“You have now heard all the evidence,” he began, “and you will have noticed that it all seems to establish a single conclusion. The medical evidence is quite clear. Deceased died from the effects of a large dose of morphine, or morphia, as it is more commonly called. On the question whether the poison was administered by himself or some other person, we have the evidence of the sergeant that the fingerprints on the drinking-vessel and on the poison bottle were those of deceased himself and that there were no signs of the presence of any other person. Then we have the clear evidence of Mr. Mortimer that deceased had contemplated suicide as a means of escape from the consequences of financial ruin; and we have the evidence of both Mr. Bateman and Mr. Mortimer that financial ruin had actually occurred on a scale that almost takes one’s breath away. So you see that the drift of the evidence is all in the same direction; and I will leave you to consider it with the feeling that you will have no difficulty in finding your verdict.”
Apparently the coroner’s feeling was a just one, for the jury, after a very brief consultation, communicated their verdict through the foreman. It was to the effect that deceased died from the effects of a large dose of morphine, administered by himself.
“That,” said the coroner, “is a verdict of suicide. What do you say as to the state of deceased’s mind ‘at the time of the act?”
The decision of the jury, in direct contradiction of poor Gillum’s own view, was that he was insane at the time when the act was committed. And when this finding had been recorded the proceedings came to an end.
I lingered after the court had risen to exchange a few words with Benson, to whom I had taken a rather strong liking, and presently we were joined by Mr. Bateman, who apparently wanted to learn how his client had been affected by the incidents of the inquiry.
“A most amazing story,” he commented, “the evidence in this case has brought to light. I have never heard anything more astonishing. The finding of the jury as to the state of mind of deceased at the time of the act might fairly be extended to all his other acts. The conduct that the evidence has disclosed is the conduct of a sheer lunatic. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Benson?”
“I do indeed,” Benson admitted gloomily.
“And I think,” pursued Bateman, “that you will also agree that, however incomprehensible poor Gillum’s conduct may seem to a sane man, the fact that he did act in that insane manner has been established beyond any possible doubt. A consistent story has been elicited and established on an undeniable basis of ascertained fact.”
He looked a little anxiously, as I thought, at Benson, who reflected a few moments before replying, but, at length, gave a qualified assent to Bateman’s proposition.
“As to the facts which were proved in evidence,” said he, “they seem to admit of no doubt or denial. But I still have the feeling that there is something behind all this that I don’t understand. The whole affair is too abnormal.”
“As to its abnormality,” said Bateman, “I am entirely with you. But, abnormal as it is, I think we have got to accept it as a sequence of events that actually happened. Surprise is natural enough, but doubt would seem to be unreasonable.”
He paused and looked questioningly at Benson, and, as the latter did not reply immediately, he asked: “You are not contemplating any further action in the matter, are you? Any sort of private or unofficial inquiry? I hope not, for I feel that nothing could come of it; nothing, that is to say, but the dredging up of a quantity of unprofitable and unsavoury details. And inquiries of this kind are apt to prove costly out of all proportion to their value.”
“It would certainly be proper,” Benson replied, “for me to give very respectful consideration to your advice, seeing that your experience is so much greater than mine. But I must confess that I am not satisfied. Still, I will not take any decision without earnest consideration of what you have said. I will think things over for a day or two, and I will let you know whether I decide to accept this mysterious affair at its face value or to see if any sort of unravelment is possible.”
“Very well,” rejoined Bateman. “We will leave it at that. If, in the end, you decide to open the matter further, we have the material. Mr. Penfield has carried out your instructions. We had, as you may have noticed, our Mr. James—a very skilful shorthand reporter—in court today to make a complete verbatim report of everything that was said, in evidence or otherwise. So that we are independent of the newspaper reports and we shall have no need to ask for access to the depositions. But I hope that neither will be required.”
With this, Mr. Bateman took his leave and bustled away; and, as Benson appeared more disposed for reflection than conversation, and I had my own business to attend to, I parted from him at the entrance to the building and we went our respective ways.
And here my narrative comes to its natural end. Its purpose was to give an account of my association with John Gillum, and this I have done; and if my story is not without an epilogue, that epilogue will issue from a pen other than mine.
PART 2
The Case of John Gillum, Deceased
Narrated by Christopher Jervis, M.D.
CHAPTER VIII
Is There a Case?
The George and Vulture Inn has always been I associated in my mind with the historic case of Bardell and Pickwick and those extremely astute gentlemen, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg of Freeman’s Court hard by. But nowadays that venerable tavern associates itself more especially with the very queer case of John Gillum, deceased, and a less famous but much more respectable practitioner of the law. For it was at the George and Vulture that I—together with my colleague, John Thorndyke—became introduced to the queer case aforesaid, and the introducer was no less a person than Mr. Joseph Penfield.
There was nothing surprising in our encounter there at lunch-time with Mr. Penfield, for his office in George Yard was but a few doors from the tavern. Probably it was his daily resort; at any rate, as we entered the grill-room, there he was, seated at a table gravely contemplating a grilled chop which the waiter had just set before him. He observed us as we entered and immediately indicated a couple of vacant chairs at his table.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said he as we took possession of the chairs. “Isn’t the City of London rather outside your radius?”
“No place is outside our radius,” replied Thorndyke. “But we have just come from the Griffin Life Office where we have been conferring with our old friend, Mr. Stalker. The Griffin retains me permanently.”
“As medical referee, I suppose?” Mr. Penfield ventured.
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “As medico-legal adviser; I might almost say as adviser in doubtful cases of suicide, for that is the kind of problem that is usually submitted to me.”
“Ha!” said Penfield; “and I presume that Mr. Stalker’s bias is usually towards an affirmative view.”
“Naturally,” Thorndyke agreed, “but he doesn’t expect me to share that bias. On the contrary, my usual function is rather to shatter his hopes and to convince him of all the things that he doesn’t want to believe.”
“Yes,” said Penfield, “and a very useful function, too. If more people would seek the services of an expert destructive critic, there would be a good deal less litigation.”
With this he returned to the consideration of his lunch while I, having secured the waiter’s attention, communicated to him our joint requirements. Mean while, Mr. Penfield proceeded methodically with his meal, dropping an occasional remark but chiefly leaving the conversational initiative to Thorndyke and me. But as I watched him skilfully dissecting his chop and noted his reflective expression, I had the feeling that he was cogitating some matter arising out of Thorndyke’s explanation and his own rejoinder, and I waited expectantly for it to rise to the surface. And at length (as Pepys would have expressed it) “out it come.”
“Your description,” said he, “of your connection with the Griffin has brought to my mind a matter that is causing me some embarrassment. In
short, to be quite honest, it has raised the hope that I may be able to transfer the burden of it from my shoulders to yours. You may consider the case as being within your province. It certainly isn’t within mine.”
“That suggests to me,” said Thorndyke, “that it is a criminal case.”
“Yes,” replied Penfield, “it is. Highly criminal. A nasty, unsavoury, disreputable affair, and, legally, quite impossible at that. I will just indicate its nature, though I expect you know something of it already from the newspapers. Probably you heard of a case of suicide that occurred in Clifford’s Inn about a month ago.”
“I remember it quite well,” said Thorndyke, “and I recall that you were the dead man’s solicitor.”
“Then,” said Penfield, “you will remember that the dead man, John Gillum by name, having wasted his substance in riotous living, to wit, in gambling, and having—presumably by his own folly—become the victim of blackmailers, proceeded to overdraw his accounts at the bank and then to commit suicide.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “I remember that.”
“Very well,” said Penfield. “Now deceased had n cousin who was much too good for him; a most estimable Australian gentleman named Benson. I speak of him with sympathy and respect although he is now the bane of my life. He was present when Gillum’s body was discovered and he at once formed the opinion that there was something abnormal about the affair; something more than met the eye. And so there may have been. However, he asked me to send shorthand writer to attend the inquest and make a verbatim report of the proceedings, which I did; and I can let you have a transcript of that report if it is of any use. But I must admit that, on reading it, I was utterly unable to see anything in the case that was not perfectly normal, the circumstances being what they were. And that is still my position, and I have tried to impart that view to Benson. But he is still unsatisfied and he continues to stir me up from time to time with demands that some kind of action shall be taken.”
“What does he want you to do? “Thorndyke asked.
“To tell you the truth,” replied Penfield, “I am not quite clear. But, primarily, he wants the blood of those blackmailers.”
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke, “and very properly. But is there any clue to their identity?”
“Not the slightest,” replied Penfield. “He expects me, in some mysteric manner, by employing private detectives or other agents, to discover who the blackmailers are and to drag them forth from their lairs and bring them to justice.”
“You say that he has nothing to go on. Nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” replied Penfield, “but a few letters in a disguised hand, dated only by the postmarks, unsigned, of course, and mentioning nobody by name nor hinting at any locality.”
“And have you no letters or documents that might be of assistance?”
“I have Gillum’s will. Benson is the sole beneficiary; and the sole benefit that he has enjoyed has been a small debt to the bank, which he has insisted on paying. I have also one or two of Gillum’s letters to me, but they are simple business letters making no reference to his private affairs.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Thorndyke asked.
“I should like,” replied Penfield, “to bring him to you and let him state his case and say what he wants. If you think that it is possible to do anything for him, well and good; and if you think otherwise, I should suggest that you give him some of the medicine that you tell me you administer to Mr. Stalker for the cure of unreasonable optimism.”
Thorndyke did not reply immediately, but I could see that the case, unpromising as it looked, was riot without its attractions for him. For, unlike Penfield, he was stimulated rather than discouraged by apparent difficulties. Still, even Thorndyke could not embark on a case without data of some sort. Eventually, he replied without committing himself to any definite course of action: “I think it would be worth while to hear what Mr. Benson has to say. He may know more than he is aware of; and I recall that at the inquest a friend of Gillum’s gave evidence, a man named Mortimer. He seemed to know more about deceased’s affairs than anybody else. Perhaps we might get some information from him.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Penfield, obviously delighted at the prospect of shifting his burden on to Thorndyke’s shoulders. “Excellent. I can put you into touch with Mr. Mortimer, and I am sure he will give you any assistance that he can. And now, as we seem to have finished our lunch, perhaps you will walk down to my office with me and I will hand you the report. It contains all the positive information that I think you are likely to get.”
Accordingly, when we had settled our score, we set forth from the tavern down George Yard to Mr. Penfield’s office. There we observed a rack of deed-boxes the lids of which were decorated, rather like coffin-plates, with the names of Mr. Penfield’s clients. One of these, bearing the name of “John Gillum Esq.,” our friend let down, when he had unlocked the box, displaying a small collection of documents within. From these he selected a large envelope, and having opened it and verified its contents, handed it to Thorndyke.
“That,” said he, “is the report. If you decide to undertake the case, I shall, if you wish it and Mr. Benson agrees, transfer the deed-box with its contents to you. And now, perhaps we can make an appointment for your meeting with Mr. Benson. Will you come here, or shall I bring him to your chambers?”
“I don’t see why you should bring him,” said Thorndyke, “unless you would prefer to. I suggest that he calls on me one evening by appointment, for an informal talk, and if he can bring Mr. Mortimer with him, we shall be able to see exactly how we stand.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Penfield. “It will suit me much better to send him than to bring him, so, if you will give me a date, I will m the appointment.”
“I will give you two dates,” said Thorndyke, “and you can notify me when to expect the visit. One will be the day after tomorrow at eight o’clock in the evening, if that will suit you, Jervis, and the other two days later.”
“Both these dates will do for me,” said I; on which Mr. Penfield entered them in his book with undissembled satisfaction.
“I must thank you again,” said he, accompanying us out into George Yard. “You have really rendered me a great service.”
He shook hands cordially with us both and even stood watching us as we walked away up the court towards Cornhill. And thus was set rolling the ball whose evolutions I was to watch with so much interest during the next few months. None of Thorndyke’s cases ever started less hopefully, and few developed in a more surprising fashion.
Mr. Benson chose the earlier of the two dates and arrived at our chambers punctually at eight in the evening thereof; so punctually that the Temple clock was actually striking the hour as the knock on our door was heard. He was accompanied by another gentleman, and when I let him in, mutual introductions were effected and followed by mutual inspection. Like Mr. Penfield, we were pleasantly impressed by our visitor, indeed by both our visitors. Benson was a typical Australian; tall, well set up and athletic looking, with a fresh, weather-beaten face and a frank, agreeable manner. His companion, Mr. Mortimer, was of a quite different type; a quiet, sedate man with something rather studious and bookish in his appearance.
“I suppose,” said Benson, when the conversational preliminaries had been disposed of, “Mr. Penfield has given you a general outline of the business?”
He has given me the report of the inquest,” replied Thorndyke, “and I and my colleague, Dr. Jervis, have read it most carefully. So now we probably know as much as to the facts of the case as you do, and are in a position to discuss them. Mr. Penfield informs me that you wish some action to be taken, and thefirst question is what kind of action you contemplate.”
This very definite question seemed rather to disconcert Benson, for he answered in a somewhat hesitating manner: “Well, you see, I have had all along the feeling that this dreadful affair was perfectly unnatural and that there was something behind it that was
never brought out by the inquest. In the first place, my cousin, Gillum, was the very last person whom I should have expected to commit suicide.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is frequently said by witnesses at inquests and probably quite truly. But let us be definite. There are only two possibilities in the case of your cousin’s death. Either he committed suicide or he was murdered. The jury decided that he killed himself. Do you contest the fact of the suicide?”
“Well, no,” replied Benson. “I don’t see how I can. I heard all the evidence; and, unwilling as I am to believe that he killed himself, I don’t see that there is any escape from the facts.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed, “that is how it appears to me. Then, if we accept, as we seem bound to do, the fact that John Gillum died by his own hand, we can pass on to the next point. What is the further question that you want to raise?”
“The further question,” replied Benson, “is, why did he commit suicide? Mortimer thinks that he killed himself because he had gambled away all his money, but I don’t believe that. It isn’t a sufficient reason. And we know that he was being harassed by blackmailers. Now, my feeling is that it was not the loss of his money that drove him to suicide, but the agony of mind that he was suffering on account of these blackmailing devils.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is 1 perfectly reasonable view, and I am inclined to agree with you. But what practical effect do you propose to give to your belief?”
“If John Gillum was driven to his death by these wretches,” Benson replied with some heat, “they are virtually his murderers. I know that, in law, they are not chargeable with murder. But, even legally, they are guilty of a very serious crime, and I want them found and brought to justice.”
“That, again,” said Thorndyke, “is a perfectly reasonable position, and I view your desire very sympathetically. But there are two points that I think it necessary to put to you. The first is that what you propose is as nearly as may be an impossibility. So far as I know at present, there is no clue whatever to the identity of these people, nor—so far as I am aware—is anything known as to the circumstances in which the payments were made.”
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