I picked up the box and the stool, and debated with myself whether it was worth while to go on any farther. From where we stood, nothing was to be seen, for the lane was still enclosed on both sides by a seven foot fence of oak boards. But the chance of overtaking the fugitive was not to be considered; by this time he was probably out of the lane on the Heath or in the surrounding meadows; and meanwhile, my companion, though calmer and less breathless, looked very pale and shaken. “I don’t know that it’s any use,” I said, “to tire you by going any farther. The man is evidently gone.”
She seemed relieved at my decision, and it then occurred to me to suggest that she should sit down awhile on the bank under the high fence to recover herself, and to this, too, she assented gladly. “If it wouldn’t distress you,” I said, “would you mind telling me what had happened?”
She pondered for a few seconds and then answered: “It doesn’t sound much in the telling and I expect you will think me very silly to be so much upset.”
“I’m sure I shan’t,” I said, with perfect confidence in the correctness of my statement.
“Well,” she said, “what happened was this as nearly as I can remember: I was coming up the path from the ponds and I had to pass a man who was leaning against the fence by the stile. As I came near to him, he looked at me, at first, in quite an ordinary way, and then, he suddenly began to stare in a most singular and disturbing fashion, not at me, so much, as at this little crucifix which I wear hung from my neck. As I passed through the turnstile, he spoke to me: ‘Would you mind letting me look at that crucifix?’ he asked. It was a most astonishing piece of impertinence, and I was so taken aback that I hardly had the presence of mind to refuse. However, I did, and very decidedly, too. Then he came up to me, and, in a most threatening and alarming manner, said: ‘You found that crucifix. You picked it up somewhere near here. It’s mine, and I’ll ask you to let me have it, if you please.’
“Now this was perfectly untrue. The crucifix was given to me by my father when I was quite a little child, and I have worn it ever since I have been grown up—ever since he died, in fact, six years ago. I told the man this, but he made no pretence of believing me, and was evidently about to renew his demand, when two labourers appeared, coming down the lane. I thought this a good opportunity to escape, and walked away quickly up the lane; it was very silly of me; I ought to have gone the other way.”
“Of course you ought,” I agreed, “you ought to have got out into a public road at once.”
“Yes, I see that now,” she said. “It was very foolish of me. However, I walked on pretty quickly, for there was something in the man’s face that had frightened me, and I was anxious to get home. I looked back, from time to time, and, when I saw no sign of the man, I began to recover myself; but just as I had got to the most solitary part of the lane, just about where we are now, shut in by these high fences, I heard quick footsteps behind me. I looked back and saw the man coming after me. Then, I suppose, I got in a sudden panic, for I dropped my sketching things and began to run. But as soon as I began to run, the man broke into a run too. I raced for my life, and when I heard the man gaining on me, I suppose I must have called out. Then I heard your shout from the upper part of the lane and ran on faster than ever to gain your protection. That’s all, and I suppose you think that I have been making a great fuss about nothing.”
“I don’t think anything of the kind,” I said, “and neither would our absent friend if I could get hold of him. By the way, what sort of person was he?—a tramp?”
“Oh, no, quite a respectable looking person; in fact, he would have passed for a gentleman.”
“Can you give any sort of description of him, not that verbal descriptions are of much use except in the case of a hunchback or a Chinaman or some other easily identifiable creature.”
“No, they are not,” she agreed, “and I don’t think that I can tell you much about this man excepting that he was clean-shaved, of medium height, quite well dressed, and wore a round hat and slate-coloured suede gloves.”
“I’m afraid we shan’t get hold of him from that description,” I said. “The only thing that you can do is to avoid solitary places for the present and not to come through this lane again alone.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I must, but it’s very unfortunate. One cannot always take a companion when one goes sketching even if it were desirable, which it is not.”
As to the desirability, in the case of a good-looking girl, of wandering about alone in solitary places, I had my own opinions; and very definite opinions they were. But I kept them to myself. And so we sat silent for awhile. She was still pale and agitated, and perhaps her recital of her misadventure had not been wholly beneficial. At the moment that this idea occurred to me, a crackling in my breast-pocket reminded me of the forgotten canvas, and I bethought me that perhaps a change of subject might divert her mind from her very disagreeable experience. Accordingly, I drew the canvas out of my pocket, and, unrolling it, asked her what she thought of the sketch. In a moment she became quite animated. “Why,” she exclaimed, “this looks exactly like the work of that artist who was working on the Heath a little while ago.”
“It is his,” I replied, considerably impressed and rather astonished at her instantaneous recognition; “but I didn’t know you were so familiar with his work.”
“I’m not very familiar with it,” she replied, “but, as I told you, I sometimes managed to steal a glance or two when I passed him. You see, his technique is so peculiar that it’s easily recognised, and it interested me very much. I should have liked to stop and watch him and get a lesson.”
“It is rather peculiar work,” I said, looking at the canvas with new interest. “Very solid and yet very smooth.”
“Yes. It is typical knife-work, almost untouched with the brush. That was what interested me. The knife is a dangerous tool for a comparative tyro like myself, but yet one would like to learn how to use it. Did he give you this sketch?”
I smiled guiltily. “The truth is,” I admitted, “I stole it.”
“How dreadful of you!” she said, “I suppose that you could not be bribed to steal another?”
“I would steal it for nothing if you asked me,” I answered, “and meanwhile, you had better take possession of this one. It will be of more use to you than to me.”
She shook her head: “No, I won’t do that,” she said, “though it is most kind of you. You paint, I think, don’t you?”
“I’m only the merest amateur,” I replied. “I annexed the sketch for the sake of the subject. I have rather an affection for this lane.”
“So had I,” said she, “until to-day. Now, I hate it, but, might I ask how you managed your theft?”
I told her about the empty cottage and the rejected canvases in the rubbish box. “I’m afraid none of the others would be of any use to you because he had drawn a brushful of paint across each of them.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t matter,” she said. “The brush-strokes would be on dry paint and could easily be scraped off. Besides, it is not the subject but the technique that interests me.”
“Then I will get into the cottage somehow and purloin the remaining canvases for you.”
“Oh, but I mustn’t give you all this trouble,” she protested.
“It won’t be any trouble,” I said. “I shall quite enjoy a deliberate and determined robbery. But where shall I send the spoil?”
She produced her card-case, and, selecting a card, handed it to me, with a smile: “It seems to me,” she said, “that I am inciting you to robbery and acting as a receiver of stolen goods, but I suppose there’s no harm in it, though I feel that I ought not to give you all this trouble.”
I made the usual polite rejoinder as I took from her the little magical slip of pasteboard that, in a moment, transformed her from a stranger to an acquaintance, and gave her a local habitation and a name. Before bestowing it in my pocket-book, I glanced at the neat copper-plate and read the inscripti
on: “Miss Sylvia Vyne. The Hawthorns. North End.”
The effect of our conversation had answered my expectations. Her agitation had passed off, the colour had come back to her cheeks, and, in fact, she seemed quite recovered. Apparently she thought so herself, for she rose, saying that she now felt well enough to walk home, and held out her hand for the colour-box and stool. “I think,” said I, “that if you won’t consider me intrusive, I should like to see you safely out on to an inhabited road at least.”
“I shall accept your escort gratefully,” she replied, “as far as the end of the lane, or farther if it is not taking you too much out of your way.”
Needless to say, I would gladly have escorted so agreeable and winsome a protegee from John o’ Groats to Land’s End and found it not out of my way at all; and when she passed out of the gate into Hampstead Lane, I clung tenaciously to the box and stool and turned towards “The Spaniards” as though no such thing as a dismissal had ever been contemplated. In fact, with the reasonable excuse of carrying the impedimenta, I maintained my place by her side in the absence of a definite conge; and so we walked together, talking quite easily, principally about pictures and painting, until, in the pleasant little hamlet, she halted by a garden gate, and, taking her possessions from me, held out a friendly hand. “Good-bye,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough for all your help and kindness. I hope I have not been very troublesome to you.”
I assured her that she had been most amenable, and, when I had once more cautioned her to avoid solitary places, we exchanged a cordial hand-shake and parted, she to enter the pleasant, rustic-looking house, and I to betake myself back to my lodgings, lightening the way with much agreeable and self-congratulatory reflection.
* * *
IX — THORNDYKE TAKES UP THE SCENT
AT my lodgings, which I reached at an unconscionably late hour for lunch, I found a little surprise awaiting me; a short note from Dr. Thorndyke asking me if I should be at liberty early on the following afternoon to show him the spot on which I had found the mysterious body. Of course, I answered by return, begging him to come straight on from the hospital to an early lunch, over which we could discuss the facts of the case before setting out. Having dispatched my letter, I called at the offices of the house agent who had the letting of the cottage on the Heath, to see if he had duplicate keys. Fortunately he had, and was willing to entrust them to me on the understanding that they should be returned some time during the next day. I did not, however, go on to the cottage, for it occurred to me that Thorndyke would probably wish to visit the wood, and I could make my visit and purloin the canvases then.
A telegram on the following morning informed me that Thorndyke would be with me at twelve o’clock, and, punctually to the minute, he arrived. “I hope you don’t mind me swooping down on you in this fashion,” he said, as the servant showed him into the room.
I assured him, very truthfully, that I was delighted to be honoured by a visit from him, and he then proceeded to explain. “You may wonder, Jardine, why I am busying myself about this case, which is really no business of mine, or, at least, appears to be none; but the fact is, that as a teacher and a practitioner of Medical Jurisprudence, I find it advisable to look into any unusual cases. Of course, there is always a considerable probability that I may be consulted concerning any out of the way case; but, apart from that, I have the ordinary specialist’s interest in anything remarkable in my own speciality.”
“I should think,” said I, “that it would be well for me to give you all the facts before we start.”
“Exactly, Jardine,” he replied, “that is what I want. Tell me all you know about the affair and then we shall be able to test our conclusions on the spot.”
He produced a large scale ordnance map, and, folding it under my direction, so that it showed only the region in which we were interested, he stood it up on the table against the water bottle, where we could both see it, and marked on it with a pencil each spot as I described it.
It is not necessary for me to record our conversation. I told him the whole story as I have already told it to the reader, pointing out on the map the exact locality where each event occurred. “It’s a most remarkable case, Jardine,” was his thoughtful comment when I had finished, “most remarkable; curiously puzzling and inconsistent too. For you see that on the one hand, it looks like a casual or accidental crime, and yet, on the other, strongly suggests premeditation. No man, one would think, could have planned to commit a murder in what is, after all, a public thoroughfare; and yet, the long distance which the body seems to have been carried, and the apparently selected hiding-place, seem to suggest a previously considered plan.”
“You think that there is no doubt that the man was really dead?” I asked.
“Had you any doubt at the time yourself?”
“None at all,” I replied, “it was only the disappearance of the body, and, perhaps, the sergeant’s suggestion, that made me think it possible that I might have been mistaken.”
Thorndyke shook his head. “No, Jardine,” said he, “the man was dead. We are safe in assuming that; and on that assumption our investigations must be based. The next question is, how was the body taken away? Did you measure the fence?”
“No, but I should say it is about seven feet high.”
“And what kind of fence is it? Are there any footholds?”
“I can show you exactly what the fence is like,” I answered. “That sketch, which I have pinned up on the wall, was apparently painted from the exact spot on which the body lay. That fence on the right-hand side is the one under which I sheltered and is exactly like the one over which the body seems to have been lifted.”
Thorndyke rose and walked over to the sketch, which I had fixed to the wall with drawing-pins. “Not a bad sketch, this, Jardine,” he remarked; “very smartly put in, apparently mostly with the knife. Where did you get it?”
I had to confess that the canvas was unlawfully come by, and told him how I had obtained it. “You don’t know the artist’s name?” said Thorndyke, looking closely at the sketch.
“No. In fact, I know nothing about him, excepting that he worked mostly with a small painting-knife, and usually wore kid gloves.”
“You don’t mean that he worked in gloves?” said Thorndyke.
“So I am told,” said I. “I never saw him.”
“It’s very odd,” said Thorndyke. “I have heard of men wearing a glove on the palette-hand to keep off the midges, and many men paint in gloves in exceptionally cold weather. But this sketch seems to have been painted in the summer.”
“I suppose,” said I, “the midges don’t confine their attentions to the palette-hand. And after all, to a man who worked entirely with the knife, a glove wouldn’t be really in the way.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed, “that is true.” He looked closely at the sketch, and even took out his pocket lens to help his vision, which seemed almost unnecessary. It appeared that he was as much interested in the unknown artist’s peculiar technique as was my friend, Miss Sylvia Vyne. “By the way,” said he, when he had resumed his seat at the table, “you were telling me about some kind of gold trinket that you had picked up at the foot of the fence. Shall we have a look at it?”
I fetched the little gold object from the dispatch box in which I had locked it up, and handed it to him. He turned it over in his fingers, read the letters that were engraved on it, and examined the little piece of silk cord that was attached to one ring. “There is no doubt,” said he, “as to the nature of this object, nor of its connection with the dead man. This is evidently a reliquary, and these initials engraved upon it bear out exactly your description of the body. S.V.D.P evidently means St. Vincent de Paul, who, as you probably know, was a saint who was distinguished for his works of charity. You have mentioned that the dead man wore a Roman collar, with a narrow, dark stripe up the front. That means that he was the lay-brother of some religious order, probably some philanthropic order, to whom St. Vincent de
Paul would be an object of special devotion. The other letters, A.M.D.G., are the initials of the words Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam—the motto of the Society of Jesus. But as St. Vincent de Paul was not a Jesuit saint, the motto probably refers to the owner of the reliquary, who may have been a Jesuit or a friend of the Society. It was apparently attached—perhaps to the neck—by this silk cord, which seems to have been frayed nearly through, and probably broke when the body was drawn over the top of the fence.”
“I suppose I ought to have shown it to the police,” I said.
“I suppose you ought,” he replied, “but, as you haven’t, I think we had better say nothing about it now.”
He handed it back to me, and I dropped it into my pocket, intending to return it presently to the dispatch box. A few minutes later, we sallied forth on our journey of exploration.
It is not necessary to describe this journey in detail since I have already taken the reader over the ground more than once. We went, of course, to the place where I had found the body and walked right through to Hampstead Lane. Then we returned, and reconstituted the circumstances of that eventful night, after which, I conducted Thorndyke to the place where I assumed that the body had been lifted over the fence. “I suppose,” I said, “we must go round and pick up the track from the other side.”
He looked up and down the lane and smiled. “Would your quondam professor lose your respect for ever, Jardine, if you saw him climb over a fence in a frock coat and a topper?”
“No,” I answered, “but it might look a little quaint if anyone else saw you.”
“I think we will risk that,” he said. “There is no one about, and I should rather like to try a little experiment. Would you mind if I hoisted you over the fence? You are something of an out-size, but then, so am I, too, which balances the conditions.”
Of course I had no objection, and, when we had looked up and down the lane and listened to make sure that we had no observers, Thorndyke picked me up, with an ease that rather surprised me, and hoisted me above the level of the fence. “Is it all clear on the other side?” he asked.
A Silent Witness Page 10