by Unknown
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “it comes to this: since you used that revolver it has been used by someone else. That someone fired only a single shot, after which he carefully cleaned the barrel and reloaded. Incidentally, he seems to have known where the cartridge bag was kept, but did not know about the change in the make of the cartridges. You notice,” he added, looking at Rodney, “that the circumstantial evidence accumulates.”
“I do, indeed,” Rodney replied gloomily. “Is there anything else that you wish to examine?”
“Yes. There is the sail. You spoke of a stain on the jib. Shall we see if we can make anything of that?”
“I don’t think you will make much of it,” said Philip. “It is very faint. However, you shall see it.” He picked out one of the bundles of white duck, and, while he was unfolding it, Thorndyke dragged an empty bench into the middle of the floor under the skylight. Over this the sail was spread so that the mysterious mark was in the middle of the bench. It was very inconspicuous; just a faint, grey-green, wavy line like the representation of an island on a map. We all looked at it attentively for a few moments, and then Thorndyke said, “Would you mind if I made a further stain on the sail? I should like to apply some re-agents.”
“Of course, you must do what is necessary,” said Rodney. “The evidence is more important than the sail.”
Accordingly Thorndyke unpacked our parcel, and as the two bottles emerged, Philip read the labels with evident surprise, remarking:
“I shouldn’t have thought the Guiacum test would have been of any use after all these months.”
“It will act, I think, if the pigment is there,” said Thorndyke; and as he spoke he poured a quantity of the tincture—which he had ordered diluted to our usual working strength—on the middle of the stained area. The pool of liquid rapidly spread considerably beyond the limits of the stain, growing paler as it extended. Then Thorndyke cautiously dropped small quantities of the Ether at various points around the stained area and watched closely as the two liquids mingled in the fabric of the sail. Gradually the Ether spread towards the stain, and, first at one point and then at another, approached and finally crossed the wavy grey line, and at each point the same change occurred; first, the faint grey line turned into a strong blue line, and then the colour extended to the enclosed space, until the entire area of the stain stood out, a conspicuous blue patch.
Philip and Thorndyke looked at one another significantly, and the latter said, “You understand the meaning of this reaction, Mr. Rodney; this is a bloodstain, and a very carefully washed bloodstain.”
“So I supposed,” Rodney replied, and for a while we were all silent.
There was something very dramatic and solemn in the sudden appearance of this staring blue patch on the sail, with the sinister message that it brought. But what followed was more dramatic still. As we stood silently regarding the blue stain, the mingled liquids continued to spread: and suddenly, at the extreme edge of the wet area, we became aware of a new spot of blue. At first a mere speck, it grew slowly as the liquid spread over the canvas into a small oval, and then a second spot appeared by its side.
At this point Thorndyke poured out a fresh charge of the tincture, and when it had soaked into the cloth, cautiously applied a sprinkling of Ether. Instantly the blue spots began to elongate, fresh spots and patches appeared, and as they ran together there sprang out of the blank surface the clear impression of a hand—a left hand, complete in all its details excepting the third finger, which was represented by an oval spot at some two-thirds of its length.
The dreaded significance of this apparition and the uncanny and mysterious manner of its emergence from the white surface impressed us so that for a while none of us spoke. At length I ventured to remark on the absence of the impression of the third finger.
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that the impression is there. That spot looks like the mark of a finger-tip, and its position rather suggests a finger with a stiff joint.”
As he made this statement, both brothers simultaneously uttered a smothered exclamation.
Thorndyke looked up at them sharply. “What is it?” he asked.
The two men looked at one another with an expression of awe. Then Rodney said in a hushed voice, hardly above a whisper, “Varney, the man who was with Purcell on the yacht—he has a stiff joint on the third finger of his left hand.”
There was nothing more to say. The case was complete. The keystone had been laid in the edifice of circumstantial evidence. The investigation was at an end.
After an interval of silence, during which Thorndyke was busily writing up his notes, Rodney asked, “What is to be done now? Shall I swear an information?”
Thorndyke shook his head. No man was more expert in accumulating circumstantial evidence; none was more loth to rely on it.
“A murder charge,” said he, “should be supported by proof of death and, if possible, by production of the body.”
“But the body is at the bottom of the sea!”
“True. But we know its whereabouts. It is a small area, with the lighthouse as a landmark. If that area were systematically worked over with a trawl or dredge, or better still, with a creper, there should be a very good chance of recovering the body, or, at least, the clothing and the weight.”
Rodney reflected for a few moments. “I think you are right,” he said at length. “The thing is practicable, and it is our duty to do it. I suppose you couldn’t come down and help us?”
“Not now. But in a few days the spring vacation will commence, and then Jervis and I could join you, if the weather were suitable.” “Thank you both,” replied Rodney. “We will make the arrangements, and let you know when we are ready.”
It was quite early on a bright April morning when the two Rodneys, Thorndyke, and I steamed out of Penzance Harbour in a small open launch. The sea was very calm for the time of year, the sky was of a warm blue, and a gentle breeze stole out of the north-east. Over the launch’s side hung a long spar, secured to a tow-rope by a bridle, and to the spar were attached a number of creepers—lengths of chain fitted with rows of hooks. The outfit further included a spirit compass, provided with sights, a sextant, and a hand-lead.
“It’s lucky we didn’t run up against Varney in the town,” Philip remarked, as the harbour dwindled in the distance.
“Varney!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Do you mean that he lives at Penzance?”
“He keeps rooms there, and spends most of his spare time down in this part. He was always keen on sea-fishing, and he’s keener than ever now. He keeps a boat of his own, too. It’s queer, isn’t it, if what we think is true?”
“Very,” said Thorndyke; and by his meditative manner I judge that circumstances afforded him matter for curious speculation.
As we passed abreast of the Land’s End, and the solitary lighthouse rose ahead on the verge of the horizon, we began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, home with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black sails set, heading for a more distant fishing-ground. Threading our way among them, we suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was heading so as to close in on us. Rodney, observing this, was putting over the helm to avoid her when a seafaring voice from the little craft hailed us.
“Launch ahoy there! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you.”
We looked at one another significantly and in some confusion; and meanwhile our solitary “hand”—seaman, engineer, and fireman combined—without waiting for orders, shut off steam. The lugger closed in rapidly and of a sudden there appeared, holding on by the mainstay, a small dark fellow who hailed us cheerfully: “Hullo, you fellows! Whither away? What’s your game?”
“God!” exclaimed Philip. “It’s Varney. Sheer off, Jack! Don’t let him come alongside.”
“But it was too late. The launch had lost way and failed to answer the helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast of us within a foot; and, as she crept past, Varney sprang lightly from h
er gunwale and dropped neatly on the side bench in our stern sheets.
“Where are you off to?” he asked. “You can’t be going out to fish in this baked-potato can?”
“No,” faltered Rodney, “we’re not. We’re going to do some dredging—or rather——”
Here Thorndyke came to his assistance. “Marine worms,” said he, “are the occasion of this little voyage. There seem to be some very uncommon ones on the bottom at the base of the Wolf Rock. I have seen some in a collection, and I want to get a few more if I can.”
It was a skillfully-worded explanation, and I could see that, for the time, Varney accepted it. But from the moment when the Wolf Rock was mentioned all his vivacity of manner died out. In an instant he had become grave, thoughtful, and a trifle uneasy.
The introductions over, he reverted to the subject. He questioned us closely, especially as to our proposed methods. And it was impossible to evade his questions. There were the creepers in full view; there was the compass and the sextant; and presently these appliances would have to be put in use. Gradually, as the nature of our operations dawned on him, his manner changed more and more. A horrible pallor overspread his face, and a terrible restlessness took possession of him.
Rodney, who was navigating, brought the launch to within a quarter of a mile of the rock, and then, taking cross-bearings on the lighthouse and a point of land, directed us to lower the creepers.
It was a most disagreeable experience for us all. Varney, pale and clammy, fidgeted about the boat, now silent and moody, now almost hysterically boisterous. Thorndyke watched him furtively and, I think, judged by his manner how near we were to the object of our search.
Calm as the day was, the sea was breaking heavily over the rock, and as we worked in closer the water around boiled and eddied in an unpleasant and even dangerous manner. The three keepers in the gallery of the lighthouse watched us through their glasses, and one of them bellowed to us through a megaphone to keep further away.
“What do you say?” asked Rodney. “It’s a bit risky here, with the rock right under our lee. Shall we try another side?”
“Better try one more cast this side,” said Thorndyke; and he spoke so definitely that we all, including Varney, looked at him curiously. But no one answered, and the creepers were dropped for a fresh cast still nearer the rock. We were then north of the lighthouse, and headed south so as to pass the rock on its east side. As we approached, the man with the megaphone bawled out fresh warnings, and continued to roar at us until we were abreast of the rock in a wild tumble of confused waves.
At this moment Philip, who held the towline with a single turn round a cleat, said that he felt a pull, but that it seemed as if the creepers had broken away. As soon, therefore, as we were out of the backwash into smooth water, we hauled in the linen to examine the creepers.
I looked over the side eagerly, for something new in Thorndyke’s manner impressed me. Varney, too, who had hitherto taken little notice of the creepers, now knelt on the side bench, gazing earnestly into the clear water, when the tow-rope was rising.
At length the beam came in sight, and below it, on one of the creepers, a yellowish object, dimly seen through the wavering water.
“There’s somethin’ on this time,” said the engineer, craning over the side. He shut off steam, and, with the rest of us, watched the incoming creeper. I looked at Varney, kneeling on the bench apart from us, not fidgeting now, but still rigid, pale as wax, and staring with dreadful fascination at the slowly-rising object.
Suddenly the engineer uttered an exclamation. “Why, ‘tis a sou’wester, and all laced about wi’ spuny’n. Surely ’tis—Hi! steady, sir! My God!”
There was a heavy splash, and as Rodney rushed forward for the boat-hook I saw Varney rapidly sinking head first through the clear, blue-green water, dragged down by the hand-lead that he had hitched to his waist. By the time Rodney was back he was far out of reach; but for a long time, as it seemed, we could see him sinking, sinking, growing paler, more shadowy, more shapeless, but always steadily following the lead sinker, until at last he faded from our sight into the darkness of the ocean.
Not until he had vanished did we haul on board the creeper with its dreadful burden. Indeed, we never hauled it on board; for as Philip, with an unsteady hand, unhooked the sou’wester hat from the creeper, the encircling coils of spunyarn slipped, and from inside the hat a skull dropped into the water and sank. We watched it grow green and pallid and small, until it vanished, as Varney had vanished. Then Philip turned and flung the hat down in the bottom of the boat. Thorndyke picked it up and unwound the spunyarn.
“Do you identify it?” he asked, and then, as he turned it over, he added, “But I see it identifies itself.” He held it towards me, and I read in embroidered letters on the silk lining, “Dan Purcell.”
L. T. Meade(1854–1914) and Robert Eustace (1868–1943)
ELIZABETH THOMASINA MEADE SMITH was one of the most successful writers of books for teenaged girls—until recently it was easy to find one of her more than two hundred fifty volumes at almost any used bookstore—as well as the creator of sensational sleuths and criminals. Madam Koluchy of The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings (1899) is one of the first female criminals to appear in a series of short stories, and Madame Sara in The Sorceress of the Strand (1903) is a serial murderer. Meade also created the first collection of medical mysteries published in England, Stories from the Diary of a Doctor (1894); the first collection of seemingly impossible crime detective stories, The Master of Mysteries (1898); and one of the earliest collections of secret-service stories, The Lost Square (1902). She even created a palmist detective in The Oracle of Maddox Street (1904).
It is generally agreed that her collaborators—Clifford Halifax in the earlier stories and Dr. Robert Eustace in the later ones—supplied the scientific, or pseudo-scientific, gimmicks while Meade did the actual writing. In one book Meade thanked Eustace, “to whose genius I owe the extraordinary and original ideas contained therein.” In his only book without a collaborator, however, The Human Bacillus (1907), Eustace said that he was the true author of the stories. Whatever the exact method of collaboration, Eustace specialized in working with other authors, including Gertrude Warden and Dorothy L. Sayers. For many years, scholars debated whether Eustace was the pseudonym of Eustace Rawlins (1854-?) or of Dr. Robert Eustace Barton (1868-1943); the recent publication of The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers, ed. Barbara Reynolds (1996), definitively identified him as Dr. Barton.
“Mr. Bovey’s Unexpected Will” appeared in The Harmsworth Magazine in 1898. It is one of the few Meade stories never to appear in one of her books, and it is the first of a four-story series about Florence Kusack.
Mr. Bovey’s. Unexpected Will
AMONGST ALL MY PATIENTS there were none who excited my sense of curiosity like Miss Florence Cusack. I never thought of her without a sense of baffled inquiry taking possession of me, and I never visited her without the hope that some day I should get to the bottom of the mystery which surrounded her.
Miss Cusack was a young and handsome woman. She possessed to all appearance superabundant health, her energies were extraordinary, and her life completely out of the common. She lived alone in a large house in Kensington Court Gardens, kept a good staff of servants, and went much into society. Her beauty, her sprightliness, her wealth, and, above all, her extraordinary life, caused her to be much talked about. As one glanced at this handsome girl with her slender figure, her eyes of the darkest blue, her raven black hair and clear complexion, it was almost impossible to believe that she was a power in the police courts, and highly respected by every detective in Scotland Yard.
I shall never forget my first visit to Miss Cusack. I had been asked by a brother doctor to see her in his absence. Strong as she was, she was subject to periodical and very acute nervous attacks. When I entered her house she came up to me eagerly.
“Pray do not ask me too many questions or look too curious, Dr. Lonsdale,” she
said; “I know well that my whole condition is abnormal; but, believe me, I am forced to do what I do.”
“What is that?” I inquired.
“You see before you,” she continued, with emphasis, “the most acute and, I believe, successful lady detective in the whole of London.”
“Why do you lead such an extraordinary life?” I asked.
“To me the life is fraught with the very deepest interest,” she answered. “In any case,” and now the colour faded from her cheeks, and her eyes grew full of emotion, “I have no choice; I am under a promise, which I must fulfil. There are times, however, when I need help—such help as you, for instance, can give me. I have never seen you before, but I like your face. If the time should ever come, will you give me your assistance?”
I asked her a few more questions, and finally agreed to do what she wished.
From that hour Miss Cusack and I became the staunchest friends. She constantly invited me to her house, introduced me to her friends, and gave me her confidence to a marvellous extent.
On my first visit I noticed in her study two enormous brazen bulldogs. They were splendidly cast, and made a striking feature in the arrangements of the room; but I did not pay them any special attention until she happened to mention that there was a story, and a strange one, in connection with them.
“But for these dogs,” she said, “and the mystery attached to them, I should not be the woman I am, nor would my life be set apart for the performance of duties at once herculean and ghastly.”
When she said these words her face once more turned pale, and her eyes flashed with an ominous fire.
On a certain afternoon in November 1894, I received a telegram from Miss Cusack, asking me to put aside all other work and go to her at once. Handing my patients over to the care of my partner, I started for her house. I found her in her study and alone. She came up to me holding a newspaper in her hand.