John Rodney was the first to speak. “What inference,” he asked, “do you wish us to draw from this very ingenious theory of yours?”
“It is rather more than a theory,” said Thorndyke, “but we will let that pass. The inference I leave to you; but perhaps it would help you if I were to recapitulate the facts.”
“Perhaps it would,” said Rodney.
Then,” said Thorndyke, “I will take them in their order. This is the case of a man who was seen to start on a voyage for a given destination in company with one other man. His start out to sea was witnessed by a number of persons. From that moment he was never seen again by any person excepting his one companion. He is said to have reached his destination, but his arrival there rests upon the unsupported verbal testimony of one person, the said companion. Thereafter he vanished utterly, and since then has made no sign of being alive; he has drawn no cheques, though he has a considerable balance at his bank; he has communicated with no one, and he has never been seen by anybody who could recognize him.”
“Is that quite correct?” interposed Philip. “He is said to have been seen at Falmouth and Ipswich, and then there are those letters.”
“His alleged appearance, embarking at Falmouth and disembarking at Ipswich,” replied Thorndyke, “rest, like his arrival at Penzance, upon the unsupported testimony of one person, his sole companion on the voyage. That statement I can prove to be untrue. He was never seen either at Falmouth or at Ipswich. As to the letters. I can prove them both to be forgeries and for the present I ask you to admit them as such pending the production of proof. But if we exclude the alleged appearances and the letters, what I have said is correct: from the time when this man put out to sea from Sennen he has never been seen by anyone but Varney, and there has never been any corroboration of Varney’s statement that he landed at Penzance.
“Some eight months later a portion of this man’s clothing is found. It bears evidence of having been lying at the bottom of the sea for many months, so that it must have sunk to its resting-place within a very short time of the man’s disappearance. The place where it has been lying is one over, or near, which the man must have sailed in the yacht. It has been moored to the bottom by some very heavy object, and a very heavy object has disappeared from the yacht. That heavy object had apparently not disappeared when the yacht started, and it is not known to have been on the yacht afterwards. The evidence goes to show that the disappearance of that object coincided in time with the disappearance of the man, and a quantity of cordage disappeared certainly on that day.
“Those are the facts at present in our possession with regard to the disappearance of Daniel Purcell, to which we may add that the disappearance was totally unexpected, that it has never been explained or accounted for excepting in a letter which is a manifest forgery, and that even in the latter, apart from the fictitious nature of the letter, the explanation is utterly inconsistent with all that is known of the missing man in respect of his character, his habits, his intentions, and his circumstances.”
CHAPTER XVI
In which John Rodney is Convinced
Once more, as Thorndyke concluded, there was a long, uncomfortable silence, during which the two brothers cogitated profoundly and with a very disturbed expression. At length John Rodney spoke.
“There is no denying, Thorndyke, that the body of circumstantial evidence that you have produced and expounded so skilfully and lucidly is extra ordinarily complete. Of course, it is subject to your being able to prove that Varney’ s reports as to Purcell’s appearance at Falmouth and Ipswich were false reports, and that the letters which purported to be written and sent by Purcell were in fact not written or sent by him. If you can prove those assertions, there will undoubtedly be a very formidable case against Varney, because those reports and those letters would then be evidence that someone was endeavouring to prove, falsely, that Purcell is alive. But this would amount to presumptive evidence that he is not alive, and that someone has reasons for concealing the fact of his death. But we must look to you to prove what you have asserted. You could hardly suggest that we should charge a highly respectable gentleman of our acquaintance with having murdered his friend and made away with the body—for that is obviously your meaning—on a mass of circumstantial evidence, which is, you must admit, rather highly theoretical.”
“I agree with you completely,” replied Thorndyke. “The evidence respecting the reports and the letters is obviously essential. But in the meantime it is of the first importance that we carry this investigation to an absolute finish. It is not merely a question of justice or our duty on grounds of public policy to uncover a crime and secure the punishment of the criminal. There are individual rights and interests to be guarded—those, I mean, of the missing man’s wife. If her husband is dead, common justice to her demands that his death should be proved and placed on public record.”
“Yes, indeed,” Rodney agreed heartily. “If Purcell is dead, then she is a widow, and the petition becomes unnecessary. By the way, I understand now why you were always so set against the private detective, but what I don’t understand is why you put in that advertisement.”
“It is quite simple,” was the reply. “I wanted another forged letter, written in terms dictated by myself—and I got it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Rodney. And now, for the first time, he began to understand how Thorndyke had got his great reputation.
“You spoke just now,” Rodney continued, “of carrying this investigation to a finish. Haven’t you done so? Is there anything more to investigate?”
“We have not yet completed our examination of the yacht,” replied Thorndyke. “The facts that we have elicited enable us to make certain inferences concerning the circumstances of Purcell’s death—assuming his death to have occurred. We infer, for instance, that he did not fall overboard, nor was he pushed overboard. He met his death on the yacht, and it was his dead body which was cast into the sea with the sinker attached to it. That we may fairly infer. But we have, at present, no evidence as to the way in which he came by his death. Possibly a further examination of the yacht may show some traces from which we may form an opinion. By the way, I have been looking at that revolver that is hanging from the beam. Was that on board at the time?”
“Yes,” answered Rodney. “It was hanging on the cabin bulkhead. Be careful,” he added, as Thorndyke lifted it from its hook. “I don’t think it has been unloaded.”
Thorndyke opened the breech of the revolver, and, turning out the cartridges into his hand, peered down the barrel and into each chamber separately. Then he looked at the cartridges in his hand.
“This seems a little odd,” he remarked. “The barrel is quite clean and so is one chamber, but the other five chambers are extremely foul. And I notice that the cartridges are not all alike. There are five Eleys and one Curtis and Harvey. That is quite a suggestive coincidence.”
Philip looked with a distinctly startled expression at the little heap of cartridges in Thorndyke’s hand, and, picking out the odd one, examined it with knitted brows.
“When did you fire the revolver last, Jack?” he asked, looking up at his brother.
“On the day when we potted at those champagne bottles,” was the reply.
Philip raised his eyebrows. “Then,” said he, “this is a very remarkable affair. I distinctly remember on that occasion, when we had sunk all the bottles, reloading the revolver with Eleys, and that there were then three cartridges left over in the bag. When I had loaded I opened the new box of Curtis and Harvey’s, tipped them into the bag, and threw the box overboard.”
“Did you clean the revolver?” asked Thorndyke.
“No, I didn’t. I meant to clean it later, but forgot to.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “it has undoubtedly been cleaned, and very thoroughly as to the barrel and one chamber. Shall we check the cartridges in the bag? There ought to be forty-nine Curtis and Harveys and three Eleys if what you have told us is correct.”
; Philip searched among the raffle on the bench, and presently unearthed a small linen bag. Untying the string, he shot out on the bench a heap of cartridges, which he counted one by one. There were fifty-two in all, and three of them were Eleys.
“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 the empty chamber and reloaded. Incidentally, he seems to have known where the cartridge-bag was kept, but he did not know about the change in the make of cartridges or that the revolver had not been cleaned. You notice, Rodney,” he added, “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. Philip mentioned a stain on the jib. Shall we see if we can make any thing of that?”
“I don’t think you will make much of it,” said Philip. “It is very faint. However, you shall see it and judge for yourself.”
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. The three men looked at it curiously for a few moments, then Thorndyke asked:
“Would you mind if I made a further stain on the sail? I should like to apply some reagents.”
“Of course you must do what is necessary,” said Rodney. “The evidence is more important than the sail.”
On this Thorndyke opened his research case and brought forth the two bottles that Polton had procured from the Borough, of which one was labelled “Tinct. Guaiaci Dil,” and the other “Ozon.” As they emerged from the case, Philip commented, “I shouldn’t have thought that the guaiacum test would be of any use after all these months, especially as the sail seems to have been scrubbed.”
“It will act, I think, if the pigment or its derivatives is there,” said Thorndyke; and as he spoke he poured a quantity of the tincture 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 ozonic 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, Rodney; this is a bloodstain, and a very carefully washed bloodstain.”
“So I supposed,” Rodney replied; and for a while no one spoke.
There was something very dramatic and solemn, they all felt, 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 they stood silently regarding the blue stain, the mingled liquids continued to spread; and suddenly, at the extreme edge of the wet area, they 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 a round spot at some two-thirds of its length.
The dreadful significance of this apparition, and the uncanny and mysterious manner of its emergence from the white surface, produced a most profound impression on all the observers, but especially on Rodney, who stared at it with an expression of the utmost horror, but spoke not a word. His brother was hardly less appalled, and when he at length spoke it was in a hushed voice that was little above a whisper.
“It is horrible,” he murmured. “It seems almost supernatural, that accusing hand springing into existence out of the blank surface after all this time. I wonder,” he added, after a pause, “why the third finger made no mark, seeing that the others are so distinct.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that the impression is there. That small round spot looks like the mark of a fingertip, and its position rather suggests a finger with a stiff joint.”
As he made this statement, both brothers simultaneously uttered a smothered exclamation.
“It is Varney’s hand!” gasped Philip. “You recognize it, Jack, don’t you? That is just where the tip of his stiff finger would come. Have you ever noticed Varney’ s left hand, Thorndyke?”
“You mean the ankylosed third finger? Yes; and I agree with you that this is undoubtedly the print of Varney’s hand.”
“Then,” said Rodney, “the case is complete. There is no need for any further investigation. On the evidence that is before us, to say nothing of the additional evidence that you can produce, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt that Purcell was murdered by Varney and his body sunk in the sea. You agree with me, I am sure, Thorndyke?”
“Certainly,” was the reply. “I consider the evidence so far conclusive that I have not the slightest doubt on the subject.”
“Very well,” said Rodney. “Then the next question is, what is to be done? Shall I lay a sworn information or will you? Or had we better go to the police together and make a joint statement?”
“Whatever we do,” replied Thorndyke, “don’t let us be premature. The evidence, as you say, is perfectly convincing. It leaves us with no doubt as to what happened on that day last June. It would probably be, in an intellectual sense, quite convincing to a judge. It might even be to a jury. But would it be sufficient to secure a conviction? I think it extremely doubtful.”
“Do you really?” exclaimed Philip. “I should have thought it impossible that anyone who had heard the evidence could fail to come to the inevitable conclusion.”
“You are probably right,” said Thorndyke. “But a jury who are trying an accused person on a capital charge have got to arrive at something more than a belief that the accused is guilty. They have got to be convinced that there is, humanly speaking, no possible doubt as to the prisoner’s guilt. No jury would give an adverse verdict on a balance of probabilities, nor would any judge encourage them to do so.”
“But surely,” said Philip, “this is something more than a mere balance of probabilities. The evidence all points in the same direction, and there is nothing to suggest a contrary conclusion.”
Thorndyke smiled dryly. “You might think differently after you have heard a capable counsel for the defence. But the position is this: we are dealing with a charge of murder. Now, in order to prove that a particular person is guilty of murder it is necessary first to establish the corpus delicti, as the phrase goes—that is, to prove that a murder has been committed by someone. But the proof that a person has been murdered involves the antecedent proof that he is dead. If there is any doubt that the alleged deceased is dead, no murder charge can be sustained. But proof of death usually involves the production of the body or of some identifiable part of it, or at least the evidence of some person who has seen it and can swear to its identity. There are exceptional cases, of course, and this might be accepted as one. But you can take it that the inability of the prosecution to produce the body or any part of it, or any witness who can testify to having seen it, or any direct evidence that the person alleged to have been murdered is actually dead, would make it extremely difficult to secure the conviction of the accused.”
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“Yes, I see that,” said Philip. “But, after all, that is not our concern. If we give the authorities all the information that we possess, we shall have done our duty as citizens. As to the rest, we must leave the court to convict or acquit, according to its judgment.”
“Not at all,” Thorndyke dissented. “You are losing sight of our position in the case. There are two different issues, which are, however, inseparably connected. One is the fact of Purcell’s death, the other is Varney’s part in compassing it. Now it is the first issue that concerns us, or at least concerns me. If we could prove that Purcell is dead without bringing Varney into it at all, I should be willing to do so; for I strongly suspect that there were extenuating circumstances.”
“So do I,” said Rodney. “Purcell was a brute, whereas Varney has always seemed to be a perfectly decent, gentlemanly fellow.”
“That is the impression that I have received,” said Thorndyke, “and I feel no satisfaction in proceeding against Varney. My purpose all along has been, not to convict Varney but to prove that Purcell is dead. And that is what we have to do now, for Margaret Purcell’s sake. But we cannot leave Varney out of the case. For if Purcell is dead, he is dead because Varney killed him; and our only means of proving his death is to charge Varney with having murdered him. But if we charge Varney we must secure a conviction. We cannot afford to fail. If the court is convinced that Purcell is dead, it will convict Varney, for the evidence of his death is evidence of his murder; but if the court acquits Varney, it can do so only on the ground that there is no conclusive evidence that Purcell is dead. Varney’s acquittal would therefore leave Margaret Purcell still bound by law to a hypothetical husband, with the insecure chance of obtaining her release at some future time either by divorce or presumption of death. That would not be fair to her. She is a widow, and she is entitled to have her status acknowledged.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 95