Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 6

by R. Austin Freeman

  “The head had been separated from the spinal column with a knife, leaving the atlas intact, and, to this extent, the separation had been effected skilfully.”

  “Yes,” said I. “That point was made, I remember, at the inquest on the head. It would require some skill and the knowledge as to where the joint was to be found. By the way, was the question of the head raised?”

  “Yes. Naturally a juryman wanted to question the doctor on the subject, but the witness very properly replied that his evidence dealt only with facts observed by himself, and the coroner supported him. Then the question was raised whether the head should not be produced for comparison with the body; but the doctor refused to go into the matter, and the coroner pointed out that the head had already been examined medically and that all the facts were available in the depositions of the witnesses. He did, however, read out some of the depositions from the previous inquest and asked the doctor whether the facts set forth in them were consistent with the belief that the head and the headless body were parts of one and the same person; to which the doctor replied that the mode of separation was the same in both and that the parts which were missing in the one were present in the other, but beyond that he would give no opinion.”

  “Did he give any opinion as to the cause of death?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Thorndyke. “There was no mystery about that. There was a knife-wound in the back, near the angle of the left scapula, penetrating deeply and transfixing the heart. It appeared to have been inflicted with a large, single-edged knife of the ‘Green River’ type, and obviously with great force. The witness stated, confidently, that it could not have been self-inflicted.”

  “That seems to be pretty obvious, too,” said I. “At any rate, the man could not have cut his own head off.”

  “A very capable detective sergeant gave evidence,” Thorndyke resumed, dismissing—to my secret amusement—the trivial and uninteresting detail of the manner in which this unfortunate creature had been done to death. “He stated that the wood had been searched for the dead man’s clothing. But I suspect that it was a very perfunctory search, as he was evidently convinced that it was not there; remarking, plausibly enough, that, since the clothing must have been stripped off to prevent identification, it would not be reasonable to expect to find it in the vicinity. He was of opinion that the body had been brought from a distance in a car or van, and that, probably, two or more persons were concerned in the affair.”

  “It seems likely,” I said, “having regard to the remoteness of the place. But it is only a guess.”

  “Exactly,” Thorndyke agreed. “There was a good deal of guessing and not many facts; and the few facts that were really significant do not seem to have been understood.”

  “What are the facts that you regard as really significant?” I asked. Not that I had the slightest expectation that he would tell me. And he did not. His inevitable reply was:

  “You know what the known facts are, Jervis, and you will see for yourself, if you consider them critically, which are the significant ones. But, to return to the inquest. The coroner’s summing-up was excellent, having regard to the evidence that had been given. I took shorthand notes of some of it, and I will read them to you. With reference to the embalmed head he remarked:

  “It has been suggested that the head which was found at Fenchurch Street Station ought to have been brought here for comparison. But to what purpose? What kind of comparison is possible? If the head is broken off a china figure and the two parts are lost and subsequently found in different places, the question as to whether they are parts of the same figure can be settled by putting them together and seeing whether the fractured surfaces fit each other. But with a detached human head—especially after the lapse of months—this is not possible. If the preserved head had been exhumed and brought here, we could have learned nothing more from it than we can learn from the depositions of the medical witness, which I have read to you. Accordingly, we must fall back on our common sense; and I think we shall find that enough for our purpose

  “Let us look at the facts. A headless body has been found in one place, and a body-less head in another. The doctor has told us that they might be—though he doesn’t say that they are—the head and body of one and the same person. They agree in the peculiar and unusual mode of separation. The parts which are absent in the one are present in the other. There is no part missing, and no part redundant. If that head had been cut off this body, the appearances would be exactly what they are.

  “‘Now, gentlemen, if headless human bodies and body-less human heads were quite common objects, we might have to search further. But, fortunately, they are so rare and unusual that we may almost regard these remains as unique. And if they are not parts of the same person, then there must be, somewhere, an undiscovered body belonging to the head, and, somewhere else, an undiscovered head belonging to this body. But, I submit, gentlemen, that common sense rejects such enormous improbabilities and compels us to adopt the obvious and simple explanation that the head and the body are those of one and the same person.

  “‘As to the cause of death, you have heard the doctor’s evidence. Deceased was killed by a knife-wound, which he could not have inflicted himself, and which was therefore inflicted by some other person. And with that I leave you to consider your verdict.’”

  “An excellent summing-up,” said I, “and very well argued. The verdict was Wilful Murder, of course?”

  “Yes. ‘By some person or persons unknown.’ And the jury could hardly have come to any other conclusion. But, as you see, the case is, from the police point of view, left in the air.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “If Miller is taking up the case, as I assume that he is, he has got his work cut out. I don’t see that this body was such a wind-fall as he seemed to think. Scotland Yard may catch some more trouble from the Press if something fresh does not turn up.”

  “Well,” Thorndyke rejoined, by way of winding up the conversation, “we must hope, like medico-legal Micawbers, that something will turn up.”

  For the next few days, however, the case remained “in the air.” But it was not alone in this respect. Presently I began to be conscious that there were other matters in the air. For instance, our invaluable assistant, Polton, suddenly developed a curious, stealthy, conspiratorial manner of going about, or locking himself in the laboratory, which experience had taught me to associate with secret activities foreshadowing some important and dramatic “move” on Thorndyke’s part. Then, on the fourth day after the inquest, I detected my colleague in the suspicious act of pacing the pavement at the lower, and more secluded, end of King’s Bench Walk, in earnest conversation with Mr. Superintendent Miller. And the prima facie suspiciousness of the proceeding was confirmed by the eagerness and excitement that were evident in the face and manner of our friend, and even more by the way in which he suddenly shut up, like a snapped snuff-box, as I approached.

  And, that very evening, Thorndyke exploded the mine.

  “We have got an expedition on, tomorrow,” he announced.

  “Who are we?” I asked.

  “You and I, Miller and Polton. I know you have got the day free.”

  “Where are we going to?” I demanded.

  “To Swanscombe Wood,” was the reply.

  “What for?”

  “To collect some further facts relating to the headless body,” he replied.

  As a mere statement, it did not sound very sensational. But to one who knew Thorndyke as I knew him, it had certain implications that gave it a special significance. In the first place, Thorndyke tended habitually to under-statement; and, in the second, he took no one into his confidence while his investigations were at the tentative stage. As Miller expressed it, “The Doctor would never show a card until he was ready to take the trick.” Whence there naturally arose in my mind a strong suspicion that the “further facts” which we were to collect were already in Thorndyke’s possession.

  And events proved that
I was not so very far wrong.

  XIII. THE DENE HOLE

  The products of Polton’s labours impressed me as disappointing and hardly worthy of his mechanical ingenuity, consisting of nothing more subtle than an immense coil of rope, rove through two double blocks and forming a long and powerful tackle, a tripod formed of three very stout iron-shod seven-foot poles, and a strong basket such as builders use, furnished with strong rope slings. There was one further item, which was more worthy of its producer; a large electric lamp, fitted with adjustable lenses, and, to judge by the suspension arrangements, designed to throw a powerful beam of parallel rays vertically downwards.

  But if Polton’s productions were of an unexpected kind, the vehicle in which the Superintendent drove up to our entry was even more so. For, though it bore no outward distinguishing marks, it was an undeniable motor ambulance. However, if less dignified and imposing than the official car, it was a good deal more convenient. The unwieldy tripod, tackle and basket were easily disposed of in its roomy interior, still leaving ample accommodation for me and Polton and the detective sergeant whom Miller had brought as an additional assistant. The Superintendent, himself, was at the steering wheel, and Thorndyke took the seat beside him to give directions as we approached our destination.

  I asked no questions. The character of our outfit told me pretty plainly what kind of job we had in hand; and I felt a malicious satisfaction in tantalizing Polton, who was, so to speak, bursting with silence and secrecy and the desire to be questioned. So, little was said—and nothing to the point—while the ambulance trundled out at the Tudor Street gate, crossed Blackfriars Bridge, threaded its way through the traffic of the South London streets, and presently came out upon the Dover Road. A few minutes later, as we mounted a steep rise, the sergeant, who, hitherto, had uttered not a word, removed his pipe from his mouth, remarked, “Shooter’s Hill” and replaced it as if it were a stopper.

  The ambulance bowled smoothly along the straight line of the old Roman road. Welling, Crayford and Dartford were entered and left behind. A few minutes after leaving Dartford, the road began a long ascent and then, after a short run on the level, fell away somewhat steeply. At this point, the sergeant once more removed his pipe, nodded at the side window, and, having affirmed, stolidly, “That’s the place,” reinserted the stopper.

  The ambulance now began to slow down, and, a minute or two later, drew in by the side of the road and halted. Then, as Thorndyke and the Superintendent alighted, we also got out, and the sergeant proceeded to occupy the driver’s seat.

  “You and Polton had better stay here for the present,” said Thorndyke. “The Superintendent and I are going to locate the spot. When we have found it, he will remain there while I come back and help you to carry the gear.”

  He produced from his pocket a marching-compass and a card, on one side of which a sketch-plan had been drawn while a number of bearings were written on the other. After a glance at the latter, he set the direction line of the compass and started off along a rough foot-path, followed by the Superintendent. We watched their receding figures as they ascended the hill and approached the wood by which it was covered. At the margin of the latter, Thorndyke paused and “turned to take a last, fond look” at his starting-point and check his compass bearings. Then he faced about, and, in a few seconds, he and the Superintendent disappeared into the wood.

  Waiting is usually a tedious business, and is still more so when the waiter is on the tip-toe of expectation and curiosity. Vainly, I endeavoured to repress a tendency to useless and futile speculation as to what Thorndyke was seeking (or, more probably, had already found and was now about to disclose). As for Polton, if he could have been furnished with an emotional pressure-gauge, it would certainly have burst. Even the stolid sergeant was fain to come off his perch and pace up and down by the roadside; and once he actually went so far as to take out the stopper and remark that “it seemed as if the Doctor had made some sort of discovery.”

  Anon our sufferings were somewhat alleviated by the arrival of a police patrol, who came free-wheeling down the hill from the direction of Dartford. As he approached us, he slowed down more and more and eventually dismounted to make a circuit of our vehicle, with the manner of a dog sniffing at a suspicious stranger. Apparently, it appearance did not satisfy him, and he proceeded to interrogate.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, not uncivilly. “This looks like an ambulance but I see you have got some lifting gear inside.”

  Here the sergeant interposed with a brief and unlucid explanation of our business, at the same time producing his credentials; at the sight whereof the patrol officer was visibly impressed, and showed an unmistakeable tendency to linger, which the sergeant by no means sought to discourage.

  “Can I give any assistance?” the patrol man asked, a little wistfully.

  “Well,” the sergeant replied, promptly, “if you could spare the time to give an eye to this car, that would release me to lend the Superintendent a hand.”

  It was obvious that the patrol man would have preferred to transpose these functions, but, nevertheless, he agreed readily; and at this moment Thorndyke reappeared from the wood and came striding swiftly towards us along the foot-path. As he came up, the sergeant explained the new arrangements with some anxiety as to whether they would be approved. To his evident relief, Thorndyke accepted them readily.

  “We shall be none the worse for an extra hand,” said he. “Now we shall be able to carry the whole kit up in one journey.”

  Accordingly, we proceeded to get the gear out of the ambulance and distribute the items among the party. Thorndyke and I took the tripod on our shoulders—and a deuce of a weight it was. The sergeant got the great coil of rope on to his back with the aid of a spare sling; and Polton brought up the rear with the basket, in which was stowed the lamp, while the patrol man kept a look-out with a view to heading off any inquisitive strangers who might be attracted by the queer aspect of our procession.

  Appreciation of the beauties of the countryside is not favoured by the presence on one’s shoulder of three massive ash poles with heavy iron fittings. The character of the ground was what chiefly occupied my attention, particularly after we had entered the wood; where I got the impression that some ingenious sylvan devil had collected all the brambles from miles around and arranged them in an interminable series of entanglements, compared with which the barbed-wire defences of a German trench were but feeble and amateurish imitations. But we tramped on, crashing through the yellow and russet leafage, Thorndyke leading with his compass in his unoccupied hand and trudging forward in silence, save for an occasional soft chuckle at my lurid comments on the landscape.

  Suddenly, I heard Miller’s voice informing us that “here we were,” and we nearly collided with him at the edge of a small opening. Here we set down the tripod, opening it enough to enable it to stand upright.

  “You didn’t have to blow your whistle,” said Thorndyke. “I suppose you heard us coming?”

  “Heard you coming!“ exclaimed Miller. “It was like a troop of blooming elephants—to say nothing of Dr. Jervis’s language. Hallo, Sergeant! I thought I told you to stay with the car.”

  The sergeant hastily explained the arrangements, adding that “The Doctor” had concurred; on which the Superintendent, having also approved, set him to work at getting the gear ready.

  A glance around the little opening in which we were gathered showed me that my diagnosis of the purpose of the expedition had been correct. Near the middle of the opening, half concealed by the rank undergrowth, yawned the mouth of one of those mysterious pits known as dene holes which are scattered in such numbers over this part of Kent. Cautiously, I approached the brink and peered down into the black depths.

  “Horrible, dangerous things, these dene holes are,” said Miller. “Ought to be fenced in. How deep do you say this pit is, Doctor?”

  “This one is just about sixty feet, but many of them are deeper. Seventy feet is about the average
.”

  “Sixty feet!” exclaimed Polton, with a fascinated eye on the yawning hole. “And anyone coming along here in the dark might step into it without a moment’s warning. Horrible! Did I understand you, sir, to say that it was dug a very long time ago?”

  “It has been there as you see it,” replied Thorndyke, “for thousands of years. How many thousands we can’t say. But there seems to be no doubt that these dene holes were excavated by the men of the Old Stone Age.”

  “Dear me!” exclaimed Polton. “Thousands of years! I should have thought that, by this time, they would have been full to the brim of the people who had tumbled into them.”

  While these exclamations and comments were passing, the preparations were in progress for the exploration. The tripod was set up over the hole (which was some three feet in diameter and roughly circular, like the mouth of a well), the tackle securely hooked on and the lamp suspended in position. The Superintendent switched on the light by means of a push at the end of a cord, and, grasping the tripod, leaned over the hole and peered down the well-like shaft.

  “I can’t make out very much,” he remarked. “I seem to see what looks like a boot, and that’s about all.”

  “It is a long way down,” said Thorndyke, “and it doesn’t matter much what we can see from above. We shall soon know exactly what there is down there.”