The Vanishing Man

by R. Austin Freeman

  CHAPTER XV

  CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

  The morning after the hearing saw me setting forth on my round in morethan usually good spirits. The round itself was but a short one, for mylist contained only a couple of "chronics," and this, perhaps,contributed to my cheerful outlook on life. But there were otherreasons. The decision of the Court had come as an unexpected reprieveand the ruin of my friends' prospects was at least postponed. Then, Ihad learned that Thorndyke was back from Bristol and wished me to lookin on him; and, finally, Miss Bellingham had agreed to spend this veryafternoon with me, browsing round the galleries at the British Museum.

  I had disposed of my two patients by a quarter to eleven, and threeminutes later was striding down Mitre Court, all agog to hear whatThorndyke 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 onthe little brass knocker of the inner door was answered by my quondamteacher himself.

  "How good of you, Berkeley," he said, shaking hands genially, "to lookme up so early. I am all alone, just looking through the report of theevidence in yesterday's proceedings."

  He placed an easy chair for me, and, gathering up a bundle oftype-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. Therespite gives us time to carry out our investigations without unduehurry."

  "Did you find my notes of any use?" I asked.

  "Heath did. Polton handed them to him, and they were invaluable to himfor his cross-examination. I haven't seen them yet; in fact, I have onlyjust 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, andbegan to read through my notes with grave attention, while I stood andlooked shyly over his shoulder. On the page that contained my sketchesof the Sidcup arm, showing the distribution of the snails' eggs on thebones, 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 somethingin my note-book."

  "You didn't attach any importance, then, to the facts that theyillustrated?"

  "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 wouldhave the sense to make a careful note of what he considers anunimportant or irrelevant fact; and the investigator who notes onlythose things that appear significant is perfectly useless. He giveshimself no material for reconsideration. But you don't mean that theseegg-patches and worm-tubes appeared to you to have no significance atall?"

  "Oh, of course, they show the position in which the bones were lying."

  "Exactly. The arm was lying, fully extended, with the dorsal sideuppermost. There is nothing remarkable in that. But we also learn fromthese egg-patches that the hand had been separated from the arm beforeit was thrown into the pond; and there is something very remarkable inthat."

  I leaned over his shoulder and gazed at my sketches, amazed at therapidity with which he had reconstructed the limb from my rough drawingsof 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 surfaceof the scapula, the humerus, and the bones of the fore-arm. But here youhave 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, forthe position of the egg-patches shows clearly that the bones of the armwere lying in the position of supination. Thus the dorsal surface of thearm and the palmar surface of the hand respectively were uppermost,which is an anatomical impossibility so long as the hand is attached tothe arm."

  "But might not the hand have become detached after lying in the pondsome 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, thebones would have been thrown into disorder. But the egg-patches are allon the palmar surface, showing that the bones were still in their normalrelative positions. No, Berkeley, that hand was thrown into the pondseparately 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 brilliantsuccess. You are an excellent observer. Your only fault is that when youhave noted certain facts you don't seem fully to appreciate theirsignificance--which is merely a matter of inexperience. As to the factsthat 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 havediscovered much excepting those snails' eggs; and they don't seem tohave advanced matters very much."

  "A definite fact, Berkeley, is a definite asset. Perhaps we maypresently find a little space in our Chinese puzzle which this fact ofthe detached hand will just drop into. But, tell me, did you findnothing unexpected or suggestive about those bones--as to their numberand condition, for instance?"

  "Well, I thought it a little queer that the scapula and clavicle shouldbe there. I should have expected him to cut the arm off at theshoulder-joint."

  "Yes," said Thorndyke; "so should I; and so it has been done in everycase 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 iswhere he would naturally sever it. What explanation do you suggest ofthis 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 muttonis taken off."

  "No," replied Thorndyke. "A butcher includes the scapula in a shoulderof mutton for a specific purpose, namely, to take off a given quantityof meat. And also, as a sheep has no clavicle, it is the easiest way todetach the limb. But I imagine a butcher would find himself indifficulties if he attempted to take off a man's arm in that way. Theclavicle would be a new and perplexing feature. Then, too, a butcherdoes not deal very delicately with his subject; if he has to divide ajoint, he just cuts through it and does not trouble himself to avoidmarking the bones. But you note here that there is not a single scratchor 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 willremember the extreme care that is necessary in disarticulating joints toavoid disfiguring the articular ends of the bones with cuts andscratches."

  "Then you think that the person who dismembered this body must have hadsome 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 youunderstand that I can't make statements. Still, I am trying to lead youto 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. "Whenyou have fitted a puzzle together you don't need to be told that youhave done it."

  It was most infernally tantalising. I pondered on the problem with ascowl of such intense cogitation that Thorndyke laughed outright.

  "It seems to me," I said, at length, "that the identity of the remainsis the primary question and that is a question of fact. It doesn't seemany use to speculate about it."

  "Exactly. Either these bones are the remains of John Bellingham or theyare not. There will be no doubt on the subject when all the bones areassembled--if ever they are. And the settlement of that question willprobably throw light on the further question: Who deposited the
m in theplaces in which they were found? But to return to your observations: didyou gather nothing from the other bones? From the complete state of theneck vertebrae, for instance?"

  "Well, it did strike me as rather odd that the fellow should have goneto the trouble of separating the atlas from the skull. He must have beenpretty handy with the scalpel to have done it as cleanly as he seems tohave done; but I don't see why he should have gone about the business inthe most inconvenient way."

  "You notice the uniformity of method. He has separated the head from thespine, instead of cutting through the spine lower down, as most personswould have done: he removed the arms with the entire shoulder-girdle,instead of simply cutting them off at the shoulder-joints. Even in thethighs the same peculiarity appears; for in neither case was theknee-cap found with the thigh-bone, although it seems to have beensearched for. Now the obvious way to divide the leg is to cut throughthe patellar ligament, leaving the knee-cap attached to the thigh. Butin this case, the knee-cap appears to have been left attached to theshank. Can you explain why this person should have adopted this unusualand rather inconvenient method? Can you suggest a motive for thisprocedure, or can you think of any circumstances which might lead aperson to adopt this method by preference?"

  "It seems as if he wished, for some reason, to divide the body intodefinite anatomical regions."

  Thorndyke chuckled. "You are not offering that suggestion as anexplanation, are you? Because it would require more explaining than theoriginal problem. And it is not even true. Anatomically speaking, theknee-cap appertains to the thigh rather than to the shank. It is asesamoid bone belonging to the thigh muscles; yet in this case it hasbeen left attached, apparently, to the shank. No, Berkeley, that catwon't jump. Our unknown operator was not preparing a skeleton as amuseum specimen; he was dividing a body up into convenient-sizedportions for the purpose of conveying them to various ponds. Now whatcircumstances 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 ispossible to conceive such circumstances, and so, probably, will you ifyou think it over."

  "Did you gather anything of importance from the evidence at theinquest?" I asked.

  "It is difficult to say," he replied. "The whole of my conclusions inthis case are based on what is virtually circumstantial evidence. I havenot one single fact of which I can say that it admits only of a singleinterpretation. Still, it must be remembered that even the mostinconclusive facts, if sufficiently multiplied, yield a highlyconclusive total. And my little pile of evidence is growing, particle byparticle; but we mustn't sit here gossiping at this hour of the day; Ihave to consult with Marchmont and you say that you have an earlyafternoon engagement. We can walk together as far as Fleet Street."

  A minute or two later we went our respective ways, Thorndyke towardsLombard Street and I to Fetter Lane, not unmindful of those comingevents that were casting so agreeable a shadow before them.

  There was only one message awaiting me, and when Adolphus had deliveredit (amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement, premonitory offried plaice), I pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to GunpowderAlley, the aristocratic abode of my patient, joyfully threading the nowfamiliar passages of Gough Square and Wine Office Court, and meditatingpleasantly on the curious literary flavour that pervades theselittle-known regions. For the shade of the author of _Rasselas_ stillseems to haunt the scenes of his Titanic labours and his ponderous buthomely and temperate rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of booksand of the making of books; forms of type, trundled noisily on trolliesby ink-smeared boys, salute the wayfarer at odd corners; piles ofstrawboard, rolls or bales of paper, drums of printing-ink orroller-composition stand on the pavement outside dark entries; basementwindows give glimpses into Hadean caverns tenanted by legions ofprinter's devils; and the very air is charged with the hum of press andwith odours of glue and paste and oil. The entire neighbourhood is givenup to the printer and binder; and even my patient turned out to be aguillotine-knife grinder--a ferocious and revolutionary callingstrangely at variance with his harmless appearance and meek bearing.

  I was in good time at my tryst, despite the hindrances of fried plaiceand invalid guillotinists; but, early as I was, Miss Bellingham wasalready waiting in the garden--she had been filling a bowl withflowers--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 Amarnatablets and all your kindness and unselfish labour. I suppose we shallwalk there to-day?"

  "Certainly," I replied; "I am not going to share your society with thecommon 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 appreciativeof the quiet of the Museum. What are we going to look at when we getthere?"

  "You must decide that," I replied. "You know the collection much betterthan I do."

  "Well, now," she mused, "I wonder what you would like to see; or, inother words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery israther fascinating, especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shalltake you to see that."

  She reflected awhile, and then, just as we reached the gate of StapleInn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully down the Gray's Inn Road.

  "You have taken a great interest in our 'case,' as Doctor Thorndykecalls it. Would you like to see the churchyard where Uncle John wishedto 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 waswelcome, and, as to the place--why, all places were alike to me if onlyshe were by my side. Besides, the churchyard was really of someinterest, since it was undoubtedly the "exciting cause" of the obnoxiousparagraph two of the disputed will. I accordingly expressed a desire tomake its acquaintance, and we crossed to the entrance to Gray's InnRoad.

  "Do you ever try," she asked, as we turned down the dingy thoroughfare,"to picture to yourself familiar places as they looked a couple ofhundred years ago?"

  "Yes," I answered, "and very difficult I find it. One has to manufacturethe materials for reconstruction, and then the present aspect of theplace will keep obtruding itself. But some places are easier toreconstitute than others."

  "That is what I find," said she. "Now Holborn, for example, is quiteeasy to reconstruct, though I daresay the imaginary form isn't a bitlike the original. But there are fragments left, like Staple Inn and thefront of Gray's Inn; and then one has seen prints of the old Middle Rowand some of the taverns, so that one has some material with which tohelp out one's imagination. But this road that we are walking in alwaysbaffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the most part, so new that Ifind 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 mixedcharacter of the neighbourhood. Here, on the one side, is old Gray'sInn, not much changed since Bacon's time--his chambers are still to beseen, I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell side, isa dense and rather squalid neighbourhood which has grown up over aregion partly rural and wholly fugitive in character. Places likeBagnigge Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had many buildingsthat were likely to survive; and in the absence of surviving specimensthe imagination hasn't much to work from."

  "I daresay you are right," said she. "Certainly, the purlieus of oldClerkenwell present a very confused picture to me; whereas, in the caseof an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweepaway the modern buildings and replace them with glorious old houses likethe few that remain, dig up the roadway and pavements and lay downcobble-stones, plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil-lamps,and the transformation is complete. And a ve
ry delightful transformationit is."

  "Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy thought. For weought to be doing better work than our forefathers; whereas what weactually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways,porticoes, panelling, and mantels in our museums, and then run upsomething inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in theirplace."

  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 onyou, but without in the least impairing your good spirits excepting inregard to matters architectural."

  "I have much to be thankful for," said I. "Am I not taken to the Museumby a fair lady? And does she not stay me with mummy cases and comfort mewith crockery?"

  "Pottery," she corrected; and then, as we met a party of grave-lookingwomen emerging from a side-street, she said: "I suppose those are ladymedical students."

  "Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital. Note the gravity of theirdemeanour and contrast it with the levity of the male student."

  "I was doing so," she answered, "and wondering why professional womenare usually so much more serious than men."

  "Perhaps," I suggested, "it is a matter of selection. A peculiar type ofwoman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has to earn hisliving 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 gategiving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial-groundsthat are to be met with in the older districts of London; in which thedispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room for the living.Many of the headstones were still standing, and others, displaced tomake room for asphalted walks and seats, were ranged around by thewalls, exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their removal. It wasa pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon, contrasted with thedingy street whence we had come, though its grass was faded and yellowand the twitter of the birds in the trees mingled with the hideousBoard-school drawl of the children who played around the seats and thefew remaining tombs.

  "So this is the last resting-place of the illustrious house ofBellingham," said I.

  "Yes; and we are not the only distinguished people who repose in thisplace. The daughter of no less a person than Richard Cromwell is buriedhere; 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 somethingabout the place that seems familiar." I looked around, cudgelling mybrains for the key to the dimly reminiscent sensations that the placeevoked; until, suddenly, I caught sight of a group of buildings away tothe west, enclosed within a wall heightened by a wooden trellis.

  "Yes, of course!" I exclaimed. "I remember the place now. I have neverbeen in this part before, but in that enclosure beyond which opens atthe end of Henrietta Street, there used to be and may be still, for allI know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended in my first year; infact, I did my first dissection there."

  "There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in the position of theschool," remarked Miss Bellingham. "It would have been really convenientin the days of the resurrection men. Your material would have beendelivered at your very door. Was it a large school?"

  "The attendance varied according to the time of the year. Sometimes Iworked there quite alone. I used to let myself in with a key and hoistmy 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 tolook, to my unaccustomed eyes, as it rose slowly out of the tank. It waslike the resurrection scenes that you see on some old tombstones, wherethe deceased is shown rising out of his coffin while the skeleton,Death, falls vanquished with his dart shattered and his crown topplingoff.

  "I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to wear a blue apron, whichcreated a sort of impression of a cannibal butcher's shop. But I amafraid I am shocking you."

  "No, you are not. Every profession has its unpresentable aspects, whichought not to be seen by out-siders. Think of a sculptor's studio and ofthe sculptor himself when he is modelling a large figure or group in theclay. He might be a bricklayer or a road-sweeper if you judge by hisappearance. 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 theinscription, setting forth with modest pride, that here reposed Anna,sixth daughter of Richard Cromwell, "The Protector." It was a simplemonument and commonplace enough, with the crude severity of the asceticage to which it belonged. But still, it carried the mind back to thosestirring times when the leafy shades of Gray's Inn Lane must haveresounded with the clank of weapons and the tramp of armed men; whenthis bald recreation-ground was a rustic churchyard, standing amidstgreen fields and hedgerows, and countrymen leading their pack-horsesinto London through the Lane would stop to look in over the wooden gate.

  Miss Bellingham looked at me critically as I stood thus reflecting, andpresently remarked, "I think you and I have a good many mental habits incommon."

  I looked up inquiringly, and she continued: "I notice that an oldtombstone seems to set you meditating. So it does me. When I look at anancient monument, and especially an old headstone, I find myself almostunconsciously retracing the years to the date that is written on thestone. Why do you think that is? Why should a monument be so stimulatingto the imagination? And why should a common headstone be more so thanany other?"

  "I suppose it is," I answered reflectively, "that a churchyard monumentis a peculiarly personal thing and appertains in a peculiar way to aparticular time. And the circumstance that it has stood untouched by thepassing years while everything around has changed, helps the imaginationto span the interval. And the common headstone, the memorial of somedead and gone farmer or labourer who lived and died in the village hardby, is still more intimate and suggestive. The rustic, childishsculpture of the village mason and the artless doggerel of the villageschoolmaster, bring back the time and place and the conditions of lifemuch more vividly than the more scholarly inscriptions and the moreartistic enrichments of monuments of greater pretensions. But where areyour own family tombstones?"

  "They are over in that farther corner. There is an intelligent, butinopportune, person apparently copying the epitaphs. I wish he would goaway. I want to show them to you."

  I now noticed, for the first time, an individual engaged, note-book inhand, in making a careful survey of a group of old headstones. Evidentlyhe was making a copy of the inscriptions, for not only was he poringattentively over the writing on the face of the stone, but now and againhe helped out his vision by running his fingers over the worn lettering.

  "That is my grandfather's tombstone that he is copying now," said MissBellingham; and even as she spoke, the man turned and directed asearching glance at us with a pair of keen, spectacled eyes.

  Simultaneously we uttered an exclamation of surprise; for theinvestigator was Mr. Jellicoe.