“We may not want it at all,” said Thorndyke, as he poured the coffee, which the landlady had just brought, into the vacuum flask,” but on the other hand we may.”
He deposited the flask in a handbag, in which I observed a small emergency-case, and then turned to Brodribb.
“We had better get down to the beach now,” said he.
As we emerged from the bottom of the gap-way we saw our friends of the previous night laying a double line of planks across the beach from the boat to the margin of the surf; for the long galley-punt, with her load of ballast, was too heavy, over the shingle. They had just got the last plank laid as we reached the boat, and as they observed us they came running back with half a dozen of their mates.
“Jump aboard, gentlemen,” said our skipper, with a slightly dubious eye on Mr. Brodribb—for the boat’s gunwale was a good four feet above the beach. “We’ll have her afloat in a jiffy.”
We climbed in and hauled Mr. Brodribb in after us. The tall mast was already stepped—against the middle thwart in the odd fashion of galley-punts—and the great sail was hooked to the traveller and the tack-hook ready for hoisting. The party of boatmen gathered round and each took a tenacious hold of gunwale or thole. The skipper gave time with a jovial “Yo-ho!” his mates joined in with a responsive howl and heaved as one man. The great boat moved forward, and gathering way, slid swiftly along the greased planks towards the edge of the surf. Then her nose splashed into the sea; the skipper and his mate sprang in over the transom; the tall lug-sail soared up the mast and filled and the skipper let the rudder slide down its pintles and grasped the tiller.
“Did you want to go anywheres in particklar?” he inquired.
“We want to make for the big cave round St. David’s Head,” said Thorndyke, “and we want to get there well before high water.”
“We’ll do that easy enough, sir,” said the skipper “with this breeze. “Tis but about a mile and we’ve got three-quarters of an hour to do it in.”
He took a pull at the main sheet and, putting the helm down, brought the boat on a course parallel to the coast. Quietly but swiftly the water slipped past, one after another fresh headlands opened out till, in about a quarter of an hour, we were abreast of St. David’s Head with the sinister black shape of the cavern in full view over the port bow. Shortly afterwards the sail was lowered and our crew, reinforced by Thorndyke and me, took to the oars, pulling straight towards the shore with the cavern directly ahead.
As the boat grounded on the beach Thorndyke Brodribb and I sprang out and hurried across the sand and shingle to the gloomy and forbidding hole in white cliff. At first, coming out of the bright sunlight we seemed to be plunged in absolute darkness, and groped our way insecurely over the heaps of slippery sea-tangle that littered the floor. Presently our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and we could trace faintly the narrow, tunnel-like passage with its slimy green and the jagged roof nearly black with age. At the farther end it grew higher; and here I could see the small, dark bodies of bats hanging from the roof and clinging to the walls, and one or two fluttering blindly and noiselessly like large moths in the hollows of the vault above. But it was not the bats that engrossed my attention. Far away, at the extreme end, I could dimly discern the prostrate figure of a man lying motionless on a patch of smooth sand; a dreadful shape that seemed to sound the final note of tragedy to which the darkness, the clammy chill of the cavern and the ghostly forms of he bats had been a fitting prelude.
“My God!” gasped Brodribb, “we’re too late!” He broke into a shambling run and Thorndyke and I darted on ahead. The man was Frank Lumley, of course, and a glance at him gave us at least a ray of hope. He was lying in an easy posture with closed eyes and was still breathing, though his respiration was shallow and slow. Beside him on the sand lay a little bottle and near it a cork. I picked up the former and read on the label “Laudanum: Poison” and a local druggist’s name and address. But it was empty save for a few drops, the appearance and smell of which confirmed the label.
Thorndyke, who had been examining the unconscious man’s eyes with a little electric lamp, glanced at the bottle.
“Well,” said he, “we know the worst. That is a two-drachm phial, so if he took the lot his condition is not hopeless.”
As he spoke he opened the handbag, and taking out the emergency-case, produced from it a hypodermic syringe and a tiny bottle of atropine solution. I drew up Lumley’s sleeve while the syringe was filled and Thorndyke then administered the injection.
“It is opium poisoning, I suppose?” said I.
“Yes,” was the answer. “His pupils are like pin points; but his pulse is not so bad. I think we can safely move him down to the boat.”
Thereupon we lifted him, and with Brodribb supporting his feet, we moved in melancholy procession down the cave. Already the waves were lapping the beach at the entrance and even trickling in amongst the seaweed; and the boat, following the rising tide, had her bows within the cavern. The two fishermen, who were steadying the boat with their oars, greeted our appearance, carrying the body, with exclamations of astonishment. But they asked no questions, simply taking the unconscious man from us and laying him gently on the grating in the stern-sheets.
“Why, ’tis Mr. Lumley!” exclaimed the skipper.
“Yes,” said Thorndyke; and having given them a few words of explanation, he added: “I look to you to keep this affair to yourselves.”
To this the two men agreed heartily, and the boat having been pushed off and the sail hoisted, the skipper asked: “Do we sail straight back, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “but we won’t land yet. Stand on and off opposite the gap-way.”
Already, as a result of the movement, the patient stupor appeared less profound. And now Thorndyke took definite measures to rouse him, shaking him gently and constantly changing his position. Presently Lumley drew a deep sighing breath, and opened his eyes for a moment. Then Thorndyke sat him up, and producing the vacuum-flask, made him swallow a few teaspoonful of coffee. This procedure was continued for over an hour while the boat cruised up and down opposite the landing-place half a mile or so from the shore. Constantly our patient relapsed into stuporous sleep, only to be roused again and given a sip of coffee.
At length he recovered so far as to be able to sit up—lurching from side to side as the boat rolled—and drowsily answer questions spoken loudly in his ears. A quarter of an hour later, as he still continued to improve, Thorndyke ordered the skipper to bring the boat to the landing-place.
“I think he could walk now,” said he, “and the exercise will rouse him more completely.”
The boat was accordingly beached and Lumley assisted to climb out; and though at first he staggered as if he would fall, after a few paces he was able to walk fairly steadily, supported on either side by me and Thorndyke. The effort of ascending the steep gap-way revived him further; and by the time we reached the gate of Burling Court—half a mile across the fields—he was almost able to stand alone.
But even when he had arrived home he was not allowed to rest, earnestly as he begged to be left in peace. First Thorndyke insisted on his taking a light meal, and then proceeded to question him as to the events of the previous night.
“I presume, Lumley,” said he, “that you saw the apparition of Glynn’s head?”
“Yes. After Mr. Brodribb had seen me to bed, I got up and went to Gilbert’s cabin. Something seemed to draw me to it. And as soon as I opened the door, there was the head hanging in the air within three feet of me. Then I knew that Glynn was calling me, and—well, you know the rest.”
“I understand,” said Thorndyke. “But now I want you to come to Gilbert’s cabin with me and show me exactly where you were and where the head was.”
Lumley was profoundly reluctant and tried to postpone the demonstration. But Thorndyke would listen to no refusal, and at last Lumley rose wearily and conducted his tormentor up the stairs, followed by Brodribb and me.
It was a quaint little apartment, to which its antique furniture and contents gave an old-world air. An ancient hanger, quadrant and spy-glass hung on the wall, a large, dropsical-looking watch, inscribed “Thomas Tompion, Londini fecit,” reposed on a little velvet cushion in the middle of a small, black mahogany table by the window, and a couple of Cromwellian chairs stood against the wall. Thorndyke looked curiously at the table, which was raised on wooden blocks, and Lumley explained: “That was Gilbert’s dressing-table. He had it made for his cabin on board ship.”
“Indeed,” said Thorndyke. “Then Gilbert was a rather up-to-date gentleman. There wasn’t much mahogany furniture before 1720. Let us have a look at the interior arrangements.”
He lifted the watch, and having placed it on a chair, raised the lid of the table, disclosing a small wash basin, a little squat ewer and other toilet appliances. The table lid, which was held upright by a brass strut, held a rather large dressing-mirror enclosed in a projecting case.
“I wonder,” said I, “why the table was stood on those blocks.”
“Apparently,” said Thorndyke, “for the purpose of bringing the mirror to the eye-level of a person standing up.”
The answer gave Brodribb an idea. “I suppose, Frank,” said he, “it was not your own reflection in the mirror that you saw?”
“How could it be?” demanded Lumley. “The head was upside down, and besides, it was quite near to me.”
No, that’s true,” said Brodribb; and turning away from the table he picked up the old navigator’s watch “A queer old timepiece, this,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Lumley; “but it’s beautifully made. Let me show you the inside.”
He took off the outer case and opened the inner one, exhibiting the delicate workmanship of the interior to Brodribb and me, while Thorndyke continued to pore over the inner fittings of the table. Suddenly my colleague said: “Just go outside, you three, and shut the door. I want to try an experiment.”
Obediently we all filed out and closed the door, waiting expectantly in the corridor. In a couple of minutes Thorndyke came out and before he shut the door I noticed that the little room was now in darkness. He walked us a short distance down the corridor and then, halting, said:
“Now, Lumley, I want you to go into the cabin and tell us what you see.”
Lumley appeared a little reluctant to go in alone, but eventually he walked towards the cabin and opened the door. Instantly he uttered a cry of horror, and closing the door, ran back to us, trembling, agitated, wild-eyed.
“It is there now!” he exclaimed. “I saw it distinctly.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “Now you go and look, Brodribb.”
Mr. Brodribb showed no eagerness. With very obvious trepidation he advanced to the door and threw it open with a jerk. Then, with a sharp exclamation, he slammed it to, and came hurrying back, his usually pink complexion paled down to a delicate mauve.
“Horrible! Horrible!” he exclaimed. “What the devil is it, Thorndyke?”
A sudden suspicion flashed into my mind. I strode forward, and turning the handle of the door, pulled it open. And then I was not surprised that Brodribb had been startled. Within a yard of my face, clear, distinct and solid, was an inverted head, floating in mid-air in the pitch-dark room. Of course, being prepared for it, I saw at a glance what it was; recognised my own features, strangely and horribly altered as they were by their inverted position. But even now that I knew what it was, the thing had a most appalling, uncanny aspect.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, “let us go in and explode the mystery. Just stand outside the door, Jervis, while I demonstrate.”
He produced a sheet of white paper from his pocket, and smoothing it out, let our two friends into the room. First,” said he, holding the paper out flat at the eye-level, “you see on this paper a picture of Dr. Jervis’s head upside down.”
So there is,” said Brodribb; “like a magic-lantern picture.”
“Exactly like,” agreed Thorndyke; “and of exactly the same nature. Now let us see how it is produced.”
He struck a match and lit the gas; and instantly all our eyes turned towards the open dressing-table.
“But that is not the same mirror that we saw just now,” said Brodribb.
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “The frame is reversible on a sliding hinge and I have turned it round. On one side is the ordinary flat looking-glass which you saw before; on the other is this concave shaving-mirror. You observe that, if you stand close to it, you see your face the right way up and magnified; if you go back to the door, you see your head upside down and smaller.”
“But,” objected Lumley, “the head looked quite solid and seemed to be right out in the room.”
So it was, and is still. But the effect of reality is destroyed by the fact that you can now see the frame of the mirror enclosing the image, so that the head appears to be in the mirror. But in the dark, you could only see the image. The mirror was invisible.”
Brodribb reflected on this explanation. Presently he said: “I don’t think I quite understand it now.”
Thorndyke took a pencil from his pocket and began to draw a diagram on the sheet of paper that he still held.
“The figure that you see in an ordinary flat looking glass,” he explained,” is what is called a “virtual image.” It appears to be behind the mirror, but of course it is not there. It is an optical illusion. But the image from a concave mirror is in front of the mirror and is a real image like that of a magic-lantern or a camera, and, like them, inverted. This diagram will explain matters. Here is Lumley standing at the open door of the room. His figure is well lighted by the gas over the door (which, however, throws no light into the room) and is clearly reflected by the mirror, which throws forward a bright inverted image. But, as the room is dark and the mirror invisible, he sees only the image, which looks like—and in fact is—a real object standing in mid-air.”
“But why did I see only the head?” asked Lumley.
“Because the head occupied the whole of the mirror. If the mirror had been large enough you would have seen the full-length figure.”
Lumley reflected for a moment. “It almost looks if this had been arranged,” he said at length.
“Of course it has been arranged,” said Thorndyke “and very cleverly arranged, too. And now let us go and see if anything else has been arranged. Which is Mr. Price’s room?”
“He has three rooms, which open out of this corridor,” said Lumley; and he conducted us to a door at the farther end, which Thorndyke tried and found locked.
“It is a case for the smoker’s companion,” said he, producing from his pocket an instrument that went by that name, but which looked suspiciously like a lock-pick. At any rate, after one or two trials—which Mr. Brodribb watched with an appreciative smile—the bolt shot back and the door opened.
We entered what was evidently the bedroom, around which Thorndyke cast a rapid glance and then asked: “What are the other rooms?”
I think he uses them to tinker in,” said Lumley, “but I don’t quite know what he does in them. All three rooms communicate.”
We advanced to the door of communication and, finding it unlocked, passed through into the next room. Here, on a large table by the window, was a litter of various tools and appliances.
“What is that thing with the wooden screws?” Brodribb asked.
“A bookbinder’
s sewing-press,” replied Thorndyke. “And here are some boxes of finishing tools. Let us look over them.”
He took up the boxes one after the other and inspected the ends of the tools—brass stamps for impressing the ornaments on book covers. Presently he lifted out two, a leaf and a flower. Then he produced from his coat pocket the little manuscript book, and laying it on the table, picked up from the floor a little fragment of leather. Placing this also on the table, he pressed two of the tools on it, leaving a clear impression of a leaf and a flower. Finally he laid the scrap of leather on the book, when it was obvious that the leaf and flower were identical replicas of the leaves and flowers which formed the decoration of the book cover.
“This is very curious,” said Lumley. “They seem to be exactly alike.”
“They are exactly alike,” said Thorndyke. “I affirm that the tooling on that book was done with these tools, and the leaves sewn on that press.”
“But the book is a hundred years old,” objected Lumley.
Thorndyke shook his head. “The leather is old,” said he, “but the book is new. We have tested the paper and found it to be of recent manufacture. But now let us see what is in that little cupboard. There seem to be some bottles there.”
He ran his eye along the shelves, crowded with bottles and jars of varnish, glair, oil, cement and other material.
“Here,” he said, taking down a small bottle of dark-coloured powder, “is some aniline brown. That probably produced the ancient and faded writing. But this is more illuminating—in more senses than one.” He picked out a little, wide-mouthed bottle labelled “Radium Paint for the hands and figures of luminous watches.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Brodribb; “a very illuminating discovery, as you say.”
“And that,” said Thorndyke, looking keenly round the room,” seems to be all there is here. Shall we take a glance at the third room?”
We passed through the communicating doorway and found ourselves in a small apartment practically unfurnished and littered with trunks, bags and various lumber. As we stood looking about us, Thorndyke sniffed suspiciously.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 118