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

by R. Austin Freeman

  He then proceeded to recount the incidents connected with my visits to Mr. Graves, dwelling on the personal peculiarities of the parties concerned and especially of the patient, and not even forgetting the very singular spectacles worn by Mr. Weiss. He also explained briefly the construction of the chart, presenting the latter for the inspection of his hearers. To this recital our three visitors listened in utter bewilderment, as, indeed did I also; for I could not conceive in what way my adventures could possibly be related to the affairs of the late Mr. Blackmore. This was manifestly the view taken by Mr. Marchmont, for, during a pause in which the chart was handed to him, he remarked somewhat stiffly:

  “I am assuming, Dr. Thorndyke, that the curious story you are telling us has some relevance to the matter in which we are interested.”

  “You are quite correct in your assumption,” replied Thorndyke. “The story is very relevant indeed, as you will presently be convinced.”

  “Thank you,” said Marchmont, sinking back once more into his chair with a sigh of resignation.

  “A few days ago,” pursued Thorndyke, “Dr. Jervis and I located, with the aid of this chart, the house to which he had been called. We found that the late tenant had left somewhat hurriedly and that the house was to let; and, as no other kind of investigation was possible, we obtained the keys and made an exploration of the premises.”

  Here he gave a brief account of our visit and the conditions that we observed, and was proceeding to furnish a list of the articles that we had found under the grate, when Mr. Winwood started from his chair.

  “Really, sir!” he exclaimed, “this is too much! Have I come here, at great personal inconvenience, to hear you read the inventory of a dust-heap?”

  Thorndyke smiled benevolently and caught my eye, once more, with a gleam of amusement.

  “Sit down, Mr. Winwood,” he said quietly. “You came here to learn the facts of the case, and I am giving them to you. Please don’t interrupt needlessly and waste time.”

  Winwood stared at him ferociously for several seconds; then, somewhat disconcerted by the unruffled calm of his manner, he uttered a snort of defiance, sat down heavily and shut himself up again.

  “We will now,” Thorndyke continued, with unmoved serenity, “consider these relics in more detail, and we will begin with this pair of spectacles. They belonged to a person who was near-sighted and astigmatic in the left eye and almost certainly blind in the right. Such a description agrees entirely with Dr. Jervis’s account of the sick man.”

  He paused for the moment, and then, as no one made any comment, proceeded:

  “We next come to these little pieces of reed, which you, Mr. Stephen, will probably recognize as the remains of a Japanese brush, such as is used for writing in Chinese ink or for making small drawings.”

  Again he paused, as though expecting some remark from his listeners; but no one spoke, and he continued:

  “Then there is this bottle with the theatrical wig-maker’s label on it, which once contained cement such as is used for fixing on false beards, moustaches or eyebrows.”

  He paused once more and looked round expectantly at his audience, none of whom, however, volunteered any remark.

  “Do none of these objects that I have described and shown you, seem to have any significance for us?” he asked, in a tone of some surprise.

  “They convey nothing to me,” said Mr. Marchmont, glancing at his partner, who shook his head like a restive horse.

  “Nor to you, Mr. Stephen?”

  “No,” replied Stephen. “Under the existing circumstances they convey no reasonable suggestion to me.”

  Thorndyke hesitated as if he were half inclined to say something more; then, with a slight shrug, he turned over his notes and resumed:

  “The next group of new facts is concerned with the signatures of the recent cheques. We have photographed them and placed them together for the purpose of comparison and analysis.”

  “I am not prepared to question the signatures,” said Winwood. “We have had a highly expert opinion, which would override ours in a court of law even if we differed from it; which I think we do not.”

  “Yes,” said Marchmont; “that is so. I think we must accept the signatures, especially as that of the will has been proved, beyond any question” to be authentic.”

  “Very well,” agreed Thorndyke; “we will pass over the signatures. Then we have some further evidence in regard to the spectacles, which serves to verify our conclusions respecting them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Marchmont, “we might pass over that, too, as we do not seem to have reached any conclusions.”

  “As you please,” said Thorndyke. “It is important, but we can reserve it for verification. The next item will interest you more, I think. It is the signed and witnessed statement of Samuel Wilkins, the driver of the cab in which the deceased came home to the inn on the evening of his death.”

  My colleague was right. An actual document, signed by a tangible witness, who could be put in the box and sworn, brought both lawyers to a state of attention; and when Thorndyke read out the cabman’s evidence, their attention soon quickened into undisguised astonishment.

  “But this is a most mysterious affair,” exclaimed Marchmont. “Who could this woman have been, and what could she have been doing in Jeffrey’s chambers at this time? Can you throw any light on it, Mr. Stephen?”

  “No, indeed I can’t,” replied Stephen. “It is a complete mystery to me. My uncle Jeffrey was a confirmed old bachelor, and, although he did not dislike women, he was far from partial to their society, wrapped up as he was in his favourite studies. To the best of my belief, he had not a single female friend. He was not on intimate terms even with his sister, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Very remarkable,” mused Marchmont; “most remarkable. But, perhaps, you can tell us, Dr. Thorndyke, who this woman was?”

  “I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that the next item of evidence will enable you to form an opinion for yourselves. I only obtained it yesterday, and, as it made my case quite complete, I wrote off to you immediately. It is the statement of Joseph Ridley, another cabman, and unfortunately, a rather dull, unobservant fellow, unlike Wilkins. He has not much to tell us, but what little he has is highly instructive. Here is the statement, signed by the deponent and witnessed by me:

  “‘My name is Joseph Ridley. I am the driver of a four-wheeled cab. On the fourteenth of March, the day of the great fog, I was waiting at Vauxhall Station, where I had just set down a fare. About five o’clock a lady came and told me to drive over to Upper Kennington Lane to take up a passenger. She was a middle-sized woman. I could not tell what her age was, or what she was like, because her head was wrapped up in a sort of knitted, woollen veil to keep out the fog. I did not notice how she was dressed. She got into the cab and I led the horse over to Upper Kennington Lane and a little way up the lane, until the lady tapped at the front, window for me to stop.

  “‘She got out of the cab and told me to wait. Then she went away and disappeared in the fog. Presently a lady and gentleman came from the direction in which she had gone. The lady looked like the same lady, but I won’t answer to that. Her head was wrapped up in the same kind of veil or shawl, and I noticed that she had on a dark coloured mantle with bead fringe on it.

  “‘The gentleman was clean shaved and wore spectacles, and he stooped a good deal. I can’t say whether his sight was good or bad. He helped the lady into the cab and told me to drive to the Great Northern Station, King’s Cross. Then he got in himself and I drove off. I got to the station about a quarter to six and the lady and gentleman got out. The gentleman paid my fare and they both went into the station. I did not notice anything unusual about either of them. Directly after they had gone, I got a fresh fare and drove away.’

  “That,” Thorndyke concluded, “is Joseph Ridley’s statement; and I think it will enable you to give a meaning to the other facts that I have offered for your consideration.”

  “I am not
so sure about that,” said Marchmont. “It is all exceedingly mysterious. Your suggestion is, of course, that the woman who came to New Inn in the cab was Mrs. Schallibaum!”

  “Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “My suggestion is that the woman was Jeffrey Blackmore.”

  There was deathly silence for a few moments. We were all absolutely thunderstruck, and sat gaping at Thorndyke in speechless-astonishment. Then—Mr. Winwood fairly bounced out of his chair.

  “But—my—good—sir!” he screeched. “Jeffrey Blackmore was with her at the time!”

  “Naturally,” replied Thorndyke, “my suggestion implies that the person who was with her was not Jeffrey Blackmore.”

  “But he was!” bawled Winwood. “The porter saw him!”

  “The porter saw a person whom he believed to be Jeffrey Blackmore. I suggest that the porter’s belief was erroneous.”

  “Well,” snapped Winwood, “perhaps you can prove that it was. I don’t see how you are going to; but perhaps you can.”

  He subsided once more into his chair and glared defiantly at Thorndyke.

  “You seemed,” said Stephen, “to suggest some connection between the sick man, Graves, and my uncle. I noted it at the time, but put it aside as impossible. Was I right. Did you mean to suggest any connection?”

  “I suggest something more than a connection. I suggest identity. My position is that the sick man, Graves, was your uncle.”

  “From Dr. Jervis’s description,” said Stephen, “this man must have been very like my uncle. Both were blind in the right eye and had very poor vision with the left; and my uncle certainly used brushes of the kind that you have shown us, when writing in the Japanese character, for I have watched him and admired his skill; but—”

  “But,” said Marchmont, “there is the insuperable objection that, at the very time when this man was lying sick in Kennington Lane, Mr. Jeffrey was living at New Inn.”

  “What evidence is there of that?” asked Thorndyke.

  “Evidence!” Marchmont exclaimed impatiently. “Why, my dear sir—”

  He paused suddenly, and, leaning forward, regarded Thorndyke with a new and rather startled expression.

  “You mean to suggest—” he began.

  “I suggest that Jeffrey Blackmore never lived at New Inn at all.”

  For the moment, Marchmont seemed absolutely paralysed by astonishment.

  “This is an amazing proposition!” he exclaimed, at length. “Yet the thing is certainly not impossible, for, now that you recall the fact, I realize that no one who had known him previously— excepting his brother, John—ever saw him at the inn. The question of identity was never raised.”

  “Excepting,” said Mr. Winwood, “in regard to the body; which was certainly that of Jeffrey Blackmore.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” said Marchmont. “I had forgotten that for the moment. The body was identified beyond doubt. You don’t dispute the identity of the body, do you?”

  “Certainly not,” replied Thorndyke.

  Here Mr. Winwood grasped his hair with both hands and stuck his elbows on his knees, while Marchmont drew forth a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Stephen Blackmore looked from one to the other expectantly, and finally said:

  “If I might make a suggestion, it would be that, as Dr. Thorndyke has shown us the pieces now of the puzzle, he should be so kind as to put them together for our information.”

  “Yes,” agreed Marchmont, “that will be the best plan. Let us have the argument, Doctor, and any additional evidence that you possess.”

  “The argument,” said Thorndyke, “will be a rather long one, as the data are so numerous, and there are some points in verification on which I shall have to dwell in some detail. We will have some coffee to clear our brains, and then I will bespeak your patience for what may seem like a rather prolix demonstration.”

  Chapter XVI

  An Exposition and a Tragedy

  “You may have wondered,” Thorndyke commenced, when he had poured out the coffee and handed round the cups, “what induced me to undertake the minute investigation of so apparently simple and straightforward a case. Perhaps I had better explain that first and let you see what was the real starting-point of the inquiry.

  “When you, Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Stephen, introduced the case to me, I made a very brief précis of the facts as you presented them, and of these there were one or two which immediately attracted my attention. In the first place, there was the will. It was a very strange will. It was perfectly unnecessary. It contained no new matter; it expressed no changed intentions; it met no new circumstances, as known to the testator. In short it was not really a new will at all, but merely a repetition of the first one, drafted in different and less suitable language. It differed only in introducing a certain ambiguity from which the original was free. It created the possibility that, in certain circumstances, not known to or anticipated by the testator, John Blackmore might become the principal beneficiary, contrary to the obvious wishes of the testator.

  “The next point that impressed me was the manner of Mrs. Wilson’s death. She died of cancer. Now people do not die suddenly and unexpectedly of cancer. This terrible disease stands almost alone in that it marks out its victim months in advance. A person who has an incurable cancer is a person whose death may be predicted with certainty and its date fixed within comparatively narrow limits.

  “And now observe the remarkable series of coincidences that are brought into light when we consider this peculiarity of the disease. Mrs. Wilson died on the twelfth of March of this present year. Mr. Jeffrey’s second will was signed on the twelfth of November of last year; at a time, that is to say, when the existence of cancer must have been known to Mrs. Wilson’s doctor, and might have been known to any of her relatives who chose to inquire after her.

  “Then you will observe that the remarkable change in Mr. Jeffrey’s habits coincides in the most singular way with the same events. The cancer must have been detectable as early as September of last year; about the time, in fact, at which Mrs. Wilson made her will. Mr. Jeffrey went to the inn at the beginning of October. From that time his habits were totally changed, and I can demonstrate to you that a change—not a gradual, but an abrupt change—took place in the character of his signature.

  “In short, the whole of this peculiar set of circumstances—the change in Jeffrey’s habits, the change in his signature, and the execution of his strange will—came into existence about the time when Mrs. Wilson was first known to be suffering from cancer.

  “This struck me as a very suggestive fact.

  “Then there is the extraordinarily opportune date of Mr. Jeffrey’s death. Mrs. Wilson died on the twelfth of March. Mr. Jeffrey was found dead on the fifteenth of March, having apparently died on the fourteenth, on which day he was seen alive. If he had died only three days sooner, he would have predeceased Mrs. Wilson, and her property would never have devolved on him at all; while, if he had lived only a day or two longer, he would have learned of her death and would certainly have made a new will or codicil in his nephew’s favour.

  “Circumstances, therefore, conspired in the most singular manner in favour of John Blackmore.

  “But there is yet another coincidence. Jeffrey’s body was found, by the merest chance, the day after his death. But it might have remained undiscovered for weeks, or even months; and if it had, it would have been impossible to fix the date of his death. Then Mrs. Wilson’s next of kin would certainly have contested John Blackmore’s claim—and probably with success—on the ground that Jeffrey died before Mrs. Wilson. But all this uncertainty is provided for by the circumstance that Mr. Jeffrey paid his rent personally—and prematurely—to the porter on the fourteenth of March, thus establishing beyond question the fact that he was alive on that date; and yet further, in case the porter’s memory should be untrustworthy or his statement doubted, Jeffrey furnished a signed and dated document—the cheque—which could be produced in a court to furnish incontestabl
e proof of survival.

  “To sum up this part of the evidence. Here was a will which enabled John Blackmore to inherit the fortune of a man who, almost certainly, had no intention of bequeathing it to him. The wording of that will seemed to be adjusted to the peculiarities of Mrs. Wilson’s disease; and the death of the testator occurred under a peculiar set of circumstances which seemed to be exactly adjusted to the wording of the will. Or, to put it in another way: the wording of the will and the time, the manner and the circumstances of the testator’s death, all seemed to be precisely adjusted to the fact that the approximate date of Mrs. Wilson’s death was known some months before it occurred.

  “Now you must admit that this compound group of coincidences, all conspiring to a single end—the enrichment of John Blackmore—has a very singular appearance. Coincidences are common enough in real life; but we cannot accept too many at a time. My feeling was that there were too many in this case and that I could not accept them without searching inquiry.”

  Thorndyke paused, and Mr. Marchmont, who had listened with close attention, nodded, as he glanced at his silent partner.

  “You have stated the case with remarkable clearness,” he said; “and I am free to confess that some of the points that you have raised had escaped my notice.”

  “My first idea,” Thorndyke resumed, “was that John Blackmore, taking advantage of the mental enfeeblement produced by the opium habit, had dictated this will to Jeffrey, It was then that I sought permission to inspect Jeffrey’s chambers; to learn what I could about him and to see for myself whether they presented the dirty and disorderly appearance characteristic of the regular opium-smoker’s den. But when, during a walk into the City, I thought over the case, it seemed to me that this explanation hardly met the facts. Then I endeavoured to think of some other explanation; and looking over my notes I observed two points that seemed worth considering. One was that neither of the witnesses to the will was really acquainted with Jeffrey Blackmore; both being strangers who had accepted his identity on his own statement. The other was that no one who had previously known him, with the single exception of his brother John, had ever seen Jeffrey at the inn.