Up to this point my recollection is clear, even vivid, but of what followed I have only a dim and confused impression. The awfulness—the unbelievable horror of this frightful thing that had happened left me so dazed and numb that I recall but vaguely the passage of time of what went on around me in this terrible dream from which there was to be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling by her side on the silent staircase—but how long I know not—holding her poor body in my arms and gazing incredulously at the marble-white face—now with its drowsy lids and parted lips, grown suddenly girlish and fragile—while the hot tears dropped down on her dress; choking with grief and horror and a fury of hate for the foul wretch who had done this appalling thing, and who was now far away out of reach. I see—dimly still—the livid marks of accursed fingers lingering yet on the whiteness around the mouth to tell me why no cry from her had reached me, and the dreadful, red-edged cut in the bodice mutely demanding vengeance from God and man.
And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by rushing feet and the clamour of voices. Someone—it is Jervis—leads me forcibly away to our room and places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see her lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a marble figure on a tomb. And I see Thorndyke, with a strange, coppery flush and something grim and terrible in the set calm of his face, showing the letter, which I had left on the table, to a tall stranger, who hurries from the room. Anon come two constables with heads uncovered carrying a stretcher. I see her laid on the sordid bier and reverently covered. The dread procession moves out through the doorway, the door is shut after it, and so, in dreadful fulfilment of her words, she passed out of my life.
CHAPTER XX
THE HUE AND CRY
The silence of the room remained unbroken for a quite considerable time after the two bearers had passed out with their dreadful burden. My two friends sat apart and, with a tact of which I was gratefully sensible, left me quietly undisturbed by banal words of consolation, to sustain the first shock of grief and horror and get my emotion under control. Still dazed and half-incredulous, I sat with my elbows on the table and my teeth clenched hard, looking dreamily across the room, half unconsciously observing my two friends as they silently examined the fatal letter. I saw Thorndyke rise softly and take a small bottle from a cabinet, and watched him incuriously as he sprinkled on the paper some of the dark-coloured powder that it contained. Then I saw him blow the powder from the surface of the paper into the fire and scan the letter closely through a lens. And still no word was spoken. Only once, when Jervis, in crossing the room, let his hand rest for a moment on my shoulder, did any communication pass between us; and that silent touch told me unobtrusively—if it were needful to tell me—how well he understood my grief for the woman who had walked open-eyed into the valley of the shadow, had offered her heart’s blood that I might pass unscathed.
In about a quarter of an hour the tall stranger returned, bringing with him an atmosphere of bustling activity that at once dispelled the gloomy silence. His busy presence and brisk, matter-of-fact speech, though distressing to me at the moment, served as a distraction and brought me out of my painful reverie to the grim realities of this appalling catastrophe. “You were quite right, sir,” said he. “The chambers were an empty set. Mr. Courtland left them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the office. I’ve looked them over carefully, and I think it is pretty clear what this man meant to do.”
“Did you go in?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Mr. Polton went with me and picked the lock, so I was able to go right through the rooms. And it is evident that this villain was not acting on the spur of the moment. He’d made a very neat plan, and I should say that it was pretty near to coming off. He had selected his chambers with remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well suited they were to his purpose. In the first place, they were the top set—nothing above them; no chance strangers passing up or down; and they were the only set on that landing. Then some previous tenant had made a little trap or grille in the outer door, a little hole about six inches square with a sliding cover on the inside. That was the attraction, I fancy. The landing lamp was alight—he must have lighted it himself, as the landing was out of use—and I fancy he meant to watch through the grille for your friend to come and shoot him as he knocked at the door.”
“That would be taking more risk than he usually did,” said Thorndyke.
“You mean that the report of the shot would have been heard. Perhaps it might. But these modern, small-bore, repeating pistols make very little noise, though they are uncommonly deadly, especially if you open the nose of the bullets.”
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “if he had been heard, there he would have been, boxed up in the chambers with no means of escape.”
Our acquaintance shook his head. “No,” said he; “that’s just what he wouldn’t have been, and there is where he had planned the affair so neatly. These chambers are a double set. They have a second entrance that opens on the staircase of the next house. You see the idea. When he’s fired his shot and made sure that it was all right—or all wrong, if you prefer it—he would just have slipped through to the other entrance, let himself out, shut the door quietly and walked down the stairs. Then, if the shot had been heard, there was he, coming out of the next house to join the crowd and see what was the matter. It was a clever scheme, and, as I say, it might very well have come off if this poor young lady hadn’t given it away. So that’s all about the chambers; and now “—here he cast a glance in my direction—“I must ask for a few particulars.” He produced a large, black-covered notebook and, opening it on the table, looked at me inquiringly.
“This,” said Thorndyke, “is Mr. Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department. He has charge of this case, so you must tell him exactly what happened. And try, Jardine, to be as clear and circumstantial as possible.”
The Superintendent looked up sharply. “I had an impression,” said he, “that this gentleman’s name was Howard.”
“He has used the name of Howard since he has been staying here, for reasons which no longer exist but which I will explain to you later. His name is Humphrey Jardine, and he is a bachelor of medicine.”
Mr. Miller entered these particulars in his book and then said: “I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you were actually present when this poor lady was murdered?”
“No, I was not.”
“And I presume you did not see the murderer?”
“I saw a man, whom I believe to have been the murderer, come out of our entry and walk quickly towards the Tudor Street Gate. But I can give you no description of him. I saw him from the window and by the light of the entry lamp.”
The Superintendent wrote down my answer and reflected for a few moments. “Perhaps,” said he, “you had better just give us an account of what happened and we can ask you any questions afterwards. It’s very painful for you, I know, but it has to be, as you will understand.”
It was more than painful; it was harrowing to reconstitute that hideous tragedy, step by step, with the knowledge that the poor murdered corpse was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it, haltingly, indeed, and with many a pause to command my voice; but in the end, I gave the superintendent a full description of the actual occurrences, though I withheld any reference to those words that my poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone. When I had read through and signed my statement, Mr. Miller studied his notebook with an air of dissatisfaction and then turned to Thorndyke. “This is all quite clear. Doctor,” said he, “and just about what you inferred from that letter. But it doesn’t help us much. The question is. Who is this man? I’ve an inkling that you know, Doctor.”
“I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is,” replied Thorndyke.
“That will do for me,” said Miller. “Your strong suspicion is equal to another man’s certainty. Do you know his name, sir?”
“He has recently passed under the name of Samway,” replied Thorndyke. “What his real name is, I
think I shall be able to tell you later. Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are necessary for making an arrest.”
The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke as the latter pressed the button of the electric bell. “Apparently, Doctor,” said he, “you have been making some investigations concerning this man, and, as it was not in connection with this crime, it must have been in connection with something else.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “you are quite right, Miller, and it will be a matter of the deepest regret to me to my dying day that circumstances have hindered those investigations as they have. The delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more days and my case would almost certainly have been complete, and then this terrible disaster would have been impossible.”
As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened quietly and Polton entered with a small, neatly-made parcel in his hand. “Ah!” said Thorndyke, “you guessed what I wanted, and guessed right, as you always do, Polton. How many are there in that parcel?”
“Three dozen, sir,” replied Polton.
“That ought to be enough for the moment. Hand them to the Superintendent, Polton. If you want any more, Miller, we can let you have a further supply, and I am having a half-tone block made which will be ready tomorrow morning.”
“Are these portraits of the man you suspect?” asked Miller.
“No, I haven’t his portrait, unfortunately, but on each card is a photograph of three of his fingerprints, which are all I have been able to collect, and on the back is a description which will enable you easily to identify him. You can post them off to the various sea-ports and telegraph the description in advance; and I would recommend you especially to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I know that he has been in the habit of using that route.”
“Speaking of fingerprints,” said Miller, “have you tried that letter for them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “I powdered it very carefully, but there is not a single trace of a fingerprint. He must have realised the risk he was taking and worn gloves when he wrote it.”
The Superintendent pocketed the parcel with a thoughtful air, and, after a few moments’ cogitation, turned once more to Thorndyke. “You’ve supplied me with the means of arresting the man, Doctor,” said he, “but that’s all. Supposing I find him and detain him in custody? What then? I don’t know that he murdered this poor woman. Do you? Dr. Jardine can’t identify him, and apparently no one else saw him. I have no doubt that you have substantial grounds for suspecting him, but I should like to know what they are.”
Thorndyke reflected for a moment or two before replying. “You are quite right. Miller,” he said, at length, “you ought to have enough information to establish a prima facie case. But I think, that on this occasion, I can say no more than that, if you produce the man, you can rely upon me to furnish enough evidence to secure a conviction. Will that do?”
“It will do from you, sir,” replied Miller, rising and buttoning his overcoat. “I will get this description circulated at once. Oh—there was one more matter; the name of the deceased lady was Samway—the same as that of the suspected murderer. What was the relationship?”
“She passed as—and presumably was—his wife.”
“Ah!” said Miller. “I see. That was how she knew. Well, well. She was a brave woman, to take the risk that she did, and she deserved something very different from what she got. But we are taught that there is a place where people who suffer injustice and misfortune in this world get it made up to them. I hope it’s true, for her sake—and for his,” he added abruptly with a sudden change of tone. “Naturally you do,” said Thorndyke, “but, meanwhile, our business is with this world. Spread your net close and wide, Miller. I shall never forgive you if you let this villain slip. It is our sacred duty to purge the world of his presence. You do your part, Miller, and be confident that I will do mine.”
“You can depend on me to do my best, sir,” said Miller, “though I am working rather in the dark. I suppose you couldn’t give me any sort of hint as to what you’ve got up your sleeve. You’ve no doubt, for instance, that it was really the man Samway who committed this murder?”
Thorndyke, according to his usual habit, considered the Superintendent’s question for awhile before answering. At length he replied: “I don’t know why I shouldn’t take you into my confidence to some extent, Miller, knowing you as I do. But you will remember that this is a confidence. The fact is that I am proposing to proceed against this man on an entirely different charge. But I am not quite ready to lay an information; and I want you to secure his person on the charge of murdering his wife while I complete the other case.”
“Is that another case of murder?” asked Miller.
“Yes. The facts are briefly these. A certain Septimus Maddock, who was living with the Samways, died some time ago under what seem to me very suspicious circumstances. He was nursed by Samway and his wife and by no one else. The cause of death given on the certificate was, in my opinion, not the true one, and I am proceeding to verify my theory as to what was the real cause of death.”
“I see,” said Miller. “You are applying for an exhumation of the body?”
“Well, hardly an exhumation. The man Maddock was cremated.”
“Cremated!” exclaimed Miller. “Then we’ve done. There isn’t any body to exhume.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, “there is no body, but there are the ashes.”
“But, surely,” said Miller, “you can’t get any information out of a few handfuls of bone ash?”
“That remains to be proved,” replied Thorndyke. “I have applied for an authority to make an exhaustive examination of those ashes, and, if my opinion as to the cause of death is correct, I shall be able to demonstrate its correctness; and that will involve a charge of murder against this man Samway. It will also support a charge against him of attempts to murder Dr. Jardine, and furnish strong evidence connecting him with the horrible crime that has just been committed. So you see, Miller, that the important thing is to get possession of him before he has time to escape from this country, and hold him in custody, if necessary, while the evidence against him is being examined and completed. And I must impress on you that no time ought to be lost in getting the description circulated.”
“No, that’s true,” said Miller. “I’ll go and telegraph it off at once, and I’ll send one or two of our best men to watch the likely seaports.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when we had all most fervently wished him success he took his departure.
As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior, and, looking at him with a sort of puzzled curiosity exclaimed: “You are a most astounding person, Thorndyke! You really are! I thought I had begun to see daylight in that Maddock case, and now I find that I was all abroad. And I can’t, for the life of me, conceive what in the world you expect to discover by examining a few pounds of calcined phosphates. Suppose Maddock was poisoned, what evidence will be obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which could possibly have been used under the known circumstances, not one would leave a trace after cremation. But, of course, you’ve thought of all that.”
“Certainly, I have,” replied Thorndyke, “and I agree with you that the ashes of a body that has been cremated are highly unpromising material for a primary investigation. But, does it not occur to you that, in a case where certain circumstantial evidence is available, excellent corroborative data might be obtained by the examination of the ashes?”
“No,” replied Jervis, “I can’t say that it does.”
“It is not too late to consider the question,” said Thorndyke. “I shall probably not get the authority for a day or two, so you will have time to turn the problem over in the interval. It is quite worth your while, I assure you, apart from this particular case, as a mere exercise in constructive theory. You can acquire experience from imaginary cases as well as from real ones, as I have often pointed out; in fact, much of my own experience has been gained
in this way. I think I have mentioned to you that, in my early days, when I had more leisure than practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary crimes of an elaborately skilful type, and then—having, of course, all the facts—to consider the appropriate procedure for their detection. It was a most valuable exercise, for I was thus able to furnish myself with an abundance of problems of a kind that, in actual practice, are met with only at long intervals of years. And since then a quite considerable number of my imaginary cases have presented themselves, in a more or less modified form, for solution in the course of practice, and have come to me with the familiarity of problems that have already been considered and solved. That is what you should do, Jervis. Try the synthetic method and then consider what analytical procedure would be appropriate to your result.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 163