Thorndyke, according to his usual habit, considered the Superintendent’s question for awhile before answering. At length he replied: “I don’t know why I shouldn’t take you into my confidence to some extent, Miller, knowing you as I do. But you will remember that this is a confidence. The fact is that I am proposing to proceed against this man on an entirely different charge. But I am not quite ready to lay an information; and I want you to secure his person on the charge of murdering his wife while I complete the other case.”
“Is that another case of murder?” asked Miller.
“Yes. The facts are briefly these. A certain Septimus Maddock, who was living with the Samways, died some time ago under what seem to me very suspicious circumstances. He was nursed by Samway and his wife and by no one else. The cause of death given on the certificate was, in my opinion, not the true one, and I am proceeding to verify my theory as to what was the real cause of death.”
“I see,” said Miller. “You are applying for an exhumation of the body?”
“Well, hardly an exhumation. The man Maddock was cremated.”
“Cremated!” exclaimed Miller. “Then we’re done. There isn’t any body to exhume.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, “there is no body, but there are the ashes.”
“But, surely,” said Miller, “you can’t get any information out of a few handfuls of bone ash?”
“That remains to be proved,” replied Thorndyke. “I have applied for an authority to make an exhaustive examination of those ashes, and, if my opinion as to the cause of death is correct, I shall be able to demonstrate its correctness; and that will involve a charge of murder against this man Samway. It will also support a charge against him of attempts to murder Dr. Jardine, and furnish strong evidence connecting him with the horrible crime that has just been committed. So you see, Miller, that the important thing is to get possession of him before he has time to escape from this country, and hold him in custody, if necessary, while the evidence against him is being examined and completed. And I must impress on you that no time ought to be lost in getting the description circulated.”
“No, that’s true,” said Miller. “I’ll go and telegraph it off at once, and I’ll send one or two of our best men to watch the likely seaports.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when we had all most fervently wished him success he took his departure.
As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior, and, looking at him with a sort of puzzled curiosity exclaimed: “You are a most astounding person, Thorndyke! You really are! I thought I had begun to see daylight in that Maddock case, and now I find that I was all abroad. And I can’t, for the life of me, conceive what in the world you expect to discover by examining a few pounds of calcined phosphates. Suppose Maddock was poisoned, what evidence will be obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which could possibly have been used under the known circumstances, not one would leave a trace after cremation. But, of course, you’ve thought of all that.”
“Certainly, I have,” replied Thorndyke, “and I agree with you that the ashes of a body that has been cremated are highly unpromising material for a primary investigation. But, does it not occur to you that, in a case where certain circumstantial evidence is available, excellent corroborative data might be obtained by the examination of the ashes?”
“No,” replied Jervis, “I can’t say that it does.”
“It is not too late to consider the question,” said Thorndyke. “I shall probably not get the authority for a day or two, so you will have time to turn the problem over in the interval. It is quite worth your while, I assure you, apart from this particular case, as a mere exercise in constructive theory. You can acquire experience from imaginary cases as well as from real ones, as I have often pointed out; in fact, much of my own experience has been gained in this way. I think I have mentioned to you that, in my early days, when I had more leisure than practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary crimes of an elaborately skilful type, and then—having, of course, all the facts—to consider the appropriate procedure for their detection. It was a most valuable exercise, for I was thus able to furnish myself with an abundance of problems of a kind that, in actual practice, are met with only at long intervals of years. And since then a quite considerable number of my imaginary cases have presented themselves, in a more or less modified form, for solution in the course of practice, and have come to me with the familiarity of problems that have already been considered and solved. That is what you should do, Jervis. Try the synthetic method and then consider what analytical procedure would be appropriate to your result.”
“I have,” Jervis replied, gloomily. “I have worked at this confounded case until I feel like a rat that has been trying to gnaw through a plate-glass window. Still, I’ll have another try. By the way, where are you going to make this examination?”
“I think I shall do it here. I had thought of handing the ashes over to one of the more eminent analysts, but it will be only a small operation, well within the capacity of our own laboratory. I think of asking Professor Woodfield to come here and carry out the actual analysis. Polton will give him any help that he may want and, of course, we shall be here to give any further assistance if he should need it.”
“Why not have made the analysis yourself?” asked Jervis. “Is there anything specially difficult or intricate about it?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “But, as the case will have to go into Court on a capital charge—that is, assuming that my hypothesis turns out to be correct—I thought it best to have the analysis made by a man whose name as an authority on chemistry will carry special weight. Neither the judge nor the jury are likely to have much special knowledge of chemistry, but they will be able to appreciate the fact that Woodfield is a man with a world-wide reputation, and they will respect his opinion accordingly.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “I think you are quite right. A well-known name goes a long way with a jury. I hope your experiment will turn out as you expect, and I hope, too, that some of Miller’s men will manage to lay that murderous devil by the heels. But I’m afraid they’ll have their work cut out. He is a clever scoundrel; one must admit that. How do you suppose he contrived to track Jardine here?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that he must have seen us on one of the two occasions when we went to the mineral water works and followed us here. Then, when Jardine disappeared from his lodgings, he would naturally look for him here, this being, in fact, the only place known to him in connection with Jardine, excepting Batson’s house, on which he also probably kept a watch.”
“But how would he have discovered that Jardine actually was here?”
“There are a number of ways in which he might have ascertained the fact. A good many persons knew that we had a new resident. We could not conceal his presence here. Many of our visitors have seen him, and the porter and hangers-on of the inn will have noticed him taking his exercise in the morning. Samway, himself, even, may have seen him, and he would easily have penetrated the disguise if he saw him out of doors, for there is no disguising a man’s stature. He might have made enquiries of one of the porters or lamp-lighters, or he might have employed someone else to make enquiries. The fact that someone was staying here and that his name was Howard could not have been very difficult to discover, while, as for ourselves, we are as well known in the inn as the griffin at Temple Bar. From the circumstance that he knew of our attendance at the Maidstone Assizes, it seems likely that he had subsidized some solicitor’s clerk who would know our movements.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “as he is gone now, I may as well go back to my lodgings.”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “In the first place, we don’t know that he is gone, and we do know that he is now absolutely desperate and reckless. And you must not forget, Jardine, that whether we charge him with murder in the case of Maddock, with the murder of poor Mrs. Samway, or the attempted murder of yourself, in either case
you are the chief witness for the prosecution. You are the appointed instrument of retribution in this man’s case, and you must take the utmost care of yourself until your mission is accomplished. He knows the value of your evidence better than you do, and it is still worth his while to get rid of you if he can. But you, I am sure, are at least as anxious as we are to see him hanged.”
“I’d sooner twist his neck with my own hands,” said I.
“I daresay you would,” said Thorndyke, “and it is perfectly natural that you should. But it is not desirable. This is a case for a few fathoms of good, stout, hempen rope, and the common hangman. The private vengeance of a decent man would be an undeserved honour for a wretch like this. So you must stay here quietly for a few days more and give us a little help when we need it.”
Thorndyke’s decision was not altogether unwelcome. Shaken as I was by the shock of this horrible tragedy, I was in no state to return to the solitude of my lodgings. The quiet and tactful sympathy of my two friends—or I should rather say three, for Polton was as kind and gentle as a woman—was infinitely comforting and their sober cheerfulness and the interest of their talk prevented me from brooding morbidly over the catastrophe of which I had been the involuntary cause. And, dreadful as the associations of the place were, I could not but feel that those of my older resorts would be equally painful. For me, at present, the Heath would be haunted by the figure of poor Letitia, walking at my side, telling me her pitiful tale and so pathetically craving my sympathy and friendship. And the Highgate Road could not but wring my heart with the recollection of that evening when we had walked together up the narrow lane—all unconscious of a black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled only by that futile spy—when, as we said good-bye I had kissed her and she had run off blushing like a girl.
Moreover, if Thorndyke’s chambers were fraught with terrible and gloomy associations, they were also pervaded by an atmosphere of resolute, relentless preparation which was itself a relief to me; for, as the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me possessed by a fury of hatred for the murderer and consumed by an inextinguishable craving for vengeance. Nor by the time of suspense so long as we had anticipated, as the very next morning a letter arrived from the Home Office containing the necessary authority to make the proposed examination and informing Thorndyke that on the following day the police would take possession of the ashes, which would be delivered to him by an officer who would remain to witness the examination and to resume possession of the remains when it was concluded.
I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but gathered that he was busy making the final arrangements for the important work of the morrow and clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself in from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis’s society, for he, too, was anxious to have the day free for the “Crucial Experiment,” which was—we hoped—to solve the mystery of Septimus Maddock’s death and explain the villain Samway’s strange vindictiveness towards me.
Left to myself, and by no means enamoured of my own society, I wandered up to the laboratory to see what Polton was doing and to distract my gloomy thoughts by a little gossip with him on the various technical processes of which he possessed so much curious information. I found him arrayed in a white apron, with his sleeves turned up, busily occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough, which he had spread on a pastry board and was levelling with a hard-wood rolling-pin. He greeted me, as I entered with his queer, crinkly smile, but made no remark; and I stood awhile in silence, watching him cut the paste in halves, sprinkle it with flour, fold it up and once more roll it out into a sheet with the wooden pin. “Is this going to be a meat pie, Polton?” I asked, at length.
His smile broadened at my question—for which I suspect he had been waiting. “I don’t think you’d care much for the flavour of it, if it was, sir,” he answered. “But it does look like dough, doesn’t it. It’s moulding-wax; a special formula of the Doctor’s own.”
“I thought that white powder was flour.”
“So it is, sir; the best wheaten flour. It’s lighter than a mineral powder and more tenacious. You have to use some powder to reduce the stickiness of the wax, especially in a soft paste like this, which has a lot of lard in it.”
“What are you going to use it for?” I asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Polton, pausing to give the paste a vicious whack with the rolling-pin, “there you are, sir. That’s just what I’ve been asking myself all the time I’ve been rolling it out. The Doctor, sir—God bless him—is the most exasperating gentleman in the world. He fairly drives me mad with curiosity, at times. He will give me a piece of work to do—something to make, perhaps—with full particulars—all the facts, you understand, perfectly clear and exact, with working drawings if necessary. But he never says what the thing is for. So I make a hypothesis for myself—whole bundles of hypotheses, I make. And they always turn out wrong. I assure you, sir,” he concluded with solemn emphasis, “that I spend the best part of my life asking myself conundrums and giving myself the wrong answers.”
“I should have thought,” said I, “that you would have got used to his ways by now.”
“You can’t get used to him,” rejoined Polton. “It’s impossible. He doesn’t think like any other man. Ordinary men’s brains are turned out pretty much alike from a single mould, like a batch of pottery. But the Doctor’s brain was a special order. If there was any mould at all, that mould was broken up when the job was finished.”
“What you mean is,” said I, “that he has a great deal more intelligence than is given to the rank and file of humanity.”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Polton. “It isn’t a question of quantity at all. It’s a different kind of intelligence. Ordinary men have to reason from visible facts. He doesn’t. He reasons from facts which his imagination tells him exists, but which nobody else can see. He’s like a portrait painter who can do you a likeness of your face by looking at the back of your head. I suppose it’s what he calls constructive imagination, such as Darwin and Harvey and Pasteur and other great discoverers had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts that were known to the common herd of humanity.”
I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of Polton’s views on the transcendental intellect, though respectfully admiring of the thoughtfulness of this curious little handicraftsman; accordingly I returned to the more concrete subject of wax. “Haven’t you any idea what this stuff is going to be used for?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied. “The Doctor’s instructions were to make six pounds of it, to make it soft enough to take a squeeze of a stiff feather if warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape in a half-inch layer with a plaster backing, and to be sure to have it ready by to-morrow morning. That’s all. I know there’s an important analysis on to-morrow and I suppose this wax has got something to do with it. But, as to what moulding wax can have to do with a chemical analysis, that’s a question that I can’t make head or tail of.”
Neither could I, though I had more data than Polton appeared to possess. Nor could Jervis, to whom I propounded the riddle when he came in to tea. We went up to the laboratory together and inspected, not only the wax, but the exterior of three large parcels addressed to Professor Woodfield, care of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of a firm of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could suggest any solution of the mystery; and the only result of our visit to the laboratory was that Polton was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of his junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure by executing with the wax, a life-sized and highly grotesque portrait of Father Humperdinck.
* * *
XXI — THE FINAL PROBLEM
AT exactly half-past eleven in the following forenoon, Professor Woodfield arrived, bearing a massive cowhide bag which he deposited on a chair as a preliminary to taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. He was a big burly, heavy-browed man, sparing of speech and rather gruff in manner. “Stuff arrived yet?” he asked when he had b
rought his forehead to a satisfactory polish.
“I think it came yesterday morning,” replied Thorndyke.
“The deuce it did!” exclaimed Woodfield.
“Yes. Drapers—Three parcels from Townley and—”
“Oh, you’re talking of the chemicals. I meant the other stuff.”
“No; the officer hasn’t arrived yet, but I expect he will be here in a few minutes. Superintendent Miller is a scrupulously punctual man.”
The professor strode over to the window and glared out in the direction of Crown Office Row. “That man of yours got everything ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Thorndyke; “and I have looked over the laboratory myself. Everything is ready. You can begin the instant the ashes are delivered to us.”
Woodfield expressed his satisfaction—or whatever he intended to express—by a grunt, without removing his eyes from the approach to our chambers. “Cab coming,” he announced a few moments later. “Man inside with a parcel. That the officer?”
Jervis looked out over the professor’s shoulder. “Yes,” said he, “that’s Miller; and, confound it! here’s Marchmont with old Humperdinck. Shall we bolt up to the laboratory and send down word that we’re all out of town?”
“I don’t see why we should,” said Thorndyke. “Woodfield won’t be inconsolable if we have to leave him to work by himself for a while.”
The professor confirmed this statement by another grunt, and, shortly afterwards, the clamour of the little brass knocker announced the arrival of the first contingent, which, when I opened the door, was seen to consist of the solicitor and his very reverend client. “My dear Thorndyke!” exclaimed Marchmont, shaking our principal’s hand; “what a shocking affair this is—this murder, I mean. I read about it in the paper. A dreadful affair!”
“Yes, indeed,” Thorndyke assented; “a most callous and horrible crime.”
“Terrible! Terrible!” said Marchmont. “So unpleasant for you, too, and so inconvenient. Actually on your own stairs, I understand. But I hope they’ll be able to catch the villain. Have you any idea who he is?”
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