His reflections were interrupted by a question from Margaret.
“You haven’t been down to Cornwall, I suppose, since you came to see us at Sennen in the summer?”
“No, I have not; but Professor D’Arcy has, and he is starting for another trip at the end of next month.”
“Is he still in search of worms? It was worms that you were going to look for, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, marine worms. But he is not fanatical on the subject. All marine animals are fish that come to his net.”
“You are using the word ‘net’ in a metaphorical sense, I presume,” said Varney. “Or does he actually use a net?”
“Sometimes,” replied Thorndyke. “A good many specimens can be picked up by searching the shore at low tide, but the most productive work is done with the dredge. Many species are found only below low-water mark.”
“Is there anything particularly interesting about marine worms?” Margaret asked. “There always seems something rather disgusting about a worm, but I suppose that is only vulgar prejudice.”
“It is principally unacquaintance with worms,” replied Thorndyke. “They are a highly interesting group of animals, both in regard to structure and habits. You ought to read Darwin’s fascinating book on earthworms and learn what an important part they play in the fashioning of the earth’s surface. But the marine worms are not only interesting, some of them are extraordinarily beautiful creatures.”
“That was what Philip Rodney used to say,” said Margaret, “but we didn’t believe him, and he never showed us any specimens.”
“I don’t know that he ever got any,” said Varney. “He made great preparations in the way of bottles and jars, and then he spent most of his time sailing his yacht or line-fishing from a lugger. The only tangible result of his preparations was that remarkable jury button that he fixed on Dan’s oil-skin coat. You remember that button, Mrs. Purcell?”
“I remember something about a button, but I have forgotten the details. What was it?”
“Why, Dan lost the top button from his oiler and never got it replaced. One day he lent the coat to Philip to go home in the wet, and as Phil was going out line-fishing the next day and his own oilers were on the yacht, he thought he would take Dan’s. So he proceeded to fix on a temporary button, and a most remarkable job he made of it. It seems that he hadn’t got either a button or a needle and thread, so he extemporized. He took the cork out of one of his little collecting bottles—it was a flat cork, waterproofed with paraffin wax and it had a round label inscribed ‘Marine Worms.’ Well, as he hadn’t a needle or thread he bored two holes through the cork with the little marlinspike in his pocket-knife, passed through them the remains of a fiddle-string that he had in his pocket, made two holes in the oilskin, threaded the catgut through them, and tied a reef-knot on the inside.”
“And did it answer?” asked Margaret. “It sounds rather clumsy.”
“It answered perfectly. So well that it never got changed. It was on the coat when Dan went up the ladder at Penzance, and it is probably on it still. Dan seemed quite satisfied with it.”
There was a brief silence, during which Thorndyke looked down thoughtfully at his plate. Presently he asked: “Was the label over the wax or under it?”
Varney looked at him in surprise, as also did Margaret. What on earth could it matter whether the label were over or under the wax?
“The label was under the wax,” the former replied. “I remember Philip mentioning the fact that the label was waterproofed as well as the cork. He made quite a point of it, though I didn’t see why. Do you?”
“If he regarded the label as a decorative adjunct,” replied Thorndyke, “he would naturally make a point of the impossibility of its getting washed off, which was the object of the waxing.”
“I suppose he would,” Varney agreed in an absent tone, and still looking curiously at Thorndyke. He had a feeling that the latter’s mildly facetious reply was not quite “in key” with the very definite question. Why had that question been asked? Had Thorndyke anything in his mind? Probably not. What could he have? At any rate, it was of no consequence to him, Varney.
In which he was, perhaps, mistaken. Thorndyke had been deeply interested in the history of the button. Here was one of those queer, incalculable trivialities which so often crop up in the course of a criminal trial. By this time, no doubt, that quaint button was detached and drifting about in the sea, or lying unnoticed on some lonely beach among the high-water jetsam. The mere cork would be hardly recognizable, but if the label had been protected by the wax it would be identifiable with absolute certainty. And if ever it should be identified, its testimony would go to prove the improbability that Daniel Purcell ever went ashore at Penzance.
CHAPTER XI
In which Varney has an Inspiration
The adjournment to the drawing-room was the signal for Varney to fetch his portfolio and exhibit his little collection, which he did with a frank interest and pleasure in his works that was yet entirely free from any appearance of vanity. Thorndyke examined the proofs with a curiosity that was not wholly artistic. Varney interested him profoundly. There was about him a certain reminiscence of Benvenuto Cellini: a combination of the thoroughgoing rascal with the sincere and enthusiastic artist. But Thorndyke could not make up his mind how close the parallel was. From Cellini’s grossness Varney appeared to be free; but how about the other vices? Had Varney been forced into wrongdoing by the pressure of circumstances on a weak will? Or was he a criminal by choice and temperament? That was what Thorndyke could not decide.
An artist’s work may show only one side of his character, but it shows that truthfully and unmistakably. A glance through Varney’s works made it clear that he was an artist of no mean talent. There was not only skill, which Thorndyke had looked for, but a vein of poetry, which he noted with appreciation and almost with regret.
“You don’t seem to value your aquatints,” he said, “but I find them very charming. This sea cape with the fleet of luggers half hidden in the mist, and the lighthouse peeping over the top of the fogbank, is really wonderful. You couldn’t have done that with the point.”
“No,” Varney agreed; “every process has its powers and its limitations.”
“The lighthouse, I suppose, is no lighthouse in particular?”
“Well, no; but I had the Wolf in my mind when I planned this plate. As a matter of fact, I saw a scene very like this when I was sailing round with Purcell to Penzance the day he vanished. The lighthouse looked awfully ghostly with its head out of the fog and its body invisible.”
“Wasn’t that the time you had to climb up the mast?” asked Margaret.
“Yes; when the jib halyard parted and the jib went overboard. It was rather a thrilling experience, for the yacht was out of control for the moment and the Wolf rock was close under our lee. Dan angled for the sail while I went aloft.”
Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the little picture, and Varney watched him with outward unconcern but with secret amusement and a sort of elfish mischief.
And again he was conscious of a sense of power, of omniscience. Here was this learned, acute lawyer and scientist looking in all innocence at the very scene on which he, Varney, had looked as he was washing the stain of Purcell’s blood from the sail. Little did he dream of the event which this aquatint commemorated! For all his learning and his acuteness, he, Varney, held him in the hollow of his hand.
To Thorndyke the state of mind revealed by this picture was as surprising as it was illuminating. This was, in effect, a souvenir of that mysterious and tragic voyage. Whatever had happened on that voyage was clearly the occasion of no remorse. There was no shrinking from the memory of that day, but rather evidence that it was recalled with a certain satisfaction. In that there seemed a most singular callousness. But what did that callous indifference, or even satisfaction, suggest? A man who had made away with a friend with the express purpose of getting possession of that friend’s wife would surely look b
ack on the transaction with some discomfort; indeed, would avoid looking back on it at all. Whereas one who had secured his liberty by eliminating his oppressor could hardly be expected to feel either remorse or regrets. It looked as if the blackmail theory were the true one, after all.
“That will be Mr. Rodney,” Margaret said, looking expectantly at the door.
“I didn’t hear the bell,” said Varney. Neither had Thorndyke heard it; but he had not been listening, whereas Margaret apparently had, which perhaps accounted for the slightly preoccupied yet attentive air that he had noticed once or twice when he had looked at her.
A few moments later John Rodney entered the room unannounced, and Margaret went forward quickly to welcome him. And for the second time that evening Thorndyke found himself looking, all unsuspected, into the secret chamber of a human heart.
As Margaret had advanced towards the door, he and Varney stood up. They were thus both behind her when Rodney entered the room. But on the wall by the door was a small mirror, and in this Thorndyke had caught an instantaneous glimpse of her face as she met Rodney. That glimpse had told him what, perhaps, she had hardly guessed herself; but the face which appeared for a moment in the mirror and was gone was a face transfigured. Not, indeed, with the expression of passionate adoration that he had seen on Varney’s face. That meant passion consciously recognized and accepted. What Thorndyke saw on Margaret’s face was a softening, a tender, joyful welcome such as a mother might bestow on a beloved child. It spoke of affection rather than passion. But it was unmistakable. Margaret Purcell loved John Rodney. Nor, so far as Thorndyke could judge, was the affection only on one side. Rodney, facing the room, naturally made no demonstration; but still, his greeting had in it something beyond mere cordiality.
It was an extraordinarily complex situation, and there was in it a bitter irony such as De Maupassant would have loved. Thorndyke glanced at Varney, from whom Margaret’s face had been hidden, with a new interest. Here was a man who had made away with an unwanted husband, perhaps with the sole purpose of securing the reversion of the wife; and behold! he had only created a vacancy for another man.
“This is a great pleasure, Thorndyke,” said Rodney, shaking hands heartily. “Quite an interesting experience, too, to see you in evening clothes, looking almost human. I am sorry I couldn’t get here to dinner. I should like to have seen you taking food like an ordinary mortal.”
“You shall see him take some coffee presently,” said Margaret. “But doesn’t Dr. Thorndyke usually look human?”
“Well,” replied Rodney, “I won’t say that there isn’t a certain specious resemblance to a human being. But it is illusory. He is really a sort of legal abstraction like John Doe or Richard Roe. Apart from the practice of the law there is no such person.”
“That sounds to me like a libel,” said Margaret.
“Yes,” agreed Varney. “You’ve done it now, Rodney. It must be actionable to brand a man as a mere hallucination. There will be wigs on the green—barrister’s wigs—when Dr. Thorndyke begins to deal out writs.”
“Then I shall plead justification,” said Rodney, “and I shall cite the present instance. For what do these pretences of customary raiment and food consumption amount to? They are mere camouflage, designed to cover a legal inquiry into the disappearances from his usual places of resort of one Daniel Purcell.”
“Now you are only making it worse,” said Margaret, “for you are implicating me. You are implying that my little dinner party is nothing more than a camouflaged legal inquisition.”
And you are implicating me, too,” interposed Varney, “as an accessory before, during, and after the fact. You had better be careful, Rodney. It will be a joint action, and Dr. Thorndyke will produce scientific witnesses who will prove anything he tells them to.”
“I call this intimidation,” said Rodney. “The circumstances seem to call for the aid of tobacco—I see that permission has been given to smoke.”
“And perhaps a cup of coffee might help,” said Margaret, as the maid entered with the tray.
“Yes, that will clear my brain for the consideration of my defence. But still, I must maintain that this is essentially a legal inquisition. We have assembled primarily to consider the position which is created by this letter that Penfield has received.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Margaret. “I asked you primarily that I might enjoy the pleasure of your society, and, secondly, that you might enjoy the pleasure of one another’s.”
“And yours.”
“Thank you. But as to the letter, I don’t see that there is anything to discuss. We now know where Dan is, but that doesn’t seem to alter the situation.”
“I don’t agree with you in either respect,” said Rodney. “There seems to me a good deal to discuss; and our knowledge as to Dan’s whereabouts alters the situation to this extent: that we can get into touch with him if we want to—or at least Dr. Thorndyke can, I presume.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Thorndyke. “But we could consider the possibility if the necessity should arise. Had you anything in your mind that would suggest such a necessity?”
“What I have in my mind,” replied Rodney, “is this. Purcell has left his wife for reasons known only to himself. He has never sent a word of excuse, apology, or regret. Until this letter arrived it was possible to suppose that he might be dead, or have lost his memory, or in some other way be incapable of communicating with his friends. Now we know that he is alive, that he has all his faculties—except the faculty of behaving like a decent and responsible man—and that he has gone away and is staying away of his own free will and choice. If there was ever any question as to his coming back, there is none now; and if there could ever have been any excuse or extenuation of his conduct, there is now none. We see that although he has never sent a message of any kind to his wife, yet, when the question of a sum of money arises, he writes to his solicitor with the greatest promptitude. That letter is a gross and callous insult to his wife.”
Thorndyke nodded. “That seems to be a fair statement of the position,” said he. “And I gather that you consider it possible to take some action?”
“My position is this,” said Rodney. “Purcell has deserted his wife. He has shaken off all his responsibilities as a husband. But he has left her with all the responsibilities and disabilities of a wife. He has taken to himself the privileges of a bachelor, but she remains a married woman. That is an in tolerable position. My contention is that, since he has gone for good, the tow-rope ought to be cut. He should be set adrift finally and completely and she should be liberated.”
“I agree with you entirely and emphatically,” said Thorndyke. “A woman whose husband has left her should, if she wishes it, revert to the status of a spinster.”
“And she does wish it,” interposed Margaret.
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke. “The difficulty is in respect of ways and means. Have you considered the question of procedure, Rodney?”
“It seems to me,” was the reply. “that the ways and means are provided by the letter itself. I suggest that the terms of that letter and the circumstances in which it was written afford evidence of desertion, or at least good grounds of action.”
“You may be right,” said Thorndyke, “but I doubt if it would be accepted as evidence of an intention not to return. It seems to me that a court would require something more definite. I suppose an action for restitution, as a preliminary, would not be practicable?”
Rodney shook his head emphatically, and Margaret pronounced a most decided refusal.
“I don’t want restitution,” she exclaimed, “and I would not agree to it. I would not receive him back on any terms.”
“He wouldn’t be likely to come back,” said Thorndyke, “and if he did not, his failure to comply with the order of the court would furnish definite grounds for further action.”
“But he might come back, at least temporarily,” objected Margaret, “if only by way of retaliation.
”
“Yes,” agreed Rodney, “it is perfectly possible; in fact, it is rather the sort of thing that Purcell would do—come back, make himself unpleasant, and then go off again. No; I am afraid that cat won’t jump.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we are in difficulties. We want the marriage dissolved, but we haven’t as much evidence as the court would require.”
“Probably more evidence could be obtained,” suggested Rodney, “and of a different kind. Didn’t Penfield say something about an associate or companion? Well, that is where our knowledge of Purcell’s whereabouts should help us. If it were possible to locate him exactly and keep him under observation, evidence of the existence of that companion might be forthcoming, and then the case would be all plain sailing.”
Thorndyke had been expecting this suggestion and considering how he should deal with it. He could not undertake to search the Eastern Counties for a man who was not there, nor could he give his reasons for not undertaking that search. Until his case against Varney was complete he would make no confidences to anybody. And as he reflected he watched Varney (who had been a keenly interested listener to the discussion), wondering what he was thinking about it all, and noting idly how neatly and quickly he rolled his cigarettes and how little he was inconvenienced by his contracted finger, the third finger of his left hand.
“I think, Rodney,” he said, “that you overestimate the ease with which we could locate Purcell. The Eastern Counties offer a large area in which to search for a man—who may not be there, after all. The post-mark on the letter tells us nothing of his permanent abiding-place, if he has one. Varney suggests that he may be afloat, and if he is, he will be very mobile and difficult to trace. And it would be possible for him to change his appearance—by growing a beard, for instance, to make a circulated description useless.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 88