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

by R. Austin Freeman

  “You would say that the two brothers were physically quite unlike, then?”

  “Well,” said Stephen, “I don’t know that I ought to say that. Perhaps I am exaggerating the difference. I am thinking of Uncle Jeffrey as he was when I saw him last and of uncle John as he appeared at the inquest. They were very different then. Jeffrey was thin, pale, clean shaven, wore spectacles and walked with a stoop. John is a shade taller, a shade greyer, has good eyesight, a healthy, florid complexion, a brisk, upright carriage, is distinctly stout and wears a beard and moustache which are black and only very slightly streaked with grey. To me they looked as unlike as two men could, though their features were really of the same type; indeed, I have heard it said that, as young men, they were rather alike, and they both resembled their mother. But there is no doubt as to their difference in character. Jeffrey was quiet, serious and studious, whereas John rather inclined to what is called a fast life; he used to frequent race meetings, and, I think, gambled a good deal at times.”

  “What is his profession?”

  “That would be difficult to tell; he has so many; he is so very versatile. I believe he began life as an articled pupil in the laboratory of a large brewery, but he soon left that and went on the stage. He seems to have remained in ‘the profession’ for some years, touring about this country and making occasional visits to America. The life seemed to suit him and I believe he was decidedly successful as an actor. But suddenly he left the stage and blossomed out in connection with a bucket-shop in London.”

  “And what is he doing now?”

  “At the inquest he described himself as a stockbroker, so I presume he is still connected with the bucket-shop.”

  Thorndyke rose, and taking down from the reference shelves a list of members of the Stock Exchange, turned over the leaves.

  “Yes,” he said, replacing the volume, “he must be an outside broker. His name is not in the list of members of ‘the House.’ From what you tell me, it is easy to understand that there should have been no great intimacy between the two brothers, without assuming any kind of ill-feeling. They simply had very little in common. Do you know of anything more?”

  “No. I have never heard of any actual quarrel or disagreement. My impression that they did not get on very well may have been, I think, due to the terms of the will, especially the first will. And they certainly did not seek one another’s society.”

  “That is not very conclusive,” said Thorndyke. “As to the will, a thrifty man is not usually much inclined to bequeath his savings to a gentleman who may probably employ them in a merry little flutter on the turf or the Stock Exchange. And then there was yourself; clearly a more suitable subject for a legacy, as your life is all before you. But this is mere speculation and the matter is not of much importance, as far as we can see. And now, tell me what John Blackmore’s relations were with Mrs. Wilson. I gather that she left the bulk of her property to Jeffrey, her younger brother. Is that so?”

  “Yes. She left nothing to John. The fact is that they were hardly on speaking terms. I believe John had treated her rather badly, or, at any rate, she thought he had. Mr. Wilson, her late husband, dropped some money over an investment in connection with the bucket-shop that I spoke of, and I think she suspected John of having let him in. She may have been mistaken, but you know what ladies are when they get an idea into their heads.”

  “Did you know your aunt well?”

  “No; very slightly. She lived down in Devonshire and saw very little of any of us. She was a taciturn, strong-minded woman; quite unlike her brothers. She seems to have resembled her father’s family.”

  “You might give me her full name.”

  “Julia Elizabeth Wilson. Her husband’s name was Edmund Wilson.”

  “Thank you. There is just one more point. What has happened to your uncle’s chambers in New Inn since his death?”

  “They have remained shut up. As all his effects were left to me, I have taken over the tenancy for the present to avoid having them disturbed. I thought of keeping them for my own use, but I don’t think I could live in them after what I have seen.”

  “You have inspected them, then?”

  “Yes; I have just looked through them. I went there on the day of the inquest.”

  “Now tell me: as you looked through those rooms, what kind of impression did they convey to you as to your uncle’s habits and mode of life?”

  Stephen smiled apologetically. “I am afraid,” said he, “that they did not convey any particular impression in that respect. I looked into the sitting-room and saw all his old familiar household gods, and then I went into the bedroom and saw the impression on the bed where his corpse had lain; and that gave me such a sensation of horror that I came away at once.”

  “But the appearance of the rooms must have conveyed something to your mind,” Thorndyke urged.

  “I am afraid it did not. You see, I have not your analytical eye. But perhaps you would like to look through them yourself? If you would, pray do so. They are my chambers now.”

  “I think I should like to glance round them,” Thorndyke replied.

  “Very well,” said Stephen. “I will give you my card now, and I will look in at the lodge presently and tell the porter to hand you the key whenever you like to look over the rooms.”

  He took a card from his case, and, having written a few lines on it, handed it to Thorndyke.

  “It is very good of you,” he said, “to take so much trouble. Like Mr. Marchmont, I have no expectation of any result from your efforts, but I am very grateful to you, all the same, for going into the case so thoroughly. I suppose you don’t see any possibility of upsetting that will—if I may ask the question?”

  “At present,” replied Thorndyke, “I do not. But until I have carefully weighed every fact connected with the case—whether it seems to have any bearing or not—I shall refrain from expressing, or even entertaining, an opinion either way.”

  Stephen Blackmore now took his leave; and Thorndyke, having collected the papers containing his notes, neatly punched a couple of holes in their margins and inserted them into a small file, which he slipped into his pocket.

  “That,” said he, “is the nucleus of the body of data on which our investigations must be based; and I very much fear that it will not receive any great additions. What do you think, Jervis?”

  “The case looks about as hopeless as a case could look,” I replied.

  “That is what I think,” said he; “and for that reason I am more than ordinarily keen on making something of it. I have not much more hope than Marchmont has; but I shall squeeze the case as dry as a bone before I let go. What are you going to do? I have to attend a meeting of the board of directors of the Griffin Life Office.”

  “Shall I walk down with you?”

  “It is very good of you to offer, Jervis, but I think I will go alone. I want to run over these notes and get the facts of the case arranged in my mind. When I have done that, I shall be ready to pick up new matter. Knowledge is of no use unless it is actually in your mind, so that it can be produced at a moment’s notice. So you had better get a book and your pipe and spend a quiet hour by the fire while I assimilate the miscellaneous mental feast that we have just enjoyed. And you might do a little rumination yourself.”

  With this, Thorndyke took his departure; and I, adopting his advice, drew my chair closer to the fire and filled my pipe. But I did not discover any inclination to read. The curious history that I had just heard, and Thorndyke’s evident determination to elucidate it further, disposed me to meditation. Moreover, as his subordinate, it was my business to occupy myself with his affairs. Wherefore, having stirred the fire and got my pipe well alight, I abandoned myself to the renewed consideration of the facts relating to Jeffrey Blackmore’s will.

  Chapter VII

  The Cuneiform Inscription

  The surprise which Thorndyke’s proceedings usually occasioned, especially to lawyers, was principally due, I think, to my friend
’s habit of viewing occurrences from an unusual standpoint. He did not look at things quite as other men looked at them. He had no prejudices and he knew no conventions. When other men were cocksure, Thorndyke was doubtful. When other men despaired, he entertained hopes; and thus it happened that he would often undertake cases that had been rejected contemptuously by experienced lawyers, and, what is more, would bring them to a successful issue.

  Thus it had been in the only other case in which I had been personally associated with him—the so-called “Red Thumb Mark” case. There he was presented with an apparent impossibility; but he had given it careful consideration. Then, from the category of the impossible he had brought it to that of the possible; from the merely possible to the actually probable; from the probable to the certain; and in the end had won the case triumphantly.

  Was it conceivable that he could make anything of the present case? He had not declined it. He had certainly entertained it and was probably thinking it over at this moment. Yet could anything be more impossible? Here was the case of a man making his own will, probably writing it out himself, bringing it voluntarily to a certain place and executing it in the presence of competent witnesses. There was no suggestion of any compulsion or even influence or persuasion. The testator was admittedly sane and responsible; and if the will did not give effect to his wishes— which, however, could not be proved—that was due to his own carelessness in drafting the will and not to any unusual circumstances. And the problem—which Thorndyke seemed to be considering—was how to set aside that will.

  I reviewed the statements that I had heard, but turn them about as I would, I could get nothing out of them but confirmation of Mr. Marchmont’s estimate of the case. One fact that I had noted with some curiosity I again considered; that was Thorndyke’s evident desire to inspect Jeffrey Blackmore’s chambers. He had, it is true, shown no eagerness, but I had seen at the time that the questions which he put to Stephen were put, not with any expectation of eliciting information but for the purpose of getting an opportunity to look over the rooms himself.

  I was still cogitating on the subject when my colleague returned, followed by the watchful Polton with the tea-tray, and I attacked him forthwith.

  “Well, Thorndyke,” I said, “I have been thinking about this Blackmore case while you have been gadding about.”

  “And may I take it that the problem is solved?”

  “No, I’m hanged if you may. I can make nothing of it.”

  “Then you are in much the same position as I am.”

  “But, if you can make nothing of it, why did you undertake it?”

  “I only undertook to think about it,” said Thorndyke. “I never reject a case off-hand unless it is obviously fishy. It is surprising how difficulties, and even impossibilities, dwindle if you look at them attentively. My experience has taught me that the most unlikely case is, at least, worth thinking over.”

  “By the way, why do you want to look over Jeffrey’s chambers? What do you expect to find there?”

  “I have no expectations at all. I am simply looking for stray facts.”

  “And all those questions that you asked Stephen Blackmore; had you nothing in your mind—no definite purpose?”

  “No purpose beyond getting to know as much about the case as I can.”

  “But,” I exclaimed, “do you mean that you are going to examine those rooms without any definite object at all?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” replied Thorndyke. “This is a legal case. Let me put an analogous medical case as being more within your present sphere. Supposing that a man should consult you, say, about a progressive loss of weight. He can give no explanation. He has no pain, no discomfort, no symptoms of any kind; in short, he feels perfectly well in every respect; but he is losing weight continuously. What would you do?”

  “I should overhaul him thoroughly,” I answered.

  “Why? What would you expect to find?”

  “I don’t know that I should start by expecting to find anything in particular. But I should overhaul him organ by organ and function by function, and if I could find nothing abnormal I should have to give it up.”

  “Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “And that is just my position and my line of action. Here is a case which is perfectly regular and straightforward excepting in one respect. It has a single abnormal feature. And for that abnormality there is nothing to account.

  “Jeffrey Blackmore made a will. It was a well-drawn will and it apparently gave full effect to his intentions. Then he revoked that will and made another. No change had occurred in his circumstances or in his intentions. The provisions of the new will were believed by him to be identical with those of the old one. The new will differed from the old one only in having a defect in the drafting from which the first will was free, and of which he must have been unaware. Now why did he revoke the first will and replace it with another which he believed to be identical in its provisions? There is no answer to that question. It is an abnormal feature in the case. There must be some explanation of that abnormality and it is my business to discover it. But the facts in my possession yield no such explanation. Therefore it is my purpose to search for new facts which may give me a starting-point for an investigation.”

  This exposition of Thorndyke’s proposed conduct of the case, reasonable as it was, did not impress me as very convincing. I found myself coming back to Marchmont’s position, that there was really nothing in dispute. But other matters claimed our attention at the moment, and it was not until after dinner that my colleague reverted to the subject.

  “How should you like to take a turn round to New Inn this evening?” he asked.

  “I should have thought,” said I, “that it would be better to go by daylight. Those old chambers are not usually very well illuminated.”

  “That is well thought of,” said Thorndyke. “We had better take a lamp with us. Let us go up to the laboratory and get one from Polton.”

  “There is no need to do that,” said I. “The pocket-lamp that you lent me is in my overcoat pocket. I put it there to return it to you.”

  “Did you have occasion to use it?” he asked.

  “Yes. I paid another visit to the mysterious house and carried out your plan. I must tell you about it later.”

  “Do. I shall be keenly interested to hear all about your adventures. Is there plenty of candle left in the lamp?”

  “Oh yes. I only used it for about an hour.”

  “Then let us be off,” said Thorndyke; and we accordingly set forth on our quest; and, as we went, I reflected once more on the apparent vagueness of our proceedings. Presently I reopened the subject with Thorndyke.

  “I can’t imagine,” said I, “that you have absolutely nothing in view. That you are going to this place with no defined purpose whatever.”

  “I did not say exactly that,” replied Thorndyke. “I said that I was not going to look for any particular thing or fact. I am going in the hope that I may observe something that may start a new train of speculation. But that is not all. You know that an investigation follows a certain logical course. It begins with the observation of the conspicuous facts. We have done that. The facts were supplied by Marchmont. The next stage is to propose to oneself one or more provisional explanations or hypotheses. We have done that, too—or, at least I have, and I suppose you have.”

  “I haven’t,” said I. “There is Jeffrey’s will, but why he should have made the change I cannot form the foggiest idea. But I should like to hear your provisional theories on the subject.”

  “You won’t hear them at present. They are mere wild conjectures. But to resume: what do we do next?”

  “Go to New Inn and rake over the deceased gentleman’s apartments.”

  Thorndyke smilingly ignored my answer and continued—

  “We examine each explanation in turn and see what follows from it; whether it agrees with all the facts and leads to the discovery of new ones, or, on the other hand, disagrees with some facts or
leads us to an absurdity. Let us take a simple example.

  “Suppose we find scattered over a field a number of largish masses of stone, which are entirely different in character from the rocks found in the neighbourhood. The question arises, how did those stones get into that field? Three explanations are proposed. One: that they are the products of former volcanic action; two: that they were brought from a distance by human agency; three: that they were carried thither from some distant country by icebergs. Now each of those explanations involves certain consequences. If the stones are volcanic, then they were once in a state of fusion. But we find that they are unaltered limestone and contain fossils. Then they are not volcanic. If they were borne by icebergs, then they were once part of a glacier and some of them will probably show the flat surfaces with parallel scratches which are found on glacier-borne stones. We examine them and find the characteristic scratched surfaces. Then they have probably been brought to this place by icebergs. But this does not exclude human agency, for they might have been brought by men to this place from some other where the icebergs had deposited them. A further comparison with other facts would be needed.

  “So we proceed in cases like this present one. Of the facts that are known to us we invent certain explanations. From each of those explanations we deduce consequences; and if those consequences agree with new facts, they confirm the explanation, whereas if they disagree they tend to disprove it. But here we are at our destination.”

  We turned out of Wych Street into the arched passage leading into New Inn, and, halting at the half-door of the lodge, perceived a stout, purple-faced man crouching over the fire, coughing violently. He held up his hand to intimate that he was fully occupied for the moment, and we accordingly waited for his paroxysm to subside. At length he turned towards us, wiping his eyes, and inquired our business.

  “Mr. Stephen Blackmore,” said Thorndyke, “has given me permission to look over his chambers. He said that he would mention the matter to you.”