordingly, when other remains had come to light and all
had been collected at Woodford, I asked my friend Berkeley to go down
there and inspect them. He did so, and this is what he found:

"Both arms had been detached in the same peculiar manner; both were
complete, and all the bones were from the same body. The bones were
quite clean--of soft structures, I mean. There were no cuts, scratches,
or marks on them. There was not a trace of adipocere--the peculiar waxy
soap that forms in bodies that decay in water or in a damp situation.
The right hand had been detached at the time the arm was thrown into the
pond, and the left ring finger had been separated and had vanished. This
latter fact had attracted my attention from the first, but I will leave
its consideration for the moment and return to it later."

"How did you discover that the hand had been detached?" Mr. Jellicoe
asked.

"By the submersion marks," replied Thorndyke. "It was lying on the
bottom of the pond in a position which would have been impossible if it
had been attached to the arm."

"You interest me exceedingly," said Mr. Jellicoe. "It appears that a
medico-legal expert finds 'books in the running brooks, sermons in
bones, and evidence in everything.' But don't let me interrupt you."

"Doctor Berkeley's observations," Thorndyke resumed, "together with the
medical evidence at the inquest, led me to certain conclusions.

"Let me first state the facts which were disclosed.

"The remains which had been assembled formed a complete human skeleton
with the exception of the skull, one finger, and the legs from knee to
ankle, including both knee-caps. This was a very impressive fact; for
the bones that were missing included all those which could have been
identified as belonging or not belonging to John Bellingham; and the
bones that were present were the unidentifiable remainder.

"It had a suspicious appearance of selection.

"But the parts that were present were also curiously suggestive. In all
cases the mode of dismemberment was peculiar; for an ordinary person
would have divided the knee-joint leaving the knee-cap attached to the
thigh, whereas it had evidently been left attached to the shin-bone; and
the head would most probably have been removed by cutting through the
neck instead of being neatly detached from the spine. And all these
bones were also entirely free from marks or scratches such as would
naturally occur in an ordinary dismemberment, and all were quite free
from adipocere. And now as to the conclusions which I drew from these
facts. First, there was the peculiar grouping of the bones. What was the
meaning of that? Well, the idea of a punctilious anatomist was obviously
absurd, and I put it aside. But was there any other explanation? Yes,
there was. The bones had appeared in the natural groups that are held
together by ligaments; and they had separated at points where they were
attached principally by muscles. The knee-cap, for instance, which
really belongs to the thigh, is attached to it by muscle, but to the
shin-bone by a stout ligament. And so with the bones of the arm; they
are connected to one another by ligaments; but to the trunk only by
muscle, excepting at one end of the collar-bone.

"But this was a very significant fact. Ligament decays much more slowly
than muscle, so that in a body of which the muscles had largely decayed
the bones might still be held together by ligament. The peculiar
grouping therefore suggested that the body had been partly reduced to a
skeleton before it was dismembered; that it had then been merely pulled
apart and not divided with a knife.

"This suggestion was remarkably confirmed by the total absence of
knife-cuts or scratches.

"Then there was the fact that all the bones were quite free from
adipocere. Now, if an arm or a thigh should be deposited in water and
left undisturbed to decay, it is certain that large masses of adipocere
would be formed. Probably more than half of the flesh would be converted
into this substance. The absence of adipocere therefore proved that the
bulk of the flesh had disappeared or been removed from the bones before
they were deposited in the pond. That, in fact, it was not a body, but a
skeleton, that had been deposited.

"But what kind of skeleton? If it was the recent skeleton of a murdered
man, then the bones had been carefully stripped of flesh so as to leave
the ligaments intact. But this was highly improbable; for there could be
no object in preserving the ligaments. And the absence of scratches was
against this view.

"Then they did not appear to be graveyard bones. The collection was too
complete. It is very rare to find a graveyard skeleton of which many of
the small bones are not missing. And such bones are usually more or
less weathered and friable.

"They did not appear to be bones such as may be bought at an
osteological dealer's, for these usually have perforations to admit the
macerating fluid to the marrow cavities. Dealers' bones, too, are very
seldom all from the same body; and the small bones of the hand are
drilled with holes to enable them to be strung on catgut.

"They were not dissecting-room bones, as there was no trace of red-lead
in the openings for the nutrient arteries.

"What the appearances did suggest was that these were parts of a body
which had decayed in a very dry atmosphere (in which no adipocere would
be formed), and which had been pulled or broken apart. Also that the
ligaments which held the body--or rather skeleton--together were brittle
and friable, as suggested by the detached hand, which had probably
broken off accidentally. But the only kind of body that completely
answers this description is an Egyptian mummy. A mummy, it is true, has
been more or less preserved; but on exposure to the air of such a
climate as ours it perishes rapidly, the ligaments being the last of the
soft parts to disappear.

"The hypothesis that these bones were parts of a mummy naturally
suggested Mr. Jellicoe. If he had murdered John Bellingham and concealed
his body in the mummy-case, he would have a spare mummy on his hands,
and that mummy would have been exposed to the air and to somewhat rough
handling.

"A very interesting circumstance connected with these remains was that
the ring finger was missing. Now, fingers have on sundry occasions been
detached from dead hands for the sake of the rings on them. But in such
cases the object has been to secure a valuable ring uninjured. If this
hand was the hand of John Bellingham, there was no such object. The
purpose was to prevent identification; and that purpose would have been
more easily, and much more completely, achieved by sacrificing the ring,
by filing through it or breaking it off the finger. The appearances,
therefore, did not quite agree with the apparent purpose.

"Then, could there be any other purpose with which they agreed better?
Yes, there could.

"If it had happened that John Bellingham were known to have worn a ring
on that finger, and especially if that ring fitted tightly, the removal
of the finger would serve a very useful purpose. It would create an
impression that the finger had been removed on account of a ring, to
prevent identification; which impression would, in turn, produce a
suspicion that the hand was that of John Bellingham. And yet it would
not be evidence that could be used to establish identity. Now, if Mr.
Jellicoe were the murderer and had the body hidden elsewhere, vague
suspicion would be precisely what he would desire, and positive evidence
what he would wish to avoid.

"It transpired later that John Bellingham did wear a ring on that finger
and that the ring fitted very tightly. Whence it followed that the
absence of the finger was an additional point tending to implicate Mr.
Jellicoe.

"And now let us briefly review this mass of evidence. You will see that
it consists of a multitude of items, each either trivial or speculative.
Up to the time of the actual discovery I had not a single crucial fact,
nor any clue as to motive. But, slight as the individual points of
evidence were, they pointed with impressive unanimity to one person--Mr.
Jellicoe. Thus:

"The person who had the opportunity to commit the murder and dispose of
the body was Mr. Jellicoe.

"The deceased was last certainly seen alive with Mr. Jellicoe.

"An unidentified human body was delivered to the Museum by Mr. Jellicoe.

"The only person who could have a motive for personating the deceased
was Mr. Jellicoe.

"The only known person who could possibly have done so was Mr. Jellicoe.

"One of the two persons who could have had a motive for dropping the
scarab was Mr. Jellicoe. The person who found that scarab was Mr.
Jellicoe, although, owing to his defective eyesight and his spectacles,
he was the most unlikely person of those present to find it.

"The person who was responsible for the execution of the defective will
was Mr. Jellicoe.

"Then as to the remains. They were apparently not those of John
Bellingham, but parts of a particular kind of body. But the only person
who was known to have had such a body in his possession was Mr.
Jellicoe.

"The only person who could have had any motive for substituting those
remains for the remains of the deceased was Mr. Jellicoe.

"Finally, the person who caused the discovery of those remains at that
singularly opportune moment was Mr. Jellicoe.

"This was the sum of the evidence that was in my possession up to the
time of the hearing, and, indeed, for some time after, and it was not
enough to act upon. But when the case had been heard in Court, it was
evident either that the proceedings would be abandoned--which was
unlikely--or that there would be new developments.

"I watched the progress of events with profound interest. An attempt had
been made (by Mr. Jellicoe or some other person) to get the will
administered without producing the body of John Bellingham; and that
attempt had failed. The coroner's jury had refused to identify the
remains; the Probate Court had refused to presume the death of the
testator. As affairs stood, the will could not be administered.

"What would be the next move?

"It was virtually certain that it would consist in the production of
something which would identify the unrecognised remains as those of the
testator.

"But what would that something be?

"The answer to that question would contain the answer to another
question: Was my solution of the mystery the true solution?

"If I was wrong, it was possible that some of the undoubtedly genuine
bones of John Bellingham might presently be discovered; for instance,
the skull, the knee-cap, or the left fibula, by any of which the remains
could be positively identified.

"If I was right, only one thing could possibly happen. Mr. Jellicoe
would have to play the trump card that he had been holding back in case
the Court should refuse the application; a card that he was evidently
reluctant to play.

"He would have to produce the bones of the mummy's finger, together
with John Bellingham's ring. No other course was possible.

"But not only would the bones and the ring have to be found together.
They would have to be found in a place which was accessible to Mr.
Jellicoe, and so far under his control that he could determine the exact
time when the discovery should be made.

"I waited patiently for the answer to my question. Was I right or was I
wrong?

"And in due course, the answer came.

"The bones and the ring were discovered in the well in the grounds of
Godfrey Bellingham's late house. That house was the property of John
Bellingham. Mr. Jellicoe was John Bellingham's agent. Hence it was
practically certain that the date on which the well was emptied was
settled by Mr. Jellicoe.

"The Oracle had spoken.

"The discovery proved conclusively that the bones were not those of John
Bellingham (for if they had been the ring would have been unnecessary
for identification). But if the bones were not John Bellingham's, the
ring was; from which followed the important corollary that whoever had
deposited those bones in the well had had possession of the body of John
Bellingham. And there could be no doubt that that person was Mr.
Jellicoe.

"On receiving this final confirmation of my conclusions, I applied
forthwith to Doctor Norbury for permission to examine the mummy of
Sebek-hotep, with the result that you are already acquainted with."

As Thorndyke concluded, Mr. Jellicoe regarded him thoughtfully for a
moment, and then said: "You have given us a most complete and lucid
exposition of your method of investigation, sir. I have enjoyed it
exceedingly, and should have profited by it hereafter--under other
circumstances. Are you sure you won't allow me to fill your glass?" He
touched the stopper of the decanter, and Inspector Badger ostentatiously
consulted his watch.

"Time is running on, I fear," said Mr. Jellicoe.

"It is, indeed," Badger assented emphatically.

"Well, I need not detain you long," said the lawyer. "My statement is a
mere narration of events. But I desire to make it, and you, no doubt,
will be interested to hear it."

He opened the silver case and selected a fresh cigarette, which,
however, he did not light. Inspector Badger produced a funereal
notebook, which he laid open on his knee; and the rest of us settled
ourselves in our chairs with no little curiosity to hear Mr. Jellicoe's
statement.




CHAPTER XX

THE END OF THE CASE


A profound silence had fallen on the room and its occupants. Mr.
Jellicoe sat with his eyes fixed on the table as if deep in thought, the
unlighted cigarette in one hand, the other grasping the tumbler of
water. Presently Inspector Badger coughed impatiently and he looked up.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said. "I am keeping you waiting."

He took a sip from the tumbler, opened a matchbox and took out a match,
but apparently altering his mind, laid it down and commenced:

"The unfortunate affair which has brought you here to-night, had its
origin ten years ago. At that time my friend Hurst became suddenly
involved in financial difficulties--am I speaking too fast for you, Mr.
Badger?"

"No, not at all," replied Badger. "I am taking it down in shorthand."

"Thank you," said Mr. Jellicoe. "He became involved in serious
difficulties and came to me for assistance. He wished to borrow five
thousand pounds to enable him to meet his engagements. I had a certain
amount of money at my disposal, but I did not consider Hurst's security
satisfactory; accordingly I felt compelled to refuse. But on the very
next day, John Bellingham called on me with the draft of his will which
he wished me to look over before it was executed.

"It was an absurd will, and I nearly told him so; but then an idea
occurred to me in connection with Hurst. It was obvious to me, as soon
as I had glanced through the will, that, if the burial clause was left
as the testator had drafted it, Hurst had a very good chance of
inheriting the property; and, as I was named as the executor, I should
be able to give full effect to that clause. Accordingly, I asked for a
few days to consider the will, and I then called upon Hurst and made a
proposal to him; which was this: That I should advance him five thousand
pounds without security; that I should ask for no repayment, but that he
should assign to me any interest that he might have or acquire in the
estate of John Bellingham up to ten thousand pounds, or two-thirds of
any sum that he might inherit if over that amount. He asked if John had
yet made any will, and I replied, quite correctly, that he had not. He
inquired if I knew what testamentary arrangements John intended to make,
and again I answered, quite correctly, that I believed that John
proposed to devise the bulk of his property to his brother, Godfrey.

"Thereupon, Hurst accepted my proposal; I made him the advance and he
executed the assignment. After a few days' delay, I passed the will as
satisfactory. The actual document was written from the draft by the
testator himself; and a fortnight after Hurst had executed the
assignment, John signed the will in my office. By the provisions of that
will I stood an excellent chance of becoming virtually the principal
beneficiary, unless Godfrey should contest Hurst's claim and the Court
should override the conditions of clause two.

"You will now understand the motives which governed my subsequent
actions. You will also see, Doctor Thorndyke, how very near to the truth
your reasoning carried you; and you will understand, as I wish you to
do, that Mr. Hurst was no party to any of those proceedings which I am
about to describe.

"Coming now to the interview in Queen Square in October, nineteen
hundred and two, you are aware of the general circumstances from my
evidence in Court, which was literally correct up to a certain point.
The interview took place in a room on the third floor, in which were
stored the cases which John had brought with him from Egypt. The mummy
was unpacked, as were some other objects that he was not offering to the
Museum, but several cases were still unopened. At the conclusion of the
interview I accompanied Doctor Norbury down to the street door, and we
stood on the doorstep conversing for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then
Doctor Norbury went away and I returned upstairs.

"Now the house in Queen Square is virtually a museum. The upper part is
separated from the lower by a massive door which opens from the hall and
gives access to the staircase, and which is fitted with a Chubb
night-latch. There are two latchkeys, of which John used to keep one and
I the other. You will find them both in the safe behind me. The
caretaker had no key and no access to the upper part of the house unless
admitted by one of us.

"At the time when I came in, after Doctor Norbury had left, the
caretaker was in the cellar, where I could hear him breaking coke for
the hot-water furnace. I had left John on the third floor opening some
of the packing cases by the light of a lamp with a tool somewhat like a
plasterer's hammer; that is, a hammer with a small axe-blade at the
reverse of the head. As I stood talking to Doctor Norbury, I could hear
him knocking out the nails and wrenching up the lids; and when I entered
the doorway leading to the stairs, I could still hear him. Just as I
closed the staircase door behind me, I heard a rumbling noise from
above; then all was still.

"I went up the stairs to the second floor, where, as the staircase was
all in darkness, I stopped to light the gas. As I turned to ascend the
next flight, I saw a hand projecting over the edge of the half-way
landing. I ran up the stairs, and there, on the landing, I saw John
lying huddled up in a heap at the foot of the top flight. There was a
wound at the side of his forehead from which a little blood was
trickling. The case-opener lay on the floor close by him and there was
blood on the axe-blade. When I looked up the stairs I saw a rag of torn
matting hanging over the top stair.

"It was quite easy to see what had happened. He had walked quickly out
on the landing with the case-opener in his hand. His foot had caught in
the torn matting and he had pitched head foremost down the stairs, still
holding the case-opener. He had fallen so that his head had come down on
the upturned edge of the axe-blade; he had then rolled over and the
case-opener had dropped from his hand.

"I lit a wax match and stooped down to look at him. His head was in a
very peculiar position, which made me suspect that his neck was broken.
There was extremely little bleeding from the wound; he was perfectly
motionless; I could detect no sign of breathing; and I felt no doubt
that he was dead.

"It was an exceedingly regrettable affair, and it placed me, as I
perceived at once, in an extremely awkward position. My first impulse
was to send the caretaker for a doctor and a policeman; but a moment's
reflection convinced me that there were serious objections to this
course.

"There was nothing to show that I had not, myself, knocked him down with
the case-opener. Of course, there was nothing to show that I had; but we
were alone in the house with the exception of the caretaker, who was
down in the basement out of ear-shot.

"There would be an inquest. At the inquest, inquiries would be made as
to the will which was known to exist. But, as soon as the will was
produced, Hurst would become suspicious. He would probably make a
statement to the coroner and I should be charged with the murder. Or,
even if I were not charged, Hurst would suspect me and would probably
repudiate the assignment; and, under the circumstances, it would be
practically impossible for me to enforce it. He would refuse to pay and
I could not take my claim into Court.

"I sat down on the stairs just above poor John's body and considered the
matter in detail. At the worst, I stood a fair chance of hanging; at the
best, I stood to lose close upon fifty thousand pounds. These were not
pleasant alternatives.

"Supposing, on the other hand, I concealed the body and gave out that
John had gone to Paris. There was, of course, the risk of discovery, in
which case I should certainly be convicted of the murder. But if no
discovery occurred, I was not only safe from suspicion, but I secured
the fifty thousand pounds. In either case there was considerable risk,
but in one there was the certainty of loss, whereas in the other there
was a material advantage to justify the risk. The question was whether
it would be possible to conceal the body. If it were, then the
contingent profit was worth the slight additional risk. But a human body
is a very difficult thing to dispose of, especially to a person of so
little scientific culture as myself.

"It is curious that I considered this question for a quite considerable
time before the obvious solution presented itself. I turned over at
least a dozen methods of disposing of the body, and rejected them all as
impracticable. Then, suddenly, I remembered the mummy upstairs.

"At first it only occurred to me as a fantastic possibility that I could
conceal the body in the mummy-case. But as I turned over the idea, I
began to see that it was really practicable; and not only practicable
but easy; and not only easy but eminently safe. If once the mummy-case
was in the Museum, I was rid of it for ever.

"The circumstances were, as you, sir, have justly observed, singularly
favourable. There would be no hue and cry, no hurry, no anxiety; but
ample time for all the necessary preparations. Then the mummy-case
itself was curiously suitable. Its length was ample, as I knew from
having measured it. It was a cartonnage of rather flexible material and
had an opening behind, secured with a lacing so that it could be opened
without injury. Nothing need be cut but the lacing, which could be
replaced. A little damage might be done in extracting the mummy and in
introducing the deceased; but such cracks as might occur would all be
at the back and would be of no importance. For here again Fortune
favoured me. The whole of the back of the mummy-case was coated with
bitumen, and it would be easy when once the deceased was safely inside
to apply a fresh coat, which would cover up not only the cracks but also
the new lacing.

"After careful consideration, I decided to adopt the plan. I went
downstairs and sent the caretaker on an errand to the Law Courts. Then I
returned and carried the deceased up to one of the third-floor rooms,
where I removed his clothes and laid him out on a long packing-case in
the position in which he would lie in the mummy-case. I folded his
clothes neatly and packed them, with the exception of his boots, in a
suit-case that he had been taking to Paris and which contained nothing
but his night-clothes, toilet articles, and a change of linen. By the
time I had done this and thoroughly washed the oilcloth on the stairs
and landing, the caretaker had returned. I informed him that Mr.
Bellingham had started for Paris and then I went home. The upper part of
the house was, of course, secured by the Chubb lock, but I had also--_ex
abundantiâ cautelae_--locked the door of the room in which I had
deposited the deceased.

"I had, of course, some knowledge of the methods of embalming, but
principally of those employed by the ancients. Hence, on the following
day, I went to the British Museum library and consulted the most recent
works on the subject; and exceedingly interesting they were, as showing
the remarkable improvements that modern knowledge had effected in this
ancient art. I need not trouble you with details that are familiar to
you. The process that I selected as the simplest for a beginner was
that of formalin injection, and I went straight from the Museum to
purchase the necessary materials. I did not, however, buy an embalming
syringe: the book stated that an ordinary anatomical injecting syringe
would answer the purpose, and I thought it a more discreet purchase.

"I fear that I bungled the injection terribly, although I had carefully
studied the plates in a treatise on anatomy--Gray's, I think. However,
if my methods were clumsy, they were quite effectual. I carried out the
process on the evening of the third day; and when I locked up the house
that night, I had the satisfaction of knowing that poor John's remains
were secure from corruption and decay.

"But this was not enough. The great weight of a fresh body as compared
with that of a mummy would be immediately noticed by those who had the
handling of the mummy-case. Moreover, the damp from the body would
quickly ruin the cartonnage and would cause a steamy film on the inside
of the glass case in which it would be exhibited. And this would
probably lead to an examination. Clearly, then, it was necessary that
the remains of the deceased should be thoroughly dried before they were
enclosed in the cartonnage.

"Here my unfortunate deficiency in scientific knowledge was a great
drawback. I had no idea how this result would be achieved, and in the
end was compelled to consult a taxidermist, to whom I represented that I
wished to collect small animals and reptiles and rapidly dry them for
convenience of transport. By this person I was advised to immerse the
dead animals in a jar of methylated spirit for a week and then expose
them in a current of warm, dry air.

"But the plan of immersing the remains of the deceased in a jar of
methylated spirit was obviously impracticable. However, I bethought me
that we had in our collection a porphyry sarcophagus, the cavity of
which had been shaped to receive a small mummy in its case. I tried the
deceased in the sarcophagus and found that he just fitted the cavity
loosely. I obtained a few gallons of methylated spirit which I poured
into the cavity, just covering the body, and then I put on the lid and
luted it down air-tight with putty. I trust I do not weary you with
these particulars?"

"I'll ask you to cut it as short as you can, Mr. Jellicoe," said Badger.
"It has been a long yarn and time is running on."

"For my part," said Thorndyke, "I find these details deeply interesting
and instructive. They fill in the outline that I had drawn by
inference."

"Precisely," said Mr. Jellicoe; "then I will proceed.

"I left the deceased soaking in the spirit for a fortnight and then took
him out, wiped him dry, and laid him on four cane-bottomed chairs just
over the hot-water pipes. I turned off the hot water in the other rooms
so as to concentrate the heat in these pipes, and I let a free current
of air pass through the room. The result interested me exceedingly. By
the end of the third day the hands and feet had become quite dry and
shrivelled and horny--so that the ring actually dropped off the shrunken
finger--the nose looked like a fold of parchment; and the skin of the
body was so dry and smooth that you could have engrossed a lease on it.
For the first day or two I turned the deceased at intervals so that he
should dry evenly, and then I proceeded to get the case ready. I
divided the lacing and extracted the mummy with great care--with great
care as to the case, I mean; for the mummy suffered some injury in the
extraction. It was very badly embalmed, and so brittle that it broke in
several places while I was getting it out; and when I unrolled it the
head separated and both the arms came off.

"On the sixth day after the removal from the sarcophagus, I took the
bandages that I had removed from Sebek-hotep and very carefully wrapped
the deceased in them, sprinkling powdered myrrh and gum benzoin freely
on the body and between the folds of the wrappings to disguise the faint
odour of the spirit and the formalin that still lingered about the body.
When the wrappings had been applied, the deceased really had a most
workmanlike appearance; he would have looked quite well in a glass case
even without the cartonnage, and I felt almost regretful at having to
put him out of sight for ever.

"It was a difficult business getting him into the case without
assistance, and I cracked the cartonnage badly in several places before
he was safely enclosed. But I got him in at last, and then, when I had
closed up the case with a new lacing, I applied a fresh layer of bitumen
which effectually covered up the cracks and the new cord. A dusty cloth
dabbed over the bitumen when it was dry disguised its newness, and the
cartonnage with its tenant was ready for delivery. I notified Doctor
Norbury of the fact, and five days later he came and removed it to the
Museum.

"Now that the main difficulty was disposed of, I began to consider the
further difficulty to which you, sir, have alluded with such admirable
perspicuity. It was necessary that John Bellingham should make one more
appearance in public before sinking into final oblivion.

"Accordingly, I devised the visit to Hurst's house, which was calculated
to serve two purposes. It created a satisfactory date for the
disappearance, eliminating me from any connection with it, and by
throwing some suspicion on Hurst it would make him more amenable--less
likely to dispute my claim when he learned the provisions of the will.

"The affair was quite simple. I knew that Hurst had changed his servants
since I was last at his house, and I knew his habits. On that day I took
the suit-case to Charing Cross and deposited it in the cloak-room,
called at Hurst's office to make sure that he was there, and went from
thence direct to Cannon Street and caught the train to Eltham. On
arriving at the house, I took the precaution to remove my
spectacles--the only distinctive feature of my exterior--and was duly
shown into the study at my request. As soon as the housemaid had left
the room I quietly let myself out by the French window, which I closed
behind me but could not fasten, went out at the side gate and closed
that also behind me, holding the bolt of the latch back with my
pocket-knife so that I need not slam the gate to shut it.

"The other events of that day, including the dropping of the scarab, I
need not describe, as they are known to you. But I may fitly make a few
remarks on the unfortunate tactical error into which I fell in respect
of the bones. That error arose, as you have doubtless perceived, from
the lawyer's incurable habit of underestimating the scientific expert. I
had no idea that mere bones were capable of furnishing so much
information to a man of science.

"The way in which the affair came about was this: The damaged mummy of
Sebek-hotep, perishing gradually by exposure to the air, was not only an
eyesore to me: it was a definite danger. It was the only remaining link
between me and the disappearance. I resolved to be rid of it and cast
about for some means of destroying it. And then, in an evil moment, the
idea of utilising it occurred to me.

"There was an undoubted danger that the Court might refuse to presume
death after so short an interval; and if the permission should be
postponed, the will might never be administered during my lifetime.
Hence, if these bones of Sebek-hotep could be made to simulate the
remains of the deceased testator, a definite good would be achieved. But
I knew that the entire skeleton could never be mistaken for his. The
deceased had broken his knee-caps and damaged his ankle, injuries which
I assumed would leave some permanent trace. But if a judicious selection
of the bones were deposited in a suitable place, together with some
object clearly identifiable as appertaining to the deceased, it seemed
to me that the difficulty would be met. I need not trouble you with
details. The course which I adopted is known to you with the attendant
circumstances, even to the accidental detachment of the right
hand--which broke off as I was packing the arm in my handbag. Erroneous
as that course was, it would have been successful but for the unforeseen
contingency of your being retained in the case.

"Thus, for nearly two years, I remained in complete security. From time
to time I dropped in at the museum to see if the deceased was keeping
in good condition; and on those occasions I used to reflect with
satisfaction on the gratifying circumstance--accidental though it
was--that his wishes, as expressed (very imperfectly) in clause two, had
been fully complied with, and that without prejudice to my interests.

"The awakening came on that evening when I saw you at the Temple gate
talking with Doctor Berkeley. I suspected immediately that something had
gone amiss and that it was too late to take any useful action. Since
then, I have waited here in hourly expectation of this visit. And now
the time has come. You have made the winning move and it remains only
for me to pay my debts like an honest gambler."

He paused and quietly lit his cigarette. Inspector Badger yawned and put
away his note-book.

"Have you done, Mr. Jellicoe?" the inspector asked. "I want to carry out
my contract to the letter, you know, though it's getting devilish late."

Mr. Jellicoe took his cigarette from his mouth and drank a glass of
water.

"I forgot to ask," he said, "whether you unrolled the mummy--if I may
apply the term to the imperfectly treated remains of my deceased
client."

"I did not open the mummy-case," replied Thorndyke.

"You did not!" exclaimed Mr. Jellicoe. "Then how did you verify your
suspicions?"

"I took an X-ray photograph."

"Ah! Indeed!" Mr. Jellicoe pondered for some moments. "Astonishing!" he
murmured; "and most ingenious. The resources of science at the present
day are truly wonderful."

"Is there anything more that you want to say?" asked Badger; "because,
if you don't, time's up."

"Anything more?" Mr. Jellicoe repeated slowly; "anything more?
No--I--think--think--the time--is--up. Yes--the--the time--"

He broke off and sat with a strange look fixed on Thorndyke.

His face had suddenly undergone a curious change. It looked shrunken and
cadaverous and his lips had assumed a peculiar cherry-red colour.

"Is anything the matter, Mr. Jellicoe?" Badger asked uneasily. "Are you
not feeling well, sir?"

Mr. Jellicoe did not appear to have heard the question, for he returned
no answer, but sat motionless, leaning back in his chair, with his hands
spread out on the table and his strangely intent gaze bent on Thorndyke.

Suddenly his head dropped on his breast and his body seemed to collapse;
and as with one accord we sprang to our feet, he slid forward off his
chair and disappeared under the table.

"Good Lord! The man's fainted!" exclaimed Badger.

In a moment he was down on his hands and knees, trembling with
excitement, groping under the table. He dragged the unconscious lawyer
out into the light and knelt over him, staring into his face.

"What's the matter with him, Doctor?" he asked, looking up at Thorndyke.
"Is it apoplexy? Or is it a heart attack, think you?"

Thorndyke shook his head, though he stooped and put his fingers on the
unconscious man's wrist. "Prussic acid or potassium cyanide is what the
appearances suggest," he replied.

"But can't you do anything?" demanded the inspector.

Thorndyke dropped the arm, which fell limply to the floor.

"You can't do much for a dead man," he said.

"Dead! Then he has slipped through our fingers after all!"

"He has anticipated the sentence. That is all." Thorndyke spoke in an
even, impassive tone which struck me as rather strange, considering the
suddenness of the tragedy, as did also the complete absence of surprise
in his manner. He seemed to treat the occurrence as a perfectly natural
one.

Not so Inspector Badger; who rose to his feet and stood with his hands
thrust into his pockets scowling sullenly down at the dead lawyer.

"I was an infernal fool to agree to his blasted conditions," he growled
savagely.

"Nonsense," said Thorndyke. "If you had broken in, you would have found
a dead man. As it was you found a live man and obtained an important
statement. You acted quite properly."

"How do you suppose he managed it?" asked Badger.

Thorndyke held out his hand. "Let us look at his cigarette-case," said
he.

Badger extracted the little silver case from the dead man's pocket and
opened it. There were five cigarettes in it, two of which were plain,
while the other three were gold-tipped. Thorndyke took out one of each
kind and gently pinched their ends. The gold-tipped one he returned;
the plain one he tore through, about a quarter of an inch from the end;
when two little white tabloids dropped out on the table. Badger eagerly
picked one up and was about to smell it when Thorndyke grasped his
wrist. "Be careful," said he; and when he had cautiously sniffed at the
tabloid--held at a safe distance from his nose--he added: "Yes,
potassium cyanide. I thought so when his lips turned that queer colour.
It was in that last cigarette; you can see that he has bitten off the
end."

For some time we stood silently looking down at the still form stretched
on the floor. Presently Badger looked up.

"As you pass the porter's lodge on your way out," said he, "you might
just drop in and tell him to send a constable to me."

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "And by the way, Badger, you had better tip
that sherry back into the decanter and put it under lock and key, or
else pour it out of the window."

"Gad, yes!" exclaimed the inspector. "I'm glad you mentioned it. We
might have had an inquest on a constable as well as a lawyer. Good
night, gentlemen, if you are off."

We went out and left him with his prisoner--passive enough, indeed,
according to his ambiguously worded promise. As we passed through the
gateway Thorndyke gave the inspector's message, curtly and without
comment, to the gaping porter, and then we issued forth into Chancery
Lane.

We were all silent and very grave, and I thought that Thorndyke seemed
somewhat moved. Perhaps Mr. Jellicoe's last intent look--which I suspect
he knew to be the look of a dying man--lingered in his memory as it did
in mine. Half-way down Chancery Lane he spoke for the first time; and
then it was only to ejaculate, "Poor devil!"

Jervis took him up. "He was a consummate villain, Thorndyke."

"Hardly that," was the reply. "I should rather say that he was
non-moral. He acted without malice and without scruple or remorse. His
conduct exhibited a passionless expediency which was rather dreadful
because utterly unhuman. But he was a strong man--a courageous,
self-contained man, and I had been better pleased if it could have been
ordained that some other hand than mine should let the axe fall."

Thorndyke's compunction may appear strange and inconsistent, but yet his
feeling was also my own. Great as were the misery and suffering that
this inscrutable man had brought into the lives of those I loved, I
forgave him; and in his downfall forgot the callous relentlessness with
which he had pursued his evil purpose. For he it was who had brought
Ruth into my life; who had opened for me the Paradise of Love into which
I had just entered. And so my thoughts turned away from the still shape
that lay on the floor of the stately old room in Lincoln's Inn, away to
the sunny vista of the future, where I should walk hand in hand with
Ruth until my time, too, should come; until I, too, like the grim
lawyer, should hear the solemn evening bell bidding me put out into the
darkness of the silent sea.





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