Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective

by Percy James Brebner

  CHAPTER II

  THE IDENTITY OF THE FINAL VICTIM

  I soon fell into the habit of going to see Professor Quarles. As anexcuse I talked over cases with him, but he seldom volunteered anopinion, often was obviously uninterested. Truth to tell, I was notthere for his opinion, but to see his granddaughter. A detective inlove sounds something like an absurdity, but such was my case, and,since Zena's manner did not suggest that she was particularlyinterested in me, my love affair seemed rather a hopeless one.

  My association with Christopher Quarles has, however, led to thesolution of some strange mysteries, and, since my own achievements aresufficiently well known, I may confine myself to those cases which,single-handed, I should have failed to solve. I know that in many ofthem I was credited with having unraveled the mystery, but this wasonly because Professor Quarles persisted in remaining in thebackground. If I did the spade work, the deductions were his.

  They were all cases with peculiar features in them, and it was neveras a detective that Quarles approached them. He was often asastonished at my acumen in following a clew as I was at his marveloustheories, which seemed so absurd to begin with yet proved correct inthe end.

  Perhaps his curious power was never more noticeable than in the caseof the Withan murder.

  A farmer returning from Medworth, the neighboring market town, onenight in January, was within a quarter of a mile of Withan villagewhen his horse suddenly shied and turned into the ditch.

  During the afternoon there had been a fall of snow, sufficient tocover the ground to a depth of an inch or so, and in places it haddrifted to a depth of two feet or more. By evening the clouds hadgone, the moon sailed in a clear sky, and, looking round to find thecause of his horse's unusual behavior, the farmer saw a man lying on aheap of snow under the opposite hedge.

  He was dead--more, he was headless.

  It was not until some days later that the case came into my hands, andin the interval the local authorities had not been idle. It was notedthat the man was poorly dressed, that his hands proved he was used tomanual labor, but there was no mark either on his body or on hisclothing, nor any papers in his pockets to lead to his identification.So far as could be ascertained, nobody was missing in Withan orMedworth. It seemed probable that the murderer had come upon hisvictim secretly, that the foul deed had been committed with horribleexpedition, otherwise the victim, although not a strong man, wouldhave made some struggle for his life, and apparently no struggle hadtaken place.

  Footprints, nearly obliterated, were traceable to a wood on theopposite side of the road, but no one seemed to have left the wood inany direction. From this fact it was argued that the murder had beencommitted early in the afternoon, soon after the storm began, and thatsnow had hidden the murderer's tracks from the wood. That snow haddrifted on to the dead body seemed to establish this theory.

  Why had the murderer taken the head with him? There were manyfantastic answers to the question. Some of the country folk, easilysuperstitious, suggested that it must be the work of the devil, othersput it down to an escaped lunatic, while others again thought it mightbe the work of some doctor who wanted to study the brain.

  The authorities believed that it had been removed to preventidentification, and would be found buried in the wood. It was notfound, however, and the countryside was in a state bordering on panic.

  For a few days the Withan murder seemed unique in atrocities, and thencame a communication from the French police. Some two years ago analmost identical murder had been committed outside a village inNormandy. In this case also the head was missing, and nothing had beenfound upon the body to identify the victim. He was well dressed, and aman who would be likely to carry papers with him, but nothing wasfound, and the murder had remained a mystery.

  These were the points known and conjectured when the case came into myhands, and my investigations added little to them.

  One point, however, impressed me. I felt convinced that the man'sclothes, which were shown to me, had not been made in England. Theywere poor, worn almost threadbare, but they had once been fairly good,and the cut was not English. That it was French I could not possiblyaffirm, but it might be, and so I fashioned a fragile link with theNormandy crime.

  On this occasion I went to Quarles with the object of interesting himin the Withan case, and he forestalled me by beginning to talk aboutit the moment I entered the room.

  Here I may mention a fact which I had not discovered at first.Whenever he was interested in a case I was always taken into his emptyroom; at other times we were in the dining-room or the drawing-room.It was the empty room on this occasion, and Zena remained with us.

  I went carefully through the case point by point, and he made nocomment until I had finished.

  "The foreign cut of the clothes may be of importance," he said. "I amnot sure. Is this wood you mention of any great extent?"

  "No, it runs beside the road for two or three hundred yards."

  "Toward Withan?"

  "No; it was near the Withan end of it that the dead man was found."

  "Any traces that the head was carried to the wood?"

  "The local authorities say, 'Yes,' and not a trace afterward. Theground in the wood was searched at the time, and I have been over itcarefully since. Through one part of the wood there runs a ditch,which is continued as a division between two fields which form part ofthe farm land behind the wood. By walking along this the murderermight have left the wood without leaving tracks behind him."

  "A good point, Wigan. And where would that ditch lead him?"

  "Eventually to the high road, which runs almost at right angles to theWithan road."

  "Much water in the ditch?" asked Quarles.

  "Half a foot when I went there. It may have been less at the time ofthe murder. The early part of January was dry, you will remember."

  "There was a moon that night, wasn't there?"

  "Full, or near it," I returned.

  "And how soon was the alarm raised along the countryside?"

  "That night. It was about eight o'clock when the body was found, andafter going to the village the farmer returned to Medworth for thepolice."

  "A man who had walked a considerable distance in a ditch would be wetand muddy," said Zena, "and if he were met on the road carrying a baghe would arrest attention."

  "Why carrying a bag?" asked Quarles.

  "With the head in it," she answered.

  "That's another good point, Wigan," chuckled Quarles.

  "Of course, the head may be buried in the wood," said Zena.

  Quarles looked at me inquiringly.

  "I searched the wood with that idea in my mind," I said. "One or twodoubtful places I had dug up. I think the murderer must have taken thehead with him."

  "To bury somewhere else?" asked Quarles.

  "Perhaps not," I answered.

  "A mad doctor bent on brain experiments--is that your theory, Wigan?"

  "Not necessarily a doctor, but some homicidal maniac who is alsoresponsible for the Normandy murder. The likeness between the twocrimes can hardly be a coincidence."

  "What was the date of the French murder?"

  "January the seventeenth."

  "Nearly the same date as the English one," said Zena.

  "Two years intervening," I returned.

  "Wigan, it would be interesting to know if a similar murder occurredanywhere in the intervening year at that date," said Quarles.

  "You have a theory, professor?"

  "An outlandish one which would make you laugh. No, no; I do not likebeing laughed at. I never mention my theories until I have some factsto support them. I am interested in this case. Perhaps I shall go toWithan."

  There was nothing more to be got out of the professor just then, and Ideparted.

  I took the trouble to make inquiry whether any similar crime hadhappened in England in the January of the preceding year, and had thesame inquiry made in France. There was no record of any murder bearingthe slightest resemblance to
the Withan tragedy.

  A few days later Quarles telegraphed me to meet him at Kings Cross,and we traveled North together.

  "Wait," he said when I began to question him. "I am not sure yet. Mytheory seems absurd. We are going to find out if it is."

  We took rooms at a hotel in Medworth, Quarles explaining that ourinvestigations might take some days.

  Next morning, instead of going to Withan as I had expected, he took meto the police court, and seemed to find much amusement in listening tosome commonplace cases, and was not very complimentary in his remarksabout the bench of magistrates. The next afternoon he arranged adrive. I thought we were going to Withan, but we turned away from thevillage, and presently Quarles stopped the carriage.

  "How far are we from Withan?" he asked the driver.

  "Five or six miles. The road winds a lot. It's a deal nearer as thecrow flies."

  "You need not wait for us, driver. My friend and I are going to walkback."

  The coachman pocketed his money and drove away.

  "Couldn't keep him waiting all night, as we may have to do," saidQuarles. "Mind you, Wigan, I'm very doubtful about my theory; atleast, I am not certain that I shall find the facts I want. A fewhours will settle it one way or the other."

  After walking along the road for about a mile Quarles scrambledthrough a hedge into a wood by the roadside.

  "We're trespassers, but we must take our chance. Should we meetanyone, blame me. Say I am a doddering old fool who would walk underthe trees and you were obliged to come to see that I didn't get intoany mischief. Do you go armed?"

  "Always," I answered.

  "I do sometimes," he said, tapping his pocket. "We might come upagainst danger if my theory is correct. If I tell you to shoot--shoot,and quickly. Your life is likely to depend upon it. And keep your earsopen to make sure no one is following us."

  He had become keen, like a dog on the trail, and, old as he was,seemed incapable of fatigue. Whether he had studied the topography ofthe neighborhood I cannot say, but he did not hesitate in hisdirection until he reached a high knoll which was clear of the woodand commanded a considerable view.

  We were trespassers in a private park. To our right was a large house,only partially seen through its screen of trees, but it was evidentlymellow with age. To our left, toward what was evidently the extremityof the park, was hilly ground, which had been allowed to run wild.

  To this Quarles pointed.

  "That is our way," he said. "We'll use what cover we can."

  We plunged into the wood again, and were soon in the wilderness,forcing our way, sometimes with considerable difficulty, through theundergrowth. Once or twice the professor gave me a warning gesture,but he did not speak. He had evidently some definite goal, and I wasconscious of excitement as I followed him.

  For an hour or more he turned this way and that, exploring everylittle ravine he could discover, grunting his disappointment each timehe failed to find what he was looking for.

  "I said I wasn't certain," he whispered when our path had led us intoa damp hollow which looked as if it had not been visited by man forcenturies. "My theory seems--and yet this is such a likely place.There must be a way."

  He was going forward again. The hollow was surrounded by perpendicularwalls of sand and chalk; it was a pit, in fact, which Nature hadfilled with vegetation. The way we had come seemed the only way intoit.

  "Ah! this looks promising," Quarles said suddenly.

  In a corner of the wall, or, to be more precise, filling up a rent init, was a shed, roughly built, but with a door secured by a verybusiness-like lock.

  "I think the shed is climbable," said Quarles. "Let's get on the roof.I am not so young as I was, so help me up."

  It was not much help he wanted. In a few moments we were on the roof.

  "As I thought," he said. "Do you see?"

  The shed, with its slanting roof, served to block a narrow, overgrownpath between two precipitous chalk walls.

  "We'll go carefully," said Quarles. "There may be worse than poachers'traps here."

  Without help from me he dropped from the roof, and I followed him.

  The natural passage was winding, and about fifty yards long, andopened into another pit of some size. A pit I call it, but it was asmuch a cave as a pit, part of it running deeply into the earth, andonly about a third of it being open to the sky. The cave part had arough, sandy floor, and here was a long shed of peculiar construction.It was raised on piles, about eight feet high; the front part formed akind of open veranda, the back part being closed in. The roof wasthatched with bark and dried bracken, and against one end of theveranda was a notched tree trunk, serving as a ladder.

  "As I expected," said Quarles, with some excitement. "We must get ontothe veranda for a moment. I think we are alone here, but keep yourears open."

  The shed was evidently used sometimes. There was a stone slab whichhad served as a fireplace, and from a beam above hung a short chain,on which a pot could easily be fixed.

  "We'll get away quickly," said Quarles. "Patience, Wigan. I believe weare going to witness a wonderful thing."

  "When?"

  "In about thirty hours' time."

  The professor's sense of direction was marvelous. Having reclimbed theshed which blocked the entrance to this concealed pit, he madepractically a straight line for the place at which we had entered thewood from the road.

  "I daresay one would be allowed to see over the house, but perhaps itis as well not to ask," he said. "We can do that later. I'm tired,Wigan; but it was safer not to keep the carriage."

  Try as I would, I could get no explanation out of him either thatnight or next day. He was always as secret as the grave until he hadproved his theory, and then he seemed anxious to forget the wholeaffair, and shrank from publicity. That is how it came about that Iobtained credit which I did not deserve.

  "We go there again this evening," he said after lunch next day; "so arestful afternoon will suit us."

  It was getting dark when we set out, and again Quarles's unerringsense of locality astonished me. He led the way without hesitation.This time he took more precaution not to make a sound when climbingover the shed into the narrow path.

  "I think we are first, but great care is necessary," he whispered.

  We crept forward and concealed ourselves among the scrub vegetationwhich grew in that part of the pit which was open to the sky. It wasdark, the long shed barely discernible, but the professor wasparticular about our position.

  "We may have to creep a little nearer presently," he whispered. "Fromhere we can do so. Silence, Wigan, and don't be astonished atanything."

  The waiting seemed long. Moonlight was presently above us, throwingthe cave part of the pit into greater shadow than ever.

  I cannot attempt to say how long we had waited in utter silence whenQuarles touched my arm. Someone was coming, and with no particularstealth. Whoever it was seemed quite satisfied that the night wasempty of danger. I heard footsteps on the raised floor of the shed--aman's step, and only one man's. I heard him moving about for sometime. I think he came down the ladder once and went up again. Thenthere was a light and sudden tiny flames. In the dark he had evidentlygot fuel, and had started a fire on the stone slab.

  As the flames brightened I watched his restless figure. He was not ayoung man. I caught a glimpse of white hair, but he took no positionin which I could see his face clearly. He was short, thick-set, andquick in his movements.

  From somewhere at the back of the shed he pushed forward a block ofwood, and, standing on this, he fixed something to the short chain Ihad noted yesterday. When he got down again I saw that a bundle wassuspended over the fire, not a pot, and it was too high for the flamesor much of the heat to reach it, only the smoke curled about it.

  Then the man moved the wooden block to the side of the fire and satdown facing us, the flickering flames throwing a red glow over him.

  "Wigan, do you see?" whispered Quarles.

  "Not clearly."


  "We'll go nearer. Carefully."

  From our new point of view I looked again. The man's face wasfamiliar, but just then I could not remember who he was. It was thebundle hanging over the fire which fascinated me.

  Tied together, and secured in a network of string, were five or sixhuman heads, blackened, shriveled faces, which seemed to grin horriblyas they swung deeply from side to side, lit up by the flicker of theflames.

  "Do you see, Wigan?" Quarles asked again.

  "Yes."

  "And the man?"

  "Who is he?"

  "On the bench yesterday. Sir Henry Buckingham. Don't you remember?"

  For an hour--two, three, I don't know how long--that horrible bundleswung over the fire, and the man sat on his block of wood, staringstraight before him. I had a great desire to rush from my hiding-placeand seize him, and I waited, expecting some further revelation,listening for other footsteps. None came. The fire flickered lower andwent out. The moon had set, and the cold of the early morning got intomy bones.

  In the darkness before the dawn the man moved about the shed again,and presently I heard him go.

  "Patience!" whispered Quarles, as I started up to go after him. "Hewill not run away."

  His calmness almost exasperated me, but he would answer no questionsuntil we had returned to our hotel and had breakfast.

  "My dear Wigan," he said, when at last he condescended to talk, "itwas Zena who first set me on the right road, when she remarked that aman who had walked in a ditch carrying a bag would arrest attention.Two points were suggested--first, that the man might not have far togo to reach a place of safety; secondly, that he had come prepared totake a head away with him. A mere speculation, you may say, but it setme putting questions to myself. Why should a head be required? Whatkind of man would be likely to want a head? A theory took shape in mybrain, and I hunted up the history of the well-to-do people who livedin the neighborhood of Withan. My theory required a man who hadtraveled, who was elderly, who could be connected with the case inFrance two years ago. I found such a man in Sir Henry Buckingham. Itold you I was not certain of my theory. I was doubtful about it afterI had watched Sir Henry for a whole morning on the bench. I sought forsome peculiarity in his manner, and found none. Yet his historycoincided with my theory. You know nothing about him, I suppose?"

  "Nothing."

  "Rather an interesting career, but with an hereditary taint in it,"Quarles went on. "His mother was eccentric. Her husband was richenough to have her looked after at home; had she been a poorer personshe would have died in a madhouse. Religious mania hers was, and herson has inherited it in a curious fashion. In the year interveningbetween the Normandy crime and this one Sir Henry was in Rome, wherehe was very ill, delirious, and not expected to live, so there was nosimilar crime that year. But he was in Normandy at the time of themurder there, motoring, and usually alone."

  "How have you learnt all this?"

  "He is important enough to have some of his doings chronicled, and hewrote some interesting articles for a country gentlemen's newspaperabout his Normandy tour--nature studies, and such like. Another point,both these murders happened at the time of the full moon. I am notabsolutely sure, but I think you will find that for the lasthalf-dozen years Sir Henry has not been in England in January."

  "You think----"

  "I think there would have been other heads missing if he had been,"Quarles answered. "He was sane enough to be somewhere where he was notknown when this time of the year came round. At the full moon he isalways queer--witness last night; but he is only dangerous inJanuary--dangerous, I mean, without provocation. To preserve hissecret, I have little doubt he would go to any length; that is why Iwarned you to be ready to shoot when we went upon our journey ofdiscovery. Now this year he was in England; illness had kept him tohis house yonder, but he was well enough to get out at the fatal time,and the insane desire proved irresistible. He was cunning too. He mustknow everybody in the neighborhood, yet the man he killed was unknown.We shall find presently, I have no doubt, that the victim was somewanderer returning unexpectedly to friends in Withan. That wouldaccount for the foreign cut of his clothes. Sir Henry, waiting in thewood, perhaps for hours, may have allowed others to pass before thisman came. He realized that he was a stranger, and attacked him."

  "But the head?"

  "Was among those hanging over the fire. Sir Henry was for many yearsin Borneo, Wigan, and for a large part of the time was up-countryhelping to put down the head-hunting which still existed there, andstill does exist, according to all accounts, when the natives thinkthey can escape detection. The horrible custom proved too much for hisdiseased brain, and fascinated him. You see how my theory grew. Then Ilooked for the actual proof, which we found last night. The long shedin that pit is built exactly as the Dyaks of Borneo build theirs--awhole village living on communal terms under one roof. The stone slabfor the fire is the same, and over it the Dyaks hang the treasuredheads, just as we saw them last night. Now you had better go and seethe police, Wigan. Don't drag me into it. I am going back to London bythe midday train."

  * * * * *

  The arrest of Sir Henry Buckingham caused an enormous sensation.

  He was subsequently put into a lunatic asylum, where he died not manymonths afterward. Fortunately he had no children to run the risk ofmadness in their turn, and neither his wife nor any of the servantsknew anything of the concealed pit where he went to revel in hisinsane delight.

  Hidden under the long shed the heads were found--six of them, five sohideously shriveled that identification was altogether impossible.

  The sixth was less shriveled, was the only English one, and, perhaps,had we shown it in Withan, some old person might have recognized alost son believed to be still wandering the world.

  It was thought better not to do so, and the identity of Sir Henry'slast victim remains a mystery.