“Who brought the case to the cloak room?”
“It was brought in by the gentleman who I took to be the owner. And a rare job he must have had with it, for it weighed close on a hundredweight, as near as I could tell. He staggered in with it, carrying it by a cord that was tied round it.”
“Can you give us any description of this man?”
“I didn’t notice him very particularly, but I remember that he was rather tall and had a long, thin face and a big, sharp nose. He looked a bit on the thin side, but he must have been pretty strong to judge by the way he handled that case.”
“Did you notice how he was dressed?”
“So far as I remember, he had on a dark suit—I fancy it was blue serge but I wouldn’t be sure; but I remember that he was wearing a soft felt hat.”
“Had he any moustache or was he clean shaved?”
“He had a moustache and a smallish beard, cut to a point; what they call a Torpedo beard. His beard and his hair were both dark.”
“About what age would you say he was?”
“He might have been about forty or perhaps a trifle more.”
“And with regard to the case, can you give us any description of that?”
“It was a wooden case, about fifteen inches square and perhaps eighteen inches high. It was made of plain deal strongly put together and strengthened at the corners with iron straps. The top was fitted with hinges and held down by eight screws. The wood was a good deal stained and rubbed, as if it had seen a fair amount of use. It had a label fastened on with tacks; just a plain card with the owner’s name on it—at least, somebody’s name—and an address. The name was Dobson, but I wouldn’t swear to the address.”
“Well,” the coroner pursued, “you took in the case. What happened next?”
“Nothing on that night. I gave the man his ticket and he took it and said he would probably call for the case on Monday. Then he said ‘Good night’ and went off.”
“When did you see him again?”
“That was on Monday evening, about seven o’clock. It happened to be a slack time and I had more time to attend to him. He came and handed me his ticket and asked for the case. He pointed out one which he thought was his, so I went over to it and looked at the label that had been stuck on it, but it was the wrong number. However, he said that his name was on the case—name of Dobson—and I saw that there was a private label with that name on it, so I said he had better have a look at it and see if it really was his case. So he came into the cloak room and examined the case. And then he got into a rare state of excitement. He said it was certainly his name that was on the case and his address, but the label was not the same one that he wrote. But still he thought that the case was his case.
“Then I asked him if the contents of his case were of any particular value, and he said ‘yes.’ They were worth several thousand pounds. Now, when he said that, I began to suspect that there was something wrong, so I suggested that we had better open the case and see if his property was inside.
“He jumped at the offer, so I got a screw-driver, and we took out the screws and lifted the lid. And when we lifted it, the first thing that we saw was the top of a man’s head, packed in with a lot of rags. When he saw it, he seemed to be struck all of a heap. Then he slammed down the lid and asked me where he could find a policeman. I told him that he would find one outside the station, and off he went as hard as he could go.”
Here the coroner held up a restraining hand as he scribbled furiously to keep up with the witness. When he had finished the paragraph, he looked up and nodded.
“Yes; he went out to look for a policeman. What happened next?”
“While we had been looking at the case, there were two gentlemen who had come to collect their luggage and who heard what was going on. When Mr. Dobson—if that was his name—went out, they came over to have a look at the case; and we all waited for Mr. Dobson to come back. But he didn’t come back. So, after a time, one of the gentlemen went out and presently came back with a constable. I showed the constable what was in the case, and he then took possession of it.”
“Yes,” said the coroner, “that is all quite clear, so far. Do you think you would recognize this man, Dobson, if you were to see him again?”
“Yes,” replied Crump. “I feel pretty sure I should. He was the sort of man that you would remember. And I did look at him pretty hard.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “I hope that you will have an opportunity of identifying him. Does any gentleman wish to ask the witness any questions? I think he has told us all that he has to tell. The other witnesses will be able to fill in the details. No questions? Then we will pass on to the next witness. William Harris.”
Mr. Harris came forward with rather more diffidence than had been shown by his colleague, which might have been due to his age—he was little more than a youth—or to the story that he had to tell. But, ill at ease as he obviously was, he gave his evidence in a quite clear and straightforward fashion. When he had been sworn and given the usual particulars, he stood, regarding the coroner with a look of consternation, as he waited for the dread interrogation.
“You say,” the coroner began impassively, “that you are an attendant in the cloak room at Fenchurch Street Station. How long have you been employed there?”
“Not quite three munce,” the witness faltered.
“So you have not had much experience, I suppose?”
“No, sir, not very much.”
“Were you on duty on Sunday, the twentieth of August?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was on duty with you?”
“No one, sir. It was Mr. Crump’s Sunday off, and, being a slack day, I took the duty by myself.”
“On that day, you received a certain wooden case. Do you remember the circumstances connected with it?”
“Yes, sir. The case was brought in about half-past ten in the morning. The man who brought it said that he would be calling for it about tea-time.”
“Did this man bring the case himself?”
“Yes, sir. He carried it by a thick cord that was tied round it, and he brought it right in and put it down not far from another case of the same kind.”
“Did you examine these cases or read the labels that were on them?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I did. I just stuck the ticket on the case that the man had brought in, but I didn’t examine it. But I remember that there was another case near it that looked like the same sort of case.”
“Did this man come back for the case?”
“Yes, sir. He came about four o’clock with another man who looked like a taxi-driver. He handed me the ticket and I went with the two men and found the case. Then the man who had brought it told the other man to take it out and stow it in the taxi. Then he pulled a timetable out of his pocket and asked me to look over it with him and see how the trains ran to Loughton and Epping. So we spread out the timetable on the luggage-counter and went through the list of Sunday trains; and while we were looking at it, the taxi-man took up the case and went out of the station. When we had finished with the timetable and the man had taken one or two notes of the trains, he put the timetable back in his pocket, thanked me for helping him and went away.”
“Did it never occur to you to see whether he had taken the right case?”
“No, sir. My back was towards the taxi-man when he picked the case up. I saw him carrying it out towards the entrance, but it looked just like the right case, and it never occurred to me that he might have taken the wrong one. And the one that was left looked like the right one and it was in the right place.”
“Yes,” said the coroner, “it was very natural. Evidently, the exchange had been carefully planned in advance, and very skilfully planned, too. Now, with regard to these two cases: were you able to form any opinion as to the weight of either or both of them?”
“I never felt either of them,” the witness replied; “but the one that the man brought in seemed rather
heavy, by the way that he carried it. He had hold of it by the cord that was tied round it. The other one seemed a bit heavy, too. But when I saw the taxi-man going out with it, he had got it on his shoulder and he didn’t seem to have any difficulty with it.”
“And, with regard to these two men. Can you give us any description of them?”
“I hardly saw the taxi-man, and I don’t remember what he was like at all, excepting that he was a big, strong-looking man. The other man was rather small, but he looked pretty strong-built, too. When we were looking at the timetables, I noticed two things about him. One was that he seemed to have a couple of gold teeth.”
“Ah!” said the coroner, “presumably gold-filled teeth. Do you remember which teeth they were?”
“They were the two middle front teeth at the top. He showed them a good deal when he talked.”
“Yes; and what was the other thing that you noticed?”
“I noticed, when he put his hand on the timetable, that his fingers were stained all browny yellow, as if he was always smoking cigarettes; and his hand was shaking, even when it was laying on the paper. I didn’t notice anything else.”
“Can you tell us how he was dressed?”
“He had on an ordinary tweed suit; rather a shabby suit it was. And he was wearing a cloth cap.”
“Had he any moustache or beard?”
“No, sir; he was clean shaved—or, at least, not very clean, because he had about a couple of days’ growth, and as he was a dark man, it showed pretty plainly.”
“How did he strike you as to his station in life? Should you describe him as a gentleman?”
“No, sir, I should not,” the witness replied with considerable emphasis. “He struck me as quite a common sort of man, and I got the idea that he might have been a seaman or some kind of waterside character. We see a good many of that sort on our line, so we get to recognize them.”
“What sort of men are you referring to?” the coroner asked with evident interest, “and where do they come from?”
“I mean sailors of all kinds from the London and the India Docks, and fishermen and longshoremen from Leigh and Benfleet and Southend and the sea-side places up that way.”
“Yes,” said the coroner, “this is quite interesting and may be important. Fenchurch Street has always been a sailors’ station. However, that is for the police rather than for us. I think that is all that we want to ask this witness, unless any of the gentlemen of the jury wish to put any questions.”
He glanced interrogatively at the jury, but none of them expressed any curiosity. Accordingly, the witness was allowed to retire; which he did with undisguised relief.
The next witness was the constable who had been called in to take charge of the case, and, as his evidence amounted to little more than a statement of that fact, he was soon disposed of and dismissed. Then the coroner pronounced the name of Geoffrey Buffham, and that gentleman rose from the extreme corner of the court and worked his way to the table, casting a leer of recognition on Mr. Pippet as he passed. His evidence, also, was chiefly formal; but, when he had finished his account of his search for the constable, the coroner turned to the subject of identification.
“You saw the man who had come to claim the case. Can you add any particulars to those given by the attendant?”
“I am afraid I can’t tell you very much about him. The light was not very good, and, of course, until he had gone, there was nothing to make one take any special notice of him. And then it was too late. All I can say is that he was a tallish man with a rather dark beard and a prominent nose.”
The coroner wrote this down without comment, and then, apparently judging Mr. Buffham to be worth no more powder and shot, glanced at the jury for a moment and dismissed him. Then he pronounced the name of Christopher J. Pippet, and the owner of that name rose and stepped over to the place that had been occupied by the other witnesses. The coroner looked up at the tall, dignified figure, apparently contrasting it with its rather scrubby, raffish predecessor; and when the preliminaries had been disposed of, he asked apologetically:
“It is of no particular importance, but would you tell us what the ‘J’ in your name stands for? It is usual to give the full name.”
Mr. Pippet smiled. “As I have just been sworn,” said he, “I have got to be careful in my statements. My impression is that the ‘J’ stands for Josiah, but that is only an opinion. I have always been accustomed to use the initial only.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “we will accept that as your recognized personal designation. There is no need to be pedantic. Now, Mr. Pippet, I don’t think we need trouble you to go into details concerning the discovery of this case, but it would be useful if you could give us some further description of the man who came to claim the property. The descriptions which have been given are very sketchy and indefinite; can you amplify them in any way?”
Mr. Pippet reflected. “I took a pretty careful look at him,” said he, “and I have a fairly clear mental picture of the man.”
“You say you took a pretty careful look at him,” said the coroner. “What made you look at him carefully?”
“Well, sir,” Mr. Pippet replied, “the circumstances were rather remarkable. From his conversation with the attendant it was clear that something quite irregular had been happening; and when he mentioned the value of the case, it began to look like a serious crime. Then when he rushed out pell mell in search of a policeman, that struck me as a very strange thing to do. What was the hurry about? His own case was gone, and the one that was there wasn’t going to run away. But I gathered that there was something in it that oughtn’t to have been there. So when he came running out full pelt, I suspected that the cause of the hurry was behind him, not in front, and, naturally, my attention was aroused.”
“You suspected that he might be making off?”
“It seemed a possibility. Anyway, I have never seen a man look more thoroughly scared.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “as you seem to have taken more notice of him than anyone else, perhaps you can give us a rather more complete description of him. Do you think you would recognize him if you should see him again?”
“I feel pretty sure that I should,” was the reply; “but that is not the same as enabling other people to recognize him. I should describe him as a tall man, about five feet eleven, lean but muscular and broad across the shoulders. He had a long, thin face and a long, thin nose, curved on the bridge and pointed at the end. His hair and beard were nearly black, but his skin and eyes didn’t seem to match them very well, for his skin was distinctly fair and his eyes were a pale blue. I got the distinct impression that his hair and beard were dyed.”
“Was that merely an impression or had you any definite grounds for the suspicion?”
“At first, it was just an impression. But as he was running out he got between me and the electric light for a moment, and the light shone through his beard. Then I caught a glint of that peculiar red that you see in hair that is dyed black when the light shines through it, and that you never see in natural hair; a red with a perceptible tinge of purple in it.”
“Yes,” said the coroner, “it is very characteristic. But do you feel quite sure that you actually saw this colour? It is a very important point.”
“I feel convinced in my own mind,” replied Mr. Pippet, “but, of course, I might have been mistaken. I can only say that, to the best of my belief, the hair showed that peculiar colour.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “that is about as much as anyone could say, under the circumstances. Did you notice anything of interest in regard to the clothing? You heard Mr. Crump’s evidence.”
“Yes; and I don’t think I can add much to it. The man was wearing a well-used dark blue serge suit, a blue cotton shirt with a collar to match, a soft felt hat and dark brown shoes. He had a wrist watch, but he seemed to have a pocket watch as well Anyway, he had what looked like a watch guard, made, apparently, of plaited twine.”
“Is that all you can tell us about him, or is there anything else that you are able to recall?”
“I think I have told you all that I noticed. There wasn’t much opportunity to examine him closely.”
“No, there was not,” the coroner agreed. “I can only compliment you on the excellent use that you made of your eyes in the short time that was available. And, if that is all that you have to tell us, I think that we need not trouble you any further.”
He glanced at the foreman of the jury, and as that gentleman bowed to indicate that he was satisfied, Mr. Pippet was allowed to return to his seat, where he received the whispered congratulations of his daughter.
“That,” said the coroner, addressing the jury, “concludes the evidence relating to the discovery of the remains. We shall now proceed to the evidence afforded by the remains themselves; and we will begin with that of the medical officer to whom the head was handed for expert examination. Dr. Humphrey Smith.”
CHAPTER IV
The Finding of the Jury
The new witness was a man of about thirty with a clean shaved, studious face, garnished with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and a somewhat diffident, uneasy manner. Having advanced to the table and taken his seat on the chair which had been placed for him close to that occupied by the coroner, he produced from his pocket a note book which he held unopened on his knee throughout the proceedings. In reply to the preliminary questions, he stated that his name was Humphrey Smith, that he was a bachelor of medicine, a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians.
“You are the Police Medical Officer of this district, I believe,” the coroner suggested.
“Temporarily, I hold that post,” was the reply, “during the absence on sick leave of the regular medical officer.”
“Quite so,” said the coroner; “for the purposes of this inquiry, you are the Police Medical Officer.”
The witness admitted that this was so, and the coroner proceeded: “You have had submitted to you for examination a case containing a human head. Will you give us an account of your examination and the conclusions at which you arrived?”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 139