A silent witness
“pull yourself together. How did you get in that cellar?”
“Hang’ ’f I know,” said I, composing myself for another nap. But here
the wet towel came once more into requisition, and that with such
vigour that, in a fit of exasperation, I sat up and yawned.
“I think you’d better fetch a cab,” said Thorndyke, as Maggie wrung
out the towel afresh; “but leave the gate open when you go out.”
“Wasser cab for?” I asked sulkily. “Can’t I walk?”
“If you can, it will be better,” said Thorndyke. “Let us see if you
are able to stand.” He hoisted me on to my feet and he and Maggie,
taking each an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled yard,
which I now began to recognize as appertaining to the Mineral Water
Works. At first I staggered very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy
feeling wore off and I was able to walk with Thorndyke’s assistance
only.
“I think we might venture out now,” said he, at length, piloting me
towards the gate, and when I had stumbled rather awkwardly through the
wicket, we set forth homeward.
On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply of strong coffee and a
light meal, after which--it being obvious that I was good for nothing
in a professional sense, he suggested that I should go to bed.
“Don’t worry about the practice,” said he. “I will send for my friend
Jervis, and, between us, we will see that everything is looked after.
If Maggie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope I will write a
note to him; and then she can take a hansom to my chambers and give
the note either to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton. Meanwhile, I will stay
here and see that you don’t go to sleep prematurely.”
He wrote the note; and Maggie, having made such improvements in her
outward garb as befitted the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge
of it and departed with much satisfaction and dignity. Thorndyke made
a few enquiries of me as to the circumstances that had led to my
incarceration in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than
Maggie--whom he had already questioned--he changed the subject; nor
would he allow me again to refer to it.
“No, Jardine,” he said. “Better think no more of it for the present.
Have a good night’s rest and then, if you are all right in the
morning, we will go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle
together.”
CHAPTER VI.
A COUNCIL OF WAR
I awoke somewhat late on the following morning; indeed, I was but
half awake when there came a somewhat masterful and peremptory tap at
my bedroom door, followed by the appearance in the room of a rather
tall gentleman of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed
him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed, proprietary manner of
entering, but he left me no time for guessing as to his identity.
“Good-morning, Jardine,” he said briskly, jingling the keys and small
change in his trousers’ pockets, “my name is Jervis. Second violin in
the Thorndyke orchestra. I’m in charge here _pro tem_. How are you
feeling?”
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just going to get up. You needn’t trouble
about the practice. I’m quite fit.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jervis, “but you’d better keep quiet all
the same. My orders are explicit, and I know my place too well to
disobey. Thorndyke’s instructions were that you are not to make any
visits or go abroad until after the inquest.”
“Inquest?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He’s coming here at four o’clock to hold an inquiry into the
circumstances that led to your being locked up in a cellar, and until
then I’m to look after the practice and keep an eye on you. What time
do you expect the offspring of the flittermouse?”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Batson. He’s coming back to-day, isn’t he?”
“Yes. About six o’clock to-night.”
“Then you’ll be able to clear out. So much the better. The
neighbourhood doesn’t seem very wholesome for you.”
“I suppose I can do the surgery work,” said I.
“You’d better not. Better follow Thorndyke’s instructions literally.
But you can tell me about the patients and help me to dispense. And
that reminds me that a person named Samway called just now, a rather
fine-looking woman--reminded me of a big, sleek tabby cat. She
wouldn’t say what she wanted. Do you know anything about her?”
“I expect she came about her account. But she’ll have to see Batson. I
told her so, only a night or two ago.”
“Very well,” said Jervis, “then I’ll be off now, and you take things
easy and just think over what happened last night, so as to be ready
for Thorndyke.”
With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and breakfast at my
leisure.
His advice to me to think over the events of the previous night was
rather superfluous. The experience was not one that I was likely to
forget. To have escaped from death by the very slenderest chance was
in itself a matter to occupy one’s thoughts pretty completely, apart
from the horrible circumstances, and then there was the mystery in
which the whole affair was enveloped, a mystery which utterly baffled
any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over as I would--and it was
hardly out of my thoughts for a minute at a time all day--no glimmer
of light could I perceive, no faintest clue to any explanation of that
hideous and incomprehensible crime.
At four o’clock punctually to the minute, Dr. Thorndyke arrived, and,
having quickly looked me over to see that I was none the worse for my
adventure, proceeded to business.
“Have you finished the visits, Jervis?” he asked.
“Yes; and sent off all the medicine. There’s nothing more to do until
six.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we might have a cup of tea in the
consulting-room and talk this affair over. I am rather taking
possession of you, Jardine,” he added, “but I think we ought to see
where we are quite clearly, even if we decide finally to hand the case
over to the police. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Certainly,” I agreed, highly flattered by the interest he was taking
in my affairs; “naturally, I should like to get to the bottom of the
mystery.”
“So should I,” said he, “and to that end, I propose that you give us a
completely circumstantial account of the whole affair. I have had a
talk with your very intelligent little maid, Maggie, and now I want to
hear what happened after she left you.”
“I don’t think I have much to tell that you don’t know,” said I;
“however, I will take up the story where Maggie left off,” and I
proceeded to describe the events in detail, much as I have related
them to the reader.
Thorndyke listened to my story with profound attention, making an
occasional memorandum but not uttering a word until I had finished.
Then, after a rapid glance through his memoranda, he said:
“You spoke of a note that was handed in to you. Have you got that
note?”
“I left it on the writing-table, and it is probably there still. Yes,
here it is.” I brought it over to the little table on which our tea
was laid and handed it to him; and as he took it from me with the
dainty carefulness of a photographer handling a wet plate, I noted
mentally that the habit of delicate manipulation contracted in the
laboratory makes itself evident in the most trifling of everyday
actions.
“I see,” he remarked, turning the envelope over and scrutinizing it
minutely, “that this is addressed to ‘Dr. H. Jardine.’ It appears,
then, that he knows your Christian name. Can you account for that?”
“No, I can’t. The only letter I have had here was addressed ‘Dr.
Jardine,’ and I have signed no certificates or other documents.”
He made a note of my answer, and, drawing the missive from its
envelope, read it through.
“The handwriting,” he remarked, “looks disguised rather than
illiterate, and the diction is inconsistent. The blatantly incorrect
adverb at the end does not agree with the rest of the phraseology and
the correct punctuation. As to the signature, we may neglect that,
unless you are acquainted with anyone in these parts of the name of
Parker.”
“I am not,” said I.
“Very well. Then if you will allow me to keep this note, I will file
it for future reference. And now I will ask you a few questions about
this adventure of yours, which is really a most astonishing and
mysterious affair; even more mysterious, I may add, than it looks at
the first glance. But we shall come to that presently. At the moment
we are concerned with the crime itself--with a manifest attempt to
murder you--and the circumstances that led up to it; and there are
certain obvious questions that suggest themselves. The first is: Can
you give any explanation of this attempt on your life?”
“No, I can’t,” I replied. “It is a complete mystery to me. I can only
suppose that the fellow was a homicidal lunatic.”
“A homicidal lunatic,” said Thorndyke, “is the baffled investigator’s
last resource. But we had better not begin supposing at this stage.
Let us keep strictly to facts. You do not know of anything that would
explain this attack on you?”
“No.”
“Then the next question is: Had you any property of value on your
person?”
“No. Five pounds would cover the value of everything I had about me,
including the instruments.”
“Then that seems to exclude robbery as a motive. The next question is:
Does any person stand to benefit considerably by your death? Have you
any considerable expectations in the way of bequests, reversions or
succession to landed property or titles?”
“No,” I replied with a faint grin. “I shall come in for a thousand or
two when my uncle dies, but I believe the London Hospital is the
alternative legatee, and I suppose we would hardly suspect the
hospital governors of this little affair. Otherwise, the only person
who would benefit by my death would be the undertaker who got the
contract to plant me.”
Thorndyke nodded and made a note of my answer.
“That,” said he, “disposes of the principal motives for premeditated
murder. There remains the question of personal enmity--not a common
motive in this country. Have you, as far as you know, an enemy or
enemies who might conceivably try to kill you?”
“As far as I know, I have not an enemy in the world, or anyone, even,
who would wish to do me a bad turn.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to dispose of all the ordinary
motives for murder; and I may say that I have only put these questions
as a matter of routine precaution--_ex abundantiâ cautelae_, as
Jervis says, when he is in a forensic mood--because certain other
facts which I have learned seem to exclude any of these motives
except, perhaps, robbery from the person.”
“You haven’t been long picking up those other facts,” remarked Jervis.
“Why the affair only happened last night.”
“I have only made a few simple enquiries,” replied Thorndyke. “This
morning I called on Mr. Highfield, whose name, as solicitor and agent
to the landlords, I copied from the notice on the gate at the works
last night. He knows me slightly so I was able to get from him the
information that I wanted. It amounts to this.
“About four months ago, a Mr. Gill wrote to him and offered a lump sum
for the use of the mineral water works for six months. Highfield
accepted the offer and drew up an agreement, as desired, granting Gill
immediate possession of the premises and the small stock and plant, of
which the residue was to be taken back at a valuation by the landlords
at the expiration of the term.
“I noted Gill’s address, as it appeared on the agreement, and sent my
man, Polton, to make enquiries. The address is that of a West
Kensington lodging house at which Gill was staying when he signed the
agreement. He had been there only three weeks, he left two days after
the date of the agreement and the landlady does not know where he went
or anything about him.”
“Sounds a bit fishy,” Jervis remarked. “Did he tell Highfield what he
wanted the premises for?”