A silent witness
appearance of having been trodden on, though it was not very evident.
But while I was considering an undoubted bruise on the stalk of a
little dead-nettle, my eye caught the glint of some bright object
among the leaves. I picked it out eagerly and held it up to look at
it; and a very curious object it was; evidently an article of
jewellery of some kind, but quite unlike anything I had ever seen
before. It appeared to be a little elongated, gold case, with eight
sides and terminating at either end in a blunt octagonal pyramid with
a tiny ring at its apex, so that it seemed to have been part of a
necklace. Of the eight flat sides, six were ornamented with sunk
quatrefoils, four on each side; the other two sides were plain except
that each had a row of letters engraved on it--A.M.D.G. on one side,
and S.V.D.P. on the other. There was no hall-mark and, as far as I
could see, no means of opening the little case. It seemed to have been
suspended by a thin silk cord, a portion of which remained attached to
one ring and showed a frayed end where it had broken or chafed
through.
I wrapped the little object and the detached fragment of the fence in
my handkerchief (for I had broken off the latter with the idea of
testing it chemically for blood-pigment), and then resumed my
investigations. The appearances suggested that the body had been
lifted over the fence, and the question arose, What was on the other
side? I listened attentively for a few seconds, and then, hearing no
sound of footsteps, I grasped the top of the fence, gave a good spring
and hoisting myself up, sat astride and looked about me. The fence
skirted the margin of a small lake much overgrown with weeds, amidst
which I could see a couple of waterhens making off in alarm at my
appearance, and beyond the lake rose the dark mass of Ken Wood. The
ground between the fence and the lake was covered with high, reedy
grass, which, immediately below my perch, bore very distinct
impressions of feet, and an equally distinct set of tracks led away
towards the wood--or from the wood to the fence; it was impossible to
say which. But in any case, as there were no other tracks, it was
certain that the person who made them had climbed over the fence. I
dropped down on the grass and, having examined the ground attentively
without discovering anything fresh, set off to follow the tracks.
For some distance they continued through high grass in which the
impressions were very distinct: then they entered the wood, and here
also, in the soft humus, lightly sprinkled with fallen leaves, the
footprints were deep and easy to follow. But presently they struck a
path, and, as they did not reappear on the farther side, it was
evident that the unknown person had proceeded along it. The path was
an old one, well made of hard gravel, and, where it passed through the
deeper shade of the wood, was covered with velvety moss and grey-green
lichen; on which I made out with some difficulty, the imprints of
feet. But these were no longer distinct; they did not form a connected
track; nor was it possible to distinguish them from the footprints of
other persons who might have passed along the path. Even these I soon
lost where I had halted irresolutely under a noble beech that rose
from a fantastic coil of roots, and was considering how, if at all, I
should next proceed, when, there appeared round a curve of the path a
man in cord breeches and gaiters, evidently a keeper. He touched his
hat civilly and ventured to enquire my business.
“I am afraid I have no business here at all,” I replied, for I did not
think it expedient to tell him what had brought me into the wood. “I
suppose I am trespassing.”
“Well, sir, it is private property,” he rejoined, “and being so near
London we have to be rather particular. Perhaps you would like me to
show you the way out on to the Heath.”
I accepted his offer with many thanks for his courteous method of
ejecting a trespasser, and we walked together through the beautiful
woodland until the path terminated at a rustic turnstile.
“That will be your way, sir,” he said, as he let me out, indicating a
track that led down to the Vale of Health. I thanked him once more and
then asked:
“Is that a private house or does it belong to your estate?” I pointed
to a small house or large cottage that stood within a fenced enclosure
not far from the edge of the wood.
“That, sir,” he replied, “was formerly a keeper’s lodge. It is now let
for a short term to an artist gentleman who is making some pictures of
the Heath, but I expect it will be pulled down before long, as there
is some talk of the County Council taking over that piece of land to
add to the public grounds. Good-morning, sir,” and the keeper, with a
parting salute, turned back into the wood.
As I took my way homeward by the Highgate Ponds I meditated on the
relation of my new discoveries to the mystery of the preceding night.
It was a strange affair, and sinister withal.
That the tracks led from the lane to the wood and not from the wood to
the lane, I felt firmly convinced; and equally so that the body of the
unknown priest or clergyman had undoubtedly been spirited away. But
whither had it been carried? Presumably to some sequestered spot in
the wood. And what better hiding-place could be found? There, buried
in the soft leaf-mould, it might lie undisturbed for centuries,
covered only the deeper as each succeeding autumn shed its russet
burden on the unknown grave.
And what, I wondered, was the connection between this mysterious
tragedy and the queer little object that I had picked up? Perhaps
there was none. Its presence at that particular spot might be nothing
but a coincidence. I took it from my handkerchief and examined it
afresh. It was a very curious object. As to its use or meaning, I
could only form vague surmises. Perhaps it was some kind of locket,
enclosing a wisp of hair; the hair perhaps of some dead child or wife
or husband or even lover. It was impossible to say. Of course, this
question could be settled by taking it to pieces, but I was loth to
injure the pretty little bauble; besides it was not mine. In fact, I
felt that I ought to notify publicly that I had found it, though the
circumstances did not make this very advisable. But if it had any
connection with the tragedy, what was the nature of that connection?
Had it dropped from the dead man or from the murderer--as I assumed
the other man to be? Either was equally possible, though the two
possibilities had very different values.
Then the question arose as to what course I should pursue. Clearly it
would be my duty to inform the police of the mark on the fence and the
tracks through the grass. But should I hand over the mysterious
trinket to them? It seemed the correct thing to do, and yet there
might after all be no connection between it and the crime. In the end
I left the matter to be decided by the attitude of the police
themselves.
I called at the station on my way home and furnished the inspector
with an account of my new discoveries; of which he made a careful
note, assuring me that the affair should be looked into. But his
manner expressed frank disbelief, and was even a trifle hostile; and
his emphatic request that I would abstain from mentioning the matter
to anyone left me in no doubt that he regarded both my communications
as wild delusions if not as a deliberate hoax. Consequently, though I
frequently reproached myself afterwards with the omission, I said
nothing about the trinket, and when I left the station I carried it in
my pocket.
No communication on the subject of this mysterious affair ever reached
me from the police. That they did actually make some perfunctory
investigations, I learned later, as will appear in this narrative. But
they gave no publicity to the affair and they sought no further
information from me. For my own part, I could, naturally, never forget
so strange an experience; but time and the multitudinous interests of
my opening life tended to push it farther into the background of
memory, and there it might have remained for ever had not subsequent
events drawn it once more from its obscurity.
CHAPTER III.
“WHO IS SYLVIA?”
The winter session had commenced at the hospital, but at Hampstead
the month of October had set in with something like a return to
summer. It is true that the trees had lost something of their leafy
opulence, and that here and there, amidst the sober green, patches of
russet and gold had made their appearance, as if Nature’s
colour-orchestra were tuning up for the final symphony. But,
meanwhile, the sun shone brightly and with a genial heat, and if, day
by day, he fell farther from the zenith, there was nothing to show it
but the lengthening noonday shadows, the warmer blue of the sky and
the more rosy tint of the clouds that sailed across it.
Other and more capable pens than mine have set forth the charm of
autumn and the beauties of Hampstead--queen of suburbs of the world’s
metropolis; therefore will I refrain, and only note, as relevant to
the subject, the fact that on many a day, when the work of the
hospital was in full swing, I might have been seen playing truant very
agreeably on the inexhaustible Heath or in the lanes and fields
adjacent thereto. In truth, I was taking the final stage of my
curriculum rather lazily, having worked hard enough in the earlier
years, and being still too young by several months to be admitted to
the fellowship of the College of Surgeons; promising myself that when
the weather broke I would settle down in earnest to the winter’s work.
I have mentioned that Millfield Lane was one of my favourite haunts;
indeed, from my lodgings, it was the most direct route to the Heath,
and I passed along it almost daily; and never, now, without my
thoughts turning back to that rainy night when I had found the
dead--or unconscious--man lying across the narrow footway. One
morning, as I passed the spot, it occurred to me to make a drawing of
the place in my sketch-book, that I might have some memorial of that
strange adventure. The pictorial possibilities of the lane just here
were not great, but by taking my stand at the turn, on the very spot
where I had seen the body lying, I was able to arrange a simple
composition which was satisfactory enough.
I am no artist. A neat and intelligible drawing is the utmost that I
can produce. But even this modest degree of achievement may be very
useful, as I had discovered many a time in the wards or
laboratories--indeed, I have often been surprised that the instructors
of our youth attach such small value to the power of graphic
expression; and it came in usefully now, though in a way that was
unforeseen and not fully appreciated at the moment. I had dealt
adequately with the fence, the posts, the tree-trunks and other
well-defined forms and was beginning a less successful attack on the
foliage, when I heard a light, quick step approaching from Hampstead
Lane. Intuition--if there is such a thing--fitted the foot-step with a
personality, and, for once in a way, was right; as the new-comer
reached the sharp bend of the path, I saw a girl of about my own age,
simply and serviceably dressed and carrying a pochade box and a small
camp-stool. She was not an entire stranger to me. I had met her often
in the lane and on the Heath--so often in fact that we had developed
that profound unconsciousness of one another’s existence that almost
amounts to recognition--and had wondered vaguely who she was and what
sort of work she did on the panels in that mysterious box.
As I drew back to make way for her, she brushed past, with a single,
quick, inquisitive glance at my sketch-book, and went on her way,
looking very much alive and full of business. I watched her as she