by James Carnac
“Don’t it seem awful, sir?” she said. “She’s said several times that if it goes on much longer she’ll feel like putting her head in the gas-oven. I can’t make out why she doesn’t see a doctor or a dentist or something. I know I would.”
“I shouldn’t worry, Minnie,” I told her. “Your mistress won’t put her head in the gas-oven. A lot of people talk like that, but they don’t mean it.”
“Oh, I know it’s all talk, sir,” said Minnie. “I’m not worrying because I think she will. She always says that sort of thing when she’s upset. But to see her going about like that fair gives me the pip.”
I replied in an absent-minded manner as Minnie left the room; I was turning over in my mind that phrase: “put her head in the gas-oven.” If Mrs. Hamlett only would; what an end to my problem!
And then the thought logically followed: why should not Mrs. Hamlett gas herself? Or appear to do so. Could it possibly be arranged? The ground was prepared. If Mrs. Hamlett was discovered dead of gas-poisoning, Minnie, as a witness, would testify to the frequent threats of her mistress to gas herself. So far as I could see a verdict of suicide would follow as a matter of course provided the affair was arranged with care and ingenuity.
This seemed a promising line of thought, and I pursued it. I considered the conditions of the household. Mrs. Hamlett sleeps on the ground-floor next door to a small room occupied by Minnie. It seems a curious part of the house for sleeping-quarters, though not uncommon, I believe, for landladies who prefer to reserve the upper bed-rooms for actual or prospective lodgers. Mrs. Hamlett had a gas-fire in her room I knew, for I had noticed it through the open door on more than one occasion. In fact there are, so far as I know, gas-fires in most of the bed-rooms, though my sitting-room is heated by a coal-fire.
Of course if my landlady did decide to commit suicide she would not “put her head in the gas-oven”; she would retire to her bed-room, turn on the gas and lie down. At least, I suppose she would. If, therefore, I wished to assist her in carrying out her professed desire, it would be necessary for me to enter her room while she slept and turn on the gas-fire for her.
But Mrs. Hamlett is accustomed to locking her door at night. I have heard her turn the key. And she would certainly not refrain from doing so now with a lodger of my supposed propensities at hand. But would not another key from another door in the house fit her lock; or if not, could not a duplicate be obtained? And would it be possible to use a duplicate if Mrs. Hamlett’s key remained in the lock inside?
I sat there and continued to cogitate.
—
My problem is solved. The solution is one of those simple and obvious things which, by their very simplicity and obviousness, are liable to escape attention in a system of ingenious planning; like those large-type headings on placards which we fail to see because they are so much in evidence.
This, the final chapter of this record, I am writing during the period which must elapse before I can put my plan into execution. Let me go over the events of this evening.
I heard Mrs. Hamlett go out soon after tea, leaving Minnie in charge of the establishment. My fellow-lodger is away on one of his alleged stamp-collecting expeditions. It is a bitterly cold night.
At about nine I heard the sound of Mrs. Hamlett’s return and, soon after, she entered my sitting-room with the glass of hot milk which I am accustomed to take at that time. I saw at once that she was developing the first symptoms of a cold.
Now within limits I have certain sympathy with my fellows—strange, perhaps, though that may seem—and when I heard my landlady sneeze and perceived her running eyes I was moved to suggest the best course for her to pursue. Be it remembered that I had no grudge against Mrs. Hamlett in the sense which that term usually conveys. On the contrary, I admired her qualities and rather liked her.
As a measure of expediency I thought it necessary to eliminate her, but I did not wish her to have a bad cold.
“You seem to have a cold, Mrs. Hamlett,” I said.
“I’m afraid I have, Mr. Carnac,” she replied. “I ought not to have gone out this evening. It’s bitter. But there was something important I had to see about.”
“Now I’ll tell you what you want, Mrs. Hamlett,” I continued. “A glass of strong whiskey and water, hot. Have you any whiskey?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t. I don’t keep it in the house as a rule.”
“Then I will mix your medicine for you, Mrs. Hamlett1,” I said. “I insist. Supposing you ask Minnie for some hot water and a lemon?”
With a half smile Mrs. Hamlett left the room and I heard her call down the stairs to Minnie. When she returned I insisted upon her sitting beside the fire. She sneezed once or twice and then commenced a desultory conversation.
“And what have you been doing with yourself this evening, sir?” she asked. “I suppose you’ve not been out?”
“No, Mrs. Hamlett. I’ve been cleaning a picture which I picked up a few days ago on a stall.”
“Not in your bed-room I hope?”
“Yes, in my bed-room. It was cold up there, certainly, but I couldn’t bring petrol down here with the fire. And then I have been doing a little writing—and thinking.”
“It’s really too bad of me taking your whiskey, you know, sir,” said Mrs. Hamlett. “I expect I shall be all right in the morning.”
“Not without the whiskey, Mrs. Hamlett. That may stop the cold.”
Then Minnie entered, grinning, carrying a small, steaming kettle, and a lemon on a plate.
“Thank you, Minnie,” I said, rising. “Now you leave this to me, Mrs. Hamlett.” And I rose and hobbled to the side-board.
“I lit your gas-fire an hour ago, mum,” said Minnie. “So your room will be lovely and warm.”
I was raising the whiskey-decanter as I caught the words and in some inexplicable manner the solution of the problem which had been troubling me leapt to my mind in that instant. In a flash of inspiration I saw what I had to do. And so rapid is the course of thought once the right path has been reached that in that brief period between my raising the decanter and pouring out the whiskey, I realized the desirability of increasing the dose which I had intended. I poured out nearly half a tumbler-full of the spirit, added a slice of lemon, a lump of sugar and some hot water. Then I took a tea-spoon from the drawer and, turning, handed the decoction to Mrs. Hamlett.
She took the glass with a word of thanks and turned to the door.
“Good night, Mr. Carnac,” she said. And, “Good night, sir,” added Minnie, following her out. My response was delayed for a fraction of a second … I was overcome by the excitement of my idea. And I was thinking: “The next time I see her she will be stiff and cold and motionless. Minnie will be looking scared, and probably weeping. I shall be acting the part of the sympathetic and shocked lodger. And then a doctor will come, and probably a policeman with a note-book. And I shall be free of my incubus.”
“Good night, Mrs. Hamlett. Good night, Minnie.”
I sat for a long time, as it seemed, by the fire and listened. I heard them both descend the stairs. Then, after an interval, Mrs. Hamlett’s steps going to the top of the house, and their return. Another interval; and the closing of a door followed by the faint click of a lock. I found, to my surprise, that I was trembling.
I must continue to sit here for some time before I can carry out my plan; and my plan is based upon a simple fact which, previously, I had quite overlooked. There are two taps to a gas-fire; that within the room, and the main-tap. And the main-tap of this house is accessible; it is in a cupboard under the stairs on the ground floor. I know, for I saw an official manipulating it on a recent occasion in connection with the installation of a new geyser.
In nearly everything the simplest is the best. In art, in invention; in the conduct of life and—it has now occurred to me—in the conduct of death. Mrs. Hamlett’s gas-fire is alight;
her door and window are shut. All I have to do is to wait until she is soundly asleep—and the whiskey will insure the soundness—descend cautiously to the hall and turn off the main gas supply. I shall wait for a few minutes and then turn it on again, after which I shall go peacefully to bed.
The scheme is so simple that I could almost convince myself that it will not be a murder; at the most a sort of teetotal murder. The mere turning on and off of a tap—as though in absent-mindedness! It is so simple and yet so effective that I feel sure some writer of detective fiction must already have thought of it. But, if so, I have not read his book, and I claim the original invention of the idea.
And who, at the inquest, will remember that a gas-fire goes out when the main-tap is turned off; and that the gas begins to escape when the tap is turned on again? Or would pursue the idea even if it occurred to him?
I am now completing this manuscript; I know the last chapter will show signs of haste, and may appear slovenly to the fastidious reader, but I am anxious to finish it before embarking upon my last important enterprise. I have read somewhere that “the supreme gift of the artist is the knowledge of when to stop”; I make no claim to being an artist, but I do know when to stop. Shall I spoil a good, decisive climax by wandering on into an unnecessary description of the inquest, of my after-thoughts, and so meander aimlessly on until my writing peters out like a trickle of water which gradually dies away into the dust? No; I will finish this manuscript to-night, and seal it up; then I am less likely to be tempted to embellish or extend it.
At this eleventh hour I am conscious of an uncomfortable lurking doubt as to whether I am not, after all, acting hastily. I cannot disregard the possibility—the very slight possibility—that my instinctive feeling that Mrs. Hamlett knows who I am is wrong. Supposing the whole thing is due, on my part, to that which the conventional person calls “conscience”? Supposing she had read but a trivial and unrevealing section of my manuscript? Supposing she really has had neuralgia? Supposing, in short, that the whole thing is due to my imagination? I cannot think that it is; I cannot convince myself that it is, and yet I am just conscious of that little doubt.
However, the risk is too great for me to carry; I must give myself the benefit of the doubt, for is not self-preservation the first law of nature?
And, writing of “nature” reminds me that here is something which will confirm by actual test the truth of my belief regarding the malevolence of that Destiny which shapes our ends. If, contrary to my opinion, we are, individually and in the mass, watched and guarded by a benevolent Providence, surely one might expect some kind of miraculous hitch to my proceedings; Mrs. Hamlett will not be “allowed to” succumb to my evil machinations. “Right and truth shall prevail” says the righteous man, entirely unconscious of the teaching of history. Well, let right and truth prevail here. Let Providence step in and confound me; the installation of the Gas Company is doubtless efficient, but surely Providence could get over that difficulty!
But I am getting excited and, perhaps, a trifle incoherent. The time is near and I must make an end. I shall now seal up this manuscript and place it, as I originally intended, in a second envelope addressed to my executor. I shall lock it in the safe, and there let it remain. After that I shall take my rubber-shod crutch and creep softly, softly down the stairs. Am I sorry for what I must do? I do not know, I am too excited. I may be sorry tomorrow; who knows? But of the outcome of this night’s work I am confident; and in that confidence I append to this manuscript the one word: Finis.
J. W. Carnac
1 In the original manuscript, this read Mrs Carnac.
Epilogue
Epilogue
A Coroner’s Charge to a Jury
Well, gentlemen, you have heard all the available evidence and it now remains for you to decide how this unfortunate gentleman came by his death and to return a verdict accordingly.
As to the identity of the remains: I think you will agree that no doubt exists that they are those of Mr. James Willoughby Carnac. I need not point out to you that direct identification has been impossible; it has been your very unpleasant duty to view the remains, and you know that they are quite unrecognizable. But in this matter of identification you have the following to guide you: Mrs. Hamlett, the landlady of the house, has told us that at the time of the fire the only occupants of the house were herself, the maid Minnie Wright and Mr. Carnac. Mr. Carnac was not saved. This, alone, renders it practically certain that the charred remains are those of Mr. Carnac; and it is supported by the evidence of Dr. Short who has stated that the remains are those of a man of approximately Mr. Carnac’s build and with a right leg missing. And we have been told by Mrs. Hamlett and Minnie Wright that Mr. Carnac had lost a right leg.
Now as regards the cause of death. Mrs. Hamlett has given her evidence very clearly and directly, but I will just run over the main points again. It appears that on the evening of February the third Mrs. Hamlett was suffering from a cold, on account of which she retired early, Mr. Carnac having kindly mixed her a glass of grog.
Mrs. Hamlett drank the mixture and retired to her bed-room on the ground-floor; she found the room was unduly hot, as the gas-stove had been alight for some time, and she turned the gas out. It then occurred to her that Mr. Carnac’s bed-room would be extremely cold; she passed upstairs, lit his gas-fire, closed the door and returned to her own room.
Now up to that point, gentlemen, the evidence is perfectly clear. Mrs. Hamlett states quite emphatically that she lit Mr. Carnac’s gas-fire; that it was burning at about half the full strength when she left the room. You have seen that lady and heard her give evidence, and if your impression is similar to my own you will agree that she is not the sort of person who would carelessly turn on the gas and leave the room without lighting it; in fact it is a little difficult to see how any sane person could do such a thing. We can take it, I think, that the gas-fire was burning, and that it ultimately went out. It is possible, of course, that the flame was turned rather lower than Mrs. Hamlett thought, and that it “popped out” as the girl Minnie Wright suggested. In fact that seems the only reasonable supposition. We have most of us had experience of gas-fires and we know that such things do infrequently occur. However, from whatever cause—a draught or a “back-fire”—it would seem that the gas-fire went out, and of course the gas would at once begin to escape and would gradually fill the room—you will recall Mrs. Hamlett’s evidence to the effect that the windows were closed.
Now we know, from the same witness, that it was the habit of Mr. Carnac to light himself up to bed with a candle in a tall brass candlestick; for although electric-light was laid on, the switch controlling the staircase light was situated in the hall, and it usually fell to Mr. Carnac, as the last member of the establishment to go to bed, to turn out this light. This is perfectly clear, and explains the presence of the brass candlestick beside Mr. Carnac’s charred body.
I think, gentlemen, you will easily visualize the train of events. Mr. Carnac passes upstairs with a lighted candle, places the candlestick on the floor beside the door—remember that he was a one-legged man; one hand would be engaged with his crutch, and he would have to put down the candlestick before he could open the door—and when he did fling open the door the gas with which the room was filled ignited, causing a terrific explosion and the subsequent fire. And there can be little doubt that the fierceness of that fire—sufficient to gut the upper part of the house—was, to some extent at least, due to the bursting of a large bottle of petrol which, as Mrs. Hamlett tells us, Mr. Carnac had been using for the purpose of cleaning a picture, and which he had left in his bed-room.
I wish we could think, gentlemen, that this unfortunate man was killed by the force of the explosion; unhappily the evidence suggests only too clearly that he was endeavouring to drag himself towards the staircase when he was overcome by the flames. But I need not dwell too long upon that very horrible circumstance.
There is only one small point, and I need barely refer to it. Mrs. Hamlett told us that for several days previous to the disaster Mr. Carnac’s manner had become—“peculiar” was, I think, the word she used. It appeared to her that he was perhaps suspicious or upset, and she thought this might be due to his resenting her discovery of the fact that he was writing a novel. This may, of course, have been so; one cannot always estimate the feelings of an elderly person. But, whatever the cause, I do not think we need consider this change in Mr. Carnac’s manner. It might possibly be suggestive were there any suspicion of suicide in this case; but no such suspicion is warranted by the circumstances surrounding the tragedy.
I think that is all, gentlemen; and now perhaps you will let me have your verdict.
Appendix 1
Paul Begg’s Analysis
This manuscript was found among the effects of a man who died in the early 1930s. In a brief introduction called “Explanatory Remarks,” he claims to have known Carnac and been appointed his executor, and that he had received the manuscript along with Carnac’s effects. It was “in a sealed packet and attached to the exterior of this was a letter” addressed to him in which Carnac asked that it be sent to a specified literary agent, who were rare beasts back then. Fearing that compliance with this request might create problems with the probate authorities, the man opened the package and read the contents. Some particularly revolting material was apparently removed, but otherwise it was intended that the manuscript be presented to the literary agents as requested. Whether this was actually done, and the manuscript returned, or whether something stopped Carnac’s wishes being complied with is unknown.
Was this story even remotely true? Or is the author of the explanatory remarks, this supposed friend and executor of James Willoughby Carnac, really the author of the whole manuscript, using the well-established literary device of claiming it to have been a bequest to give his narrative verisimilitude? If so, might he have been Jack the Ripper? Fortunately, he could not. Not unless Jack the Ripper was a babe in arms, which could explain how Jack the Ripper escaped detection but is too ridiculous even for a subject which feeds off ridiculous suggestions, so at least one reputation will remain intact and unsullied. But was he the actual author of the manuscript?