“Quite a long time since I have seen you,” he remarked after the preliminary greetings. “I wonder what your quest is this time.”
“It is a very simple one,” said Thorndyke. “I am going to ask you if you can let me look at a Charles the Second guinea dated 1663.”
“Certainly I can,” was the reply, accompanied by an inquisitive glance at my friend. “It is not a rarity, you know.”
He crossed the room to a large cabinet, and having run his eye over the multitudinous labels, drew out a small, very shallow drawer. With this in his hand, he returned, and picking a coin out of its circular pit, held it out to Thorndyke, who took it from him, holding it delicately by the edges. He looked at it attentively for a few moments, and then silently presented the obverse for my inspection. Naturally my eye at once sought the little elephant under the bust, and there it was, but there was no castle on its back.
“Is this the only type of guinea issued at that date?” Thorndyke asked.
“The only type—with or without the elephant, according to the source of the gold.”
“There was no variation or alternative form?”
“No.”
“I notice that this coin has a plain elephant under the bust; but I seem to have heard of a guinea, bearing this date, which had an elephant and castle under the bust. You are sure there was no such guinea?”
Our official friend shook his head as he took the coin from Thorndyke and replaced it in its cell. “As sure,” he replied, “as one can be of a universal negative.” He picked up the drawer and was just moving away towards the cabinet when there came a sudden change in his manner.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, stopping and putting down the drawer. “You are quite right. Only it was not an issue; it was a trial piece, and only a single coin was struck. I will tell you about it. There is a rather curious story hanging to that piece.
“This guinea, as you probably know, was struck from dies cut by John Roettier and was one of the first coined by the mill-and-screw process in place of the old hammer-and-pile method. Now, when Roettier had finished the dies, a trial piece was struck; and in striking that piece, the obverse die cracked right across, but apparently only at the last turn of the screw, for the trial piece was quite perfect. Of course Roettier had to cut a new die; and for some reason he made a slight alteration. The first die had an elephant and castle under the bust. In the second one he changed this to a plain elephant. So your impression was, so far, correct; but the coin, if it still exists, is absolutely unique.”
“Is it not known, then, what became of that trial piece?”
“Oh, yes—up to a point. That is the queerest part of the story. For a time it remained in the possession of the Slingsby family—Slingsby was the Master of the Mint when it was struck. Then it passed through the hands of various collectors and finally was bought by an American collector named Van Zellen. Now, Van Zellen was a millionaire and his collection was a typical millionaire’s collection. It consisted entirely of things of enormous value which no ordinary man could afford or of unique things of which nobody could possibly have a duplicate. It seems that he was a rather solitary man and that he spent most of his evenings alone in his museum, gloating over his possessions.
“One morning Van Zellen was found dead in the little study attached to the museum. That was about eighteen months ago. There was an empty champagne bottle on the table and a half-emptied glass, which smelt of bitter almonds, and in his pocket was an empty phial labelled Hydrocyanic Acid. At first it was assumed that he had committed suicide; but when, later, the collection was examined, it was found that a considerable part of it was missing. A clean sweep had been made of the gems, jewels and other portable objects of value, and, among other things, this unique trial guinea had vanished. Surely you remember the case?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I do, now you mention it; but I never heard what was stolen. Do you happen to know what the later developments were?”
“There were none. The identity of the murderer was never discovered, and not a single item of the stolen property has ever been traced. To this day the crime remains an impenetrable mystery—unless you know something about it?,” and again our friend cast an inquisitive glance at Thorndyke.
“My practice,” the latter, plied, “does not extend to the United States. Their own very efficient investigators seem to be able to do all that is necessary. But I am very much obliged to you for having given us so much of your time, to say nothing of this extremely interesting information. I shall make a note of it; for American crime occasionally has its repercussions on this side.”
I secretly admired the adroit way in which Thorndyke had evaded the rather pointed question without making any actual misstatement. But the motive for the evasion was not very obvious to me. I was about to put a question on the subject, but he anticipated it, for, as soon as we were outside, he remarked with a chuckle: “It is just as well that we didn’t begin by exhibiting the casts. We could hardly have sworn our friend to secrecy, seeing that the original is undoubtedly stolen property.”
“But aren’t you going to draw the attention of the police to the fact?”
“I think not,” he replied. “They have got the original, and no doubt they have a list of the stolen property. We must assume that they will make use of their knowledge; but if they don’t, it may be all the better for us. The police are very discreet; but they do sometimes give the Press more information than I should. And what is told to the Press is told to the criminal.”
“And why not?” I asked. “What is the harm of his knowing?”
“My dear Gray!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “You surprise me. Just consider the position. This man aimed at being entirely unsuspected. That failed. But still his identity is unknown, and he is probably confident that it will never be ascertained. Then he is, so far, off his guard. There is no need for him to disappear or go into hiding. But let him know that he is being tracked and he will almost certainly take fresh precautions against discovery. Probably he will slip away beyond our reach. Our aim must be to encourage him in a feeling of perfect security; and that aim commits us to the strictest secrecy. No one must know what cards we hold or that we hold any; or even that we are taking a hand.”
“What about Miss D’Arblay?” I asked anxiously. “May I not tell her that you are working on her behalf?”
He looked at me somewhat dubiously. “It would obviously be better not to,” he said, “but that might seem a little unfriendly and unsympathetic.”
“It would be an immense relief to her to know that you are trying to help her, and I think you could trust her to keep your secrets.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “But warn her very thoroughly. Remember that our antagonist is hidden from us. Let us remain hidden from him, so far as our activities are concerned.”
“I will make her promise absolute secrecy,” I agreed; and then, with a slight sense of anti-climax, I added: “But we don’t seem to have so very much to conceal. This curious story of the stolen coin is interesting, but it doesn’t appear to get us any more forward.”
“Doesn’t it?” he asked. “Now, I was just congratulating myself on the progress that we had made; on the way in which we are narrowing down the field of inquiry. Let us trace our progress. When you found the body, there was no evidence as to the cause of death, no suspicion of any agent whatever. Then came the inquest demonstrating the cause of death and bringing into view a person of unknown identity but having certain distinguishing characteristics. Then Follett’s discovery added some further characteristics and suggested certain possible motives for the crime. But still there was no hint as to the person’s identity or position in life. Now we have good evidence that he is a professional criminal of a dangerous type, that he is connected with another crime and with a quantity of easily-identified stolen property. We also know that he was in America about eighteen months ago, and we can easily get exact information as to dates and locality. This man is no longer a
mere formless shadow. He is in a definite category of possible persons.”
“But,” I objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his possession does not prove that he is the man who stole it.”
“Not by itself,” Thorndyke agreed. “But taken in conjunction with the crime, it is almost conclusive. You appear to be overlooking the striking similarity of the two crimes. Each was a violent murder committed by means of poison; and in each case the poison selected was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, aconitine, was calculated to escape detection; the other, hydrocyanic acid—the most rapidly-acting of all poisons—was calculated to produce almost instant death in a man who was probably struggling and might have raised an alarm. I think we arc fairly justified in assuming that the murderer of Van Zellen was the murderer of D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two groups of circumstances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow him; and sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able to give him a name. Then, if we have kept our own counsel, and he is unconscious of the pursuit, we shall be able to lay our hands on him. But here we are at the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us to get back to the routine of duty.”
CHAPTER VIII
SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED
It was near the close of my incumbency of Dr. Cornish’s practice—indeed, Cornish had returned on the previous evening—that my unsatisfactory attendance on Mr. Simon Bendelow came to an end. It had been a wearisome affair. In medical practice, perhaps even more than in most human activities, continuous effort calls for the sustenance of achievement. A patient who cannot be cured or even substantially relieved is of all patients the most depressing. Week after week I had made my fruitless visits, had watched the silent, torpid sufferer grow yet more shrivelled and wasted, speculating even a little impatiently on the possible duration of his long-drawn-out passage to the grave. But at last the end came.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morris,” I said as that grim female opened the door and surveyed me impassively, “and how is our patient today?”
“He isn’t our patient any longer,” she replied. “He’s dead.”
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Well, it had to be, sooner or later. Poor Mr. Bendelow! When did he die?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about five,” she answered.
“H’m! If you had sent me a note, I could have brought the certificate. However, I can post it to you. Shall I go up and have a look at him?”
“You can if you like,” she replied. “But the ordinary certificate won’t be enough in his case. He is going to be cremated.”
“Oh, indeed,” said I, once more unpleasantly conscious of my inexperience. “What sort of certificate is required for cremation?”
“Oh, all sorts of formalities have to be gone through,” she answered. “Just come into the drawing-room and I will tell you what has to be done.”
She preceded me along the passage and I followed meekly, anathematizing myself for my ignorance, and my instructors for having sent me forth crammed with academic knowledge but with the practical business of my profession all to learn.
“Why are you having him cremated?” I asked, as we entered the room and shut the door.
“Because it is one of the provisions of his will,” she answered. “I may as well let you see it.”
She opened a bureau and took from it a foolscap envelope from which she drew out a folded document. This she first unfolded and then re-folded so that its concluding clauses were visible, and laid it on the flap of the bureau. Placing her finger on it, she said: “That is the cremation clause. You had better read it.”
I ran my eye over the clause, which read: “I desire that my body shall be cremated and I appoint Sarah Elizabeth Morris the wife of the aforesaid James Morris to be the residuary legatee and sole executrix of this my will.” Then followed the attestation clause, underneath which was the shaky but characteristic signature of Simon Bendelow, and opposite this the signatures of the witnesses, Anne Dewsnep and Martha Bonnington, both described as spinsters and both of a joint address which was hidden by the folding of the document.
“So much for that,” said Mrs. Morris, returning the will to its envelope; “and now as to the certificate. There is a special form for cremation which has to be signed by two doctors, and one of them must be a hospital doctor or a consultant. So I wrote off at once to Dr. Cropper, as he knew the patient, and I have had a telegram from him this morning saying that he will be here this evening at eight o’clock to examine the body and sign the certificate. Can you manage to meet him at that time?”
“Yes,” I replied, “fortunately I can, as Dr. Cornish is back.”
“Very well,” said she; “then in that case you needn’t go up now. You will be able to make the examination together. Eight o’clock, sharp, remember.”
With this she re-conducted me along the passage and—I had almost said ejected me; but she sped the parting guest with a business-like directness that was perhaps accounted for by the presence opposite the door of one of those grim parcels-delivery vans in which undertakers distribute their wares, and from which a rough—looking coffin was at the moment being hoisted out by two men.
The extraordinary promptitude of this proceeding so impressed me that I remarked: “They haven’t been long making the coffin.”
“They didn’t have to make it,” she replied. “I ordered it a month ago. It’s no use leaving things to the last moment.”
I turned away with somewhat mixed feelings. There was certainly a horrible efficiency about this woman. Executrix indeed! Her promptness in carrying out the provisions of the will was positively appalling. She must have written to Cropper before the breath was fairly out of poor Bendelow’s body, but her forethought in the matter of the coffin fairly made my flesh creep.
Dr. Cornish made no difficulty about taking over the evening consultations, in fact he had intended to do so in any case. Accordingly, after a rather early dinner, I made my way in leisurely fashion back to Hoxton, where, after all, I arrived fully ten minutes too soon. I realized my prematureness when I halted at the corner of Market Street to look at my watch; and as ten additional minutes of Mrs. Morris’s society offered no allurement, I was about to turn back and fill up the time with short walk when my attention was arrested by a mast which had just appeared above the wall at the end of the street. With its black—painted truck and halyard blocks and its long tricolour pennant, it looked like the mast of a Dutch schuyt or galliot, but I could hardly believe it possible that such a craft could make its appearance in the heart of London. All agog with curiosity, I hurried up the street and looked over the wall at the canal below; and there, sure enough, she was—a big Dutch sloop, broad-bosomed, massive and mediaeval, just such a craft as one may see in the pictures of old Vandervelde, painted when Charles the Second was king.
I leaned on the low wall and watched her with delighted interest as she crawled forward slowly to her berth, bringing with her, as it seemed, a breath of the distant sea and the echo of the surf murmuring on sandy beaches. I noted appreciatively her old-world air, her antique build, her gay and spotless paint and the muslin curtains in the little windows of her deck-house, and was, in fact, so absorbed in watching her that the late Simon Bendelow had passed completely out of my mind. Suddenly, however, the chiming of a clock recalled me to my present business. With a hasty glance at my watch, I tore myself away reluctantly, darted across the street and gave a vigorous pull at the bell.
Dr. Cropper had not yet arrived, but the deceased had not been entirely neglected, for when I had spent some five minutes staring inquisitively about the drawing-room into which Mrs. Morris had shown me, that lady returned, accompanied by two other ladies whom she introduced to me somewhat informally by the names of Miss Dewsnep and Miss Bonnington respectively. I recognized the names as those of the two witnesses to the will and inspected them with furtive curiosity, though, indeed, they were quite unremarkable excepting as typical specimens of the genus elderly spinster.
; “Poor Mr. Bendelow!” murmured Miss Dewsnep, shaking her head and causing an artificial cherry on her bonnet to waggle idiotically. “How beautiful he looks in his coffin!”
She looked at me as if for confirmation, so that I was fain to admit that his beauty in this new setting had not yet been revealed to me.
“So peaceful,” she added, with another shake of her head, and Miss Bonnington chimed in with the comment, “Peaceful and restful.” Then they both looked at me and I mumbled indistinctly that I had no doubt he did; the fact being that the inmates of coffins are not in general much addicted to boisterous activity.
“Ah!” Miss Dewsnep resumed, “how little did I think when I first saw him, sitting up in bed so cheerful in that nice, sunny room in the house at—”
“Why not?” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “Did you think he was going to live for ever?”
“No, Mrs. Morris, ma’am,” was the dignified reply, “I did not. No such idea ever entered my head. I know too well that we mortals are all born to be gathered in at last as the—er—as the—”
“Sparks fly upwards,” murmured Miss Bonnington. “As the corn is gathered in at harvest-time,” Miss Dewsnep continued with slight emphasis. “But not to be cast into a burning fiery furnace. When I first saw him in the other house at—”
“I don’t see what objection you need have to cremation,” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “It was his own choice, and a good one, too. Look at those great cemeteries. What sense is there in letting the dead occupy the space that is wanted for the living?”
“Well,” said Miss Dewsnep, “I may be old-fashioned, but it does seem to me that a nice quiet funeral with plenty of flowers and a proper, decent grave in a churchyard is the natural end to a human life. That is what I look forward to, myself.”
“Then you are not likely to be disappointed,” said Mrs. Morris; “though I don’t quite see what satisfaction you expect to get out of your own funeral.”
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