Hewitt shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can’t say I do. All the considerations you have mentioned have already occurred to me. I talked them over, in fact, with my friend Brett. My connection with the case ceased, of course, with the discovery of the jewels, and about the murder I know no more than has been told me. I never saw the body, and so had no opportunity of picking up any overlooked clue; though doubtless you have seen to that. I know not a tittle more than you have just summarised, and on that alone the thing seems mystery pure and unadulterated.”
“All there is beyond that was ascertained by the divisional surgeon on examination of the body. The man died from strangulation, as you know, and the natural presumption from that was that the murderer must have been a powerful man. But the surgeon is of the positive opinion — he is certain, in fact — that Denson was strangled with an instrument — a tourniquet.”
“A tourniquet?”
“Yes, a surgeon’s tourniquet, such as is used to compress a leg or arm and so stop a flow of blood. He considers the marks unmistakable. Now that might point to the murderer being a medical man.”
“Conjecturally, yes; though, of course, it justifies nothing more than conjecture.”
“Precisely. Well, that was something, but precious little. A tourniquet is a common thing enough — no more than a band with screw fittings, and there was nothing to show that the tourniquet used was any different from a thousand others; and I can see no particular reason why a doctor should commit a murder like this any more than any other man; in which the divisional surgeon agreed with me. And doctor or none, that Red Triangle was altogether unaccounted for. About that, too, by the way, the divisional surgeon told me a little, but a very useless little. The mark was not properly dried, owing to its slightly greasy nature, and although it was almost impossible to remove it wholly, it was possible to scrape off a little of the ink, or colour. Here is a little of it on a paper — quite dried now, of course.”
Plummer carefully took from his pocket a small folded paper, unfolded it, and revealed a smaller paper within. On this were two little smears of a bright red colour. “There — that’s the stuff,” he said. “The surgeon examined it, and he reports it to be rather oddly constituted — so as to bear some affinity of meaning, possibly, to the triangle. For the stuff is a compound of three substances — animal, vegetable and mineral; there is a fine vegetable oil, he says, some waxy preparation, certainly of animal origin, and a mineral — cinnabar: vermilion, in fact. But though there may be some connection between the triangle and the substances representing the three natural kingdoms, it gives nothing practical — nothing to go on.”
Martin Hewitt had been closely examining the marks on the paper, and now he answered, “I’m not so sure of that, though, Plummer. I think at least that it gives us another conjecture. I should guess that the man you want, as well as being acquainted with the use of the tourniquet, has at some time travelled in, or to, China.”
“Why?”
“Unless I am wider of the mark than usual, this is the pigment used on Chinese seals. A Chinaman’s seal acts for his signature on all sorts of documents; it is impressed or printed by hand pressure from a little engraved stone die, precisely as this triangle seems to have been, and the ink or colour is almost always red, compounded of vermilion, wax, and oil of sesamum.”
Plummer sat up with a whistle. “Phew! Then it may have been done by a Chinaman!”
Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible,” he said; “of course, though, the sign, the triangle, is not a Chinese character. As a character, of course it is the Greek Delta. But it may be no character at all. In the signs of the ancient Cabala, the triangle, apex upward as it was in this case, was the symbol of fire; apex downward, it signified water.”
Plummer patted the side of his head distractedly. “Heavens!” he said, “don’t tell me I’m to search all China, and Greece, and — wherever the cabalistic pundits come from!”
“Well, no,” Hewitt answered with a smile. “I think I should, at any rate, begin in this country. I rather think you might make a beginning at Denson. That is what I should do if the case were mine. See if anything can be ascertained of his previous life — probably under another name or names. He may have been in China. Yes, certainly, as we stand at present, I should begin at Denson.”
“I think I will,” the inspector replied, “though there’s precious little to begin on there. I’d like to have you with me on this job, but, of course, that’s impossible, since it’s purely a police matter. But something, some information, may come your way, and in that case you’ll let me know at once, of course.”
“Of course I shall — it’s a serious matter, as well as a strange one. I wish you all luck!”
Plummer departed to grapple with his difficulties, but in fact it was Hewitt who first heard fresh news of the Red Triangle, and that from a wholly unexpected quarter.
It was, indeed, only two days after Plummer’s visit that Kerrett brought into Hewitt’s private room the card of the Rev. James Potswood, with a request for a consultation. Mr. Potswood’s name was known to Hewitt, as, indeed, it was to many people, as that of a most devoted clergyman, rector of a large parish in north-west London, who devoted not only all his time and personal strength to his work, but also spent every penny of his private income on his parish. It was not a small income that Mr. Potswood spent in this unselfish way, for he came of a wealthy family, and though a good part of his parish was inhabited by well-to-do people, there was quite enough poverty and distress in the poorer quarters to cause this excellent man often to regret that his resources were not even larger. He was a spare active grey-whiskered man of nearly sixty, with prominent and not very handsome features, though his face was full of frank and simple kindliness.
“My errand, Mr. Hewitt,” he said, “is of a rather vague, not to say visionary, character, and I doubt if you can help me. But at any rate I will explain the trouble as well as I can. In the first place, am I right in supposing that you were in some way professionally engaged in connection with that extraordinary case of murder a week or so ago — the case in which a man named Denson was found dead on the steps by the Duke of York’s column?”
“Yes — and no,” Hewitt answered. “I was professionally engaged on a certain matter about which you will not wish me to particularise — since it is the business of a client — and in course of it I came upon the other affair.”
“Then before I ask what you know of that mysterious event, Mr. Hewitt, I will tell you my story, so that you may judge whether you are able to reveal anything, or to do anything. Of course, what I say is in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
“I have a parishioner, a Mr. Jacob Mason, of whom I have seen very little of late years — scarcely anything at all, in fact, till a few days ago. He is fairly well to do, I believe, living a somewhat retired life in a house not far from my rectory. For many years he has laboured at natural science — chemistry in particular — and he has a very excellently fitted laboratory attached to his house. He is a widower, with no children of his own, but his orphan niece, a Miss Creswick, lives under his guardianship. Mr. Mason was never a very regular church-goer, but years ago I saw much more of him than I have of late. I must be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Hewitt, if you are to help me, and therefore I must tell you that we disagreed on points of religion, in such a way that I found it difficult to maintain my former regard for Mr. Mason. He had a curiously fantastic mind, and he was constantly being led to tamper with things that I think are best left alone — what is called spiritualism, for instance, and that horrible form of modern superstition which we hear whispers of at times from the Continent — the alleged devil-propitiation or worship. It was not that he did anything I thought morally wrong, you understand — except that he dabbled. And he was always running after some new thing — animal magnetism, or telepathy, or crystal-gazing, or theosophy, or some one of the score of such things that have an attractio
n for a mind of that sort. And it was a characteristic of each new enthusiasm with him that it prompted him to try to convert me; and that in such terms — terms often applied to the doctrines of that religion of which I am a humble minister — as I could in nowise permit in my presence. So that our friendly intercourse, though not interrupted by any definite breaking off, fell away to almost nothing. For which reason I was a little surprised to receive a visit from Mr. Mason on the afternoon of the day on which the newspapers printed the report of the finding of the body of Denson. You may remember that only one morning paper mentioned the matter, and that very briefly; but there were full reports in all the evening papers.”
“Yes, the discovery was made very late the previous night.”
“So I gathered. Well, I was told that Mr. Mason had been shown into my study, and there I found him. He was in an extremely nervous and agitated state, and he had an evening paper in his hand. With scarcely a preliminary word he burst out, ‘Have you seen this in the paper? This — this murder? There — there’s the report.’ And he thrust the paper into my hands.
“I had not seen or heard anything of the matter, in fact, till that moment, and now he gave me little leisure to read the report. He walked up and down the room, nervously clasping his hands, sometimes together, sometimes at his sides, sometimes before him, shaking his head in a shuddering sort of way, and bursting out once or twice as though the words were uncontrollable, ‘What ought I to do? What can I do?’
“I looked up from the paper, and he went on, ‘Have you read it? It’s a murder — a horrid murder. The poor wretched fellow was trying to escape, but he couldn’t. It’s a murder!’
“‘It certainly seems so,’ I said. ‘But what — did you know this man, Denson?’
“‘No, of course not,’ Mason replied, ‘but there it is, plain enough, and here’s another paper with just the same report, but a little shorter.’ He pulled the second paper from his pocket. ‘I got what different papers I could, but these are the two fullest. It’s plain enough it’s a brutal murder, isn’t it? And the man was a merchant, or an agent, or something, in Portsmouth Street, but he was found in labourer’s clothes — proof that he feared it and was trying to escape it; but he couldn’t — he couldn’t — no! nor anybody. It’s awful, awful!’
“‘But I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ For Mason continued to pace distractedly about the room. ‘What is it you think this unfortunate man was trying to escape? And what am I to do in the matter?’
“He stopped, pressed both hands to his head, and seemed to control himself by a great effort. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit run down lately, and my nerves are all wrong. I’m talking rather wildly, I’m afraid. I really hardly know why I came to you, except that I haven’t a soul I can talk to about — well, about anything, scarcely.’
“He took a chair, and sat for a little while with his head forward on his hand and his eyes directed towards the floor. Then he said, in a musing way, rather as though he was thinking aloud than talking to me, ‘You were right, after all, Potswood, and I was a fool to disregard your warnings. I oughtn’t to have dabbled — I should have left those things alone.’
“I said nothing, thinking it best not to disturb him, but to leave him free to say what he wanted to say in his own way. He remained quiet for a minute or two more, and then sat up with an appearance of much greater composure. ‘You mustn’t mind me, Potswood,’ he said. ‘As I’ve told you, I’m in a bad state of nerves, and at best I’m an impulsive sort of person, as you know. I needn’t have bothered you like this — I came rushing round here without thinking, and if the house had been a bit farther off I should have come to my senses before I reached you. After all, there’s nothing so much to disturb one’s-self about, and this man — this Denson — may very well have deserved his fate. Don’t you think that likely?’
“He added this last question with an involuntary eagerness that scarcely accorded with the indifferent tone with which he had begun. I answered guardedly. I said of course nobody could say what the unhappy man’s sins might have been, but that whatever they were they could never justify the fearful sin of murder. ‘And,’ I added, ‘if you know anything of the matter, Mason, or have the smallest suspicion as to who is the guilty person, I’m sure you won’t hesitate in your duty.’
“‘My duty?’ he said. ‘Oh yes, of course; my duty. You mean, of course, that any law-abiding citizen who knows of evidence should bring it out. Just so. Of course I haven’t any evidence — that paper gave me the first news of the thing.’
“‘I think,’ I rejoined, ‘that anybody who was possessed of even less than evidence — of any suspicion which might lead to evidence — should go at once and place the authorities in possession of all he knows or suspects.’
“‘Yes,’ he said — very calmly now, though it seemed at cost of a great effort— ‘so he should; so he should, no doubt, in any ordinary case. But sometimes there are difficulties, you know — great difficulties.’ He stopped and looked at me furtively and uneasily. ‘A man might fear for his own safety — he might even know that to say what he knew would be to condemn himself to sudden death; and more, perhaps, more. Suppose — it might be, you know — suppose, for instance, a man was placed between the alternatives of neglecting this duty and of breaking a — well an oath, a binding oath of a very serious — terrible — character? An oath, we will say, made previously, without any foreknowledge of the crime?’
“I said that any such oath taken without foreknowledge of the crime could not have contemplated such an event, and that however wrong the taking of such an oath might have been in itself, to assist in concealing such a crime as this murder was infinitely worse — infinitely worse than taking the oath, and infinitely worse than breaking it. Though as to the latter, I repeated that any such engagement made without contemplation or foreknowledge of such a crime would seem to be void in that respect. I went further — much further. I conjured him to make no secret of anything he might know, and not to burden his conscience with complicity — for that was what concealment would amount to — in such a terrible crime. I added some further exhortations which I need not repeat now, and presently his assumed calmness departed utterly, and he became even more agitated than when first he came. He would say nothing further, however, and in the end he went away, saying he would ‘think over the matter very seriously.’
“It was quite plain to me that my poor friend was suffering acutely from the burden of some terrible secret, and that in his impulsive way he had rushed to confide in me at the first shock of the news of this murder, and that afterwards his courage had failed him. But I conceived it my duty not to allow such a matter to stand thus. Therefore, giving Mason a few hours for calm consideration, I called on him in the evening. I was told that he was not very well and had gone to bed; he had, however, left a message, in case I should call, to the effect that he would come and see me in the morning. I waited the whole of that next morning and the whole of the afternoon, and saw nothing of him. In the evening urgent parish work took me away, but next morning I called again at Mason’s house and saw him. This time he avoided the subject — tried to dodge it, in fact. But I was not to be denied, and the result was another scene of alternate agitation and forced calmness. I will not weary you, Mr. Hewitt, with useless repetition, but I may say that I have seen Mason twice since then without bringing him to any definite resolve. As a matter of fact, I believe that he is restrained from saying anything further by fear — sheer terror. He has even gone so far as to deny absolutely that he knows anything of the matter — and then has contradicted himself a minute afterwards. At last, this morning, I have brought him a degree further. In the last few days I made it my business to acquaint myself, as far as possible, with the exact circumstances of the tragedy, so far as they are known, and in course of my inquiries I saw the housekeeper of the offices next door — the man who identified the body as Denson’s. He either could not, or would no
t, tell me very much, but he did say that you had been working in some way in connection with the case, and that you knew as much of it as anybody. That gave me an idea. This morning I told Mason that not only he, but I also had a duty in respect to this matter, and my duty was to see that nothing in connection with such a crime as this should be hushed up on any consideration or for anybody’s fancies. I said that if he liked he need tell me no more, but might take you into consultation professionally, as your client, allowing me first to see you and to assure you that, consistently with his own safety, he was anxious to further the ends of justice. I said that, as your client, your first duty would be to protect him, that your professional practice would keep your mouth absolutely sealed, and that you already knew a good deal about the crime — perhaps more than he suspected. I protested that this seemed to me the very least he could do, and I warned him that if he refused to do even this, I should have to consider whether it was consistent with my character, as a clergyman and a loyal citizen, any longer to conceal the fact that he was keeping back information that might lead to the apprehension of the murderer. This frightened him, and between the fear of the threat and the fear that you might already know more than he suspected, he authorised me — he was even eager about it — to come and see you; always, of course, under a pledge of strict professional secrecy.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 58