The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

“Now, Dr. Rowe, I am going to ask you a few questions on another subject. Have you given any attention to fingerprints made by bloody fingers?”

  “Yes. I have recently made some experiments on the subject.”

  “Will you give us the results of those experiments?”

  “My object was to ascertain whether fingers wet with fresh blood would yield distinct and characteristic prints. I made a great number of trials, and as a result found that it is extremely difficult to obtain a clear print when the finger is wetted with fresh blood. The usual result is a mere red blot showing no ridge pattern at all, owing to the blood filling the furrows between the ridges. But if the blood is allowed to dry almost completely on the finger, a very clear print is obtained.”

  “Is it possible to recognise a print that has been made by a nearly dry finger?”

  “Yes; quite easily. The half-dried blood is nearly solid and adheres to the paper in a different way from the liquid, and it shows minute details, such as the mouths of the sweat glands, which are always obliterated by the liquid.”

  “Look carefully at this paper, which was found in the safe, and tell me what you see.”

  The witness took the paper and examined it attentively, first with the naked eye and then with a pocket-lens.

  “I see,” said he, “two blood-marks and a print, apparently of a thumb. Of the two marks, one is a blot, smeared slightly by a finger or thumb; the other is a smear only. Both were evidently produced with quite liquid blood. The thumb-print was also made with liquid blood.”

  “You are quite sure that the thumb-print was made with liquid blood?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Is there anything unusual about the thumb-print?”

  “Yes. It is extraordinarily clear and distinct. I have made a great number of trials and have endeavoured to obtain the clearest prints possible with fresh blood; but none of my prints are nearly as distinct as this one.”

  Here the witness produced a number of sheets of paper, each of which was covered with the prints of bloody fingers, and compared them with the memorandum slip.

  The papers were handed to the judge for his inspection, and Anstey sat down, when Sir Hector Trumpler rose, with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face, to cross-examine.

  “You say that the blood found in the safe was defibrinated or artificially treated. What inference do you draw from that fact?”

  “I infer that it was not dropped from a bleeding wound.”

  “Can you form any idea how such blood should have got into the safe?”

  “None whatever.”

  “You say that the thumb-print is a remarkably distinct one. What conclusion do you draw from that?”

  “I do not draw any conclusion. I cannot account for its distinctness at all.”

  The learned counsel sat down with rather a baffled air, and I observed a faint smile spread over the countenance of my colleague.

  “Arabella Hornby.”

  A muffled whimpering from my neighbour on the left hand was accompanied by a wild rustling of silk. Glancing at Mrs. Hornby, I saw her stagger from the bench, shaking like a jelly, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief and grasping her open purse. She entered the witness-box, and, having gazed wildly round the court, began to search the multitudinous compartments of her purse.

  “The evidence you shall give,” sang out the usher—whereat Mrs. Hornby paused in her search and stared at him apprehensively—“to the court and jury sworn, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar shall be the truth,—”

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Hornby stiffly, “I—”

  “—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; so help you God!”

  He held out the Testament, which she took from him with a trembling hand and forthwith dropped with a resounding bang on to the floor of the witness-box, diving after it with such precipitancy that her bonnet jammed violently against the rail of the box.

  She disappeared from view for a moment, and then rose from the depths with a purple face and her bonnet flattened and cocked over one ear like an artillery-man’s forage cap.

  “Kiss the Book, if you please,” said the usher, suppressing a grin by an heroic effort, as Mrs. Hornby, encumbered by her purse, her handkerchief and the Testament, struggled to unfasten her bonnet-strings. She clawed frantically at her bonnet, and, having dusted the Testament with her handkerchief, kissed it tenderly and laid it on the rail of the box, whence it fell instantly on to the floor of the court.

  “I am really very sorry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hornby, leaning over the rail to address the usher as he stooped to pick up the Book, and discharging on to his back a stream of coins, buttons and folded bills from her open purse; “you will think me very awkward, I’m afraid.”

  She mopped her face and replaced her bonnet rakishly on one side, as Anstey rose and passed a small red book across to her.

  “Kindly look at that book, Mrs. Hornby.”

  “I’d rather not,” said she, with a gesture of repugnance. “It is associated with matters of so extremely disagreeable a character—”

  “Do you recognise it?”

  “Do I recognise it! How can you ask me such a question when you must know—”

  “Answer the question,” interposed the judge. “Do you or do you not recognise the book in your hand?”

  “Of course I recognise it. How could I fail to—”

  “Then say so,” said the judge.

  “I have said so,” retorted Mrs. Hornby indignantly.

  The judge nodded to Anstey, who then continued—“It is called a ‘Thumbograph,’ I believe.”

  “Yes: the name ‘Thumbograph’ is printed on the cover, so I suppose that is what it is called.”

  “Will you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?”

  For one moment Mrs. Hornby stared wildly at her interrogator; then she snatched a paper from her purse, unfolded it, gazed at it with an expression of dismay, and crumpled it up in the palm of her hand.

  “You are asked a question,” said the judge.

  “Oh! Yes,” said Mrs. Hornby. “The Committee of the Society—no, that is the wrong one—I mean Walter, you know—at least—”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Anstey, with polite gravity.

  “You were speaking of the committee of some society,” interposed the judge. “What society were you referring to?”

  Mrs. Hornby spread out the paper and, after a glance at it, replied—

  “The Society of Paralysed Idiots, your worship,” whereat a rumble of suppressed laughter arose from the gallery.

  “But what has that society to do with the ‘Thumbograph’?” inquired the judge.

  “Nothing, your worship. Nothing at all.”

  “Then why did you refer to it?”

  “I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hornby, wiping her eyes with the paper and then hastily exchanging it for her handkerchief.

  The judge took off his glasses and gazed at Mrs. Hornby with an expression of bewilderment. Then he turned to the counsel and said in a weary voice—“Proceed, if you please, Mr. Anstey.”

  “Can you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?” said the latter in persuasive accents.

  “I thought it was Walter, and so did my niece, but Walter says it was not, and he ought to know, being young and having a most excellent memory, as I had myself when I was his age, and really, you know, it can’t possibly matter where I got the thing—”

  “But it does matter,” interrupted Anstey. “We wish particularly to know.”

  “If you mean that you wish to get one like it—”

  “We do not,” said Anstey. “We wish to know how that particular ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession. Did you, for instance, buy it yourself, or was it given to you by someone?”

  “Walter says I bought it myself, but I thought he gave it to me, but he says he did not, and you see—”

  “Ne
ver mind what Walter says. What is your own impression?”

  “Why I still think that he gave it to me, though, of course, seeing that my memory is not what it was—”

  “You think that Walter gave it to you?”

  “Yes, in fact I feel sure he did, and so does my niece.”

  “Walter is your nephew, Walter Hornby?”

  “Yes, of course. I thought you knew.”

  “Can you recall the occasion on which the ‘Thumbograph’ was given to you?”

  “Oh yes, quite distinctly. We had some people to dinner—some people named Colley—not the Dorsetshire Colleys, you know, although they are exceedingly nice people, as I have no doubt the other Colleys are, too, when you know them, but we don’t. Well, after dinner we were a little dull and rather at a loss, because Juliet, my niece, you know, had cut her finger and couldn’t play the piano excepting with the left hand, and that is so monotonous as well as fatiguing, and the Colleys are not musical, excepting Adolphus, who plays the trombone, but he hadn’t got it with him, and then, fortunately, Walter came in and brought the ‘Thumbograph’ and took all our thumb-prints and his own as well, and we were very much amused, and Matilda Colley—that is the eldest daughter but one—said that Reuben jogged her elbow, but that was only an excuse—”

  “Exactly,” interrupted Anstey. “And you recollect quite clearly that your nephew Walter gave you the ‘Thumbograph’ on that occasion?”

  “Oh, distinctly; though, you know, he is really my husband’s nephew—”

  “Yes. And you are sure that he took the thumb-prints?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “And you are sure that you never saw the ‘Thumbograph’ before that?”

  “Never. How could I? He hadn’t brought it.”

  “Have you ever lent the ‘Thumbograph’ to anyone?”

  “No, never. No one has ever wanted to borrow it, because, you see—”

  “Has it never, at any time, gone out of your possession?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that; in fact, I have often thought, though I hate suspecting people, and I really don’t suspect anybody in particular, you know, but it certainly was very peculiar and I can’t explain it in any other way. You see, I kept the ‘Thumbograph’ in a drawer in my writing table, and in the same drawer I used to keep my handkerchief-bag—in fact I do still, and it is there at this very moment, for in my hurry and agitation, I forgot about it until we were in the cab, and then it was too late, because Mr. Lawley—”

  “Yes. You kept it in a drawer with your handkerchief-bag.”

  “That was what I said. Well, when Mr. Hornby was staying at Brighton he wrote to ask me to go down for a week and bring Juliet—Miss Gibson, you know—with me. So we went, and, just as we were starting, I sent Juliet to fetch my handkerchief-bag from the drawer, and I said to her, ‘Perhaps we might take the thumb-book with us; it might come in useful on a wet day.’ So she went, and presently she came back and said that the ‘Thumbograph’ was not in the drawer. Well, I was so surprised that I went back with her and looked myself, and sure enough the drawer was empty. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when we came home again, as soon as we got out of the cab, I gave Juliet my handkerchief-bag to put away, and presently she came running to me in a great state of excitement. ‘Why, Auntie,’ she said,’ the “Thumbograph” is in the drawer; somebody must have been meddling with your writing table.’ I went with her to the drawer, and there, sure enough, was the ‘Thumbograph.’ Somebody must have taken it out and put it back while we were away.”

  “Who could have had access to your writing table?”

  “Oh, anybody, because, you see, the drawers were never locked. We thought it must have been one of the servants.”

  “Had anyone been to the house during your absence?”

  “No. Nobody, except, of course, my two nephews; and neither of them had touched it, because we asked them, and they both said they had not.”

  “Thank you.” Anstey sat down, and Mrs. Hornby having given another correcting twist to her bonnet, was about to step down from the box when Sir Hector rose and bestowed upon her an intimidating stare.

  “You made some reference,” said he, “to a society—the Society of Paralysed Idiots, I think, whatever that may be. Now what caused you to make that reference?”

  “It was a mistake; I was thinking of something else.”

  “I know it was a mistake. You referred to a paper that was in your hand.”

  “I did not refer to it, I merely looked at it. It is a letter from the Society of Paralysed Idiots. It is nothing to do with me really, you know; I don’t belong to the society, or anything of that sort.”

  “Did you mistake that paper for some other paper?”

  “Yes, I took it for a paper with some notes on it to assist my memory.”

  “What kind of notes?”

  “Oh, just the questions I was likely to be asked.”

  “Were the answers that you were to give to those questions also written on the paper?”

  “Of course they were. The questions would not have been any use without the answers.”

  “Have you been asked the questions that were written on the paper?”

  “Yes; at least, some of them.”

  “Have you given the answers that were written down?”

  “I don’t think I have—in fact, I am sure I haven’t, because, you see—”

  “Ah! You don’t think you have.” Sir Hector Trumpler smiled significantly at the jury, and continued—

  “Now who wrote down those questions and answers?”

  “My nephew, Walter Hornby. He thought, you know—”

  “Never mind what he thought. Who advised or instructed him to write them down?”

  “Nobody. It was entirely his own idea, and very thoughtful of him, too, though Dr. Jervis took the paper away from me and said I must rely on my memory.”

  Sir Hector was evidently rather taken aback by this answer, and sat down suddenly, with a distinctly chapfallen air.

  “Where is this paper on which the questions and answers are written?” asked the judge. In anticipation of this inquiry I had already handed it to Thorndyke, and had noted by the significant glance that he bestowed on me that he had not failed to observe the peculiarity in the type. Indeed the matter was presently put beyond all doubt, for he hastily passed to me a scrap of paper, on which I found, when I opened it out, that he had written “X = W.H.”

  As Anstey handed the rather questionable document up to the judge, I glanced at Walter Hornby and observed him to flush angrily, though he strove to appear calm and unconcerned, and the look that he directed at his aunt was very much the reverse of benevolent.

  “Is this the paper?” asked the judge, passing it down to the witness.

  “Yes, your worship,” answered Mrs. Hornby, in a tremulous voice; whereupon the document was returned to the judge, who proceeded to compare it with his notes.

  “I shall order this document to be impounded,” said he sternly, after making a brief comparison. “There has been a distinct attempt to tamper with witnesses. Proceed with your case, Mr. Anstey.”

  There was a brief pause, during which Mrs. Hornby tottered across the court and resumed her seat, gasping with excitement and relief; then the usher called out—

  “John Evelyn Thorndyke!”

  “Thank God!” exclaimed Juliet, clasping her hands. “Oh! Will he be able to save Reuben? Do you think he will, Dr. Jervis?”

  “There is someone who thinks he will,” I replied, glancing towards Polton, who, clasping in his arms the mysterious box and holding on to the microscope case, gazed at his master with a smile of ecstasy. “Polton has more faith than you have, Miss Gibson.”

  “Yes, the dear, faithful little man!” she rejoined. “Well, we shall know the worst very soon now, at any rate.”

  “The worst or the best,” I said. “We are now going to hear what the defence really is.”

  “God grant that
it may be a good defence,” she exclaimed in a low voice; and I—though not ordinarily a religious man—murmured “Amen!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  THORNDYKE PLAYS HIS CARD

  As Thorndyke took his place in the box I looked at him with a sense of unreasonable surprise, feeling that I had never before fully realised what manner of man my friend was as to his externals. I had often noted the quiet strength of his face, its infinite intelligence, its attractiveness and magnetism; but I had never before appreciated what now impressed me most: that Thorndyke was actually the handsomest man I had ever seen. He was dressed simply, his appearance unaided by the flowing gown or awe-inspiring wig, and yet his presence dominated the court. Even the judge, despite his scarlet robe and trappings of office, looked commonplace by comparison, while the jurymen, who turned to look at him, seemed like beings of an inferior order. It was not alone the distinction of the tall figure, erect and dignified, nor the power and massive composure of his face, but the actual symmetry and comeliness of the face itself that now arrested my attention; a comeliness that made it akin rather to some classic mask, wrought in the ivory-toned marble of Pentelicus, than to the eager faces that move around us in the hurry and bustle of a life at once strenuous and trivial.

  “You are attached to the medical school at St. Margaret’s Hospital, I believe, Dr. Thorndyke?” said Anstey.

  “Yes. I am the lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology.”

  “Have you had much experience of medico-legal inquiries?”

  “A great deal. I am engaged exclusively in medico-legal work.”

  “You heard the evidence relating to the two drops of blood found in the safe?”

  “I did.”

  “What is your opinion as to the condition of that blood?”

  “I should say there is no doubt that it had been artificially treated—probably by defibrination.”

  “Can you suggest any explanation of the condition of that blood?”

  “I can.”

  “Is your explanation connected with any peculiarities in the thumb-print on the paper that was found in the safe?”

  “It is.”

  “Have you given any attention to the subject of fingerprints?”

  “Yes. A great deal of attention.”