A silent witness
morbidly over the catastrophe of which I had been the involuntary
cause. And, dreadful as the associations of the place were, I could
not but feel that those of my older resorts would be equally painful.
For me, at present, the Heath would be haunted by the figure of poor
Letitia, walking at my side, telling me her pitiful tale and so
pathetically craving my sympathy and friendship. And the Highgate Road
could not but wring my heart with the recollection of that evening
when we had walked together up the narrow lane--all unconscious of the
black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled only by that
futile spy--when, as we said good-bye, I had kissed her and she had
run off blushing like a girl.
Moreover, if Thorndyke’s chambers were fraught with terrible and
gloomy associations, they were also pervaded by an atmosphere of
resolute, relentless preparation which was itself a relief to me; for,
as the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me possessed by
a fury of hatred for the murderer and consumed by an inextinguishable
craving for vengeance. Nor was the time of suspense so long as we had
anticipated. On the very next morning a letter arrived from the Home
Office containing the necessary authority to make the proposed
examination and informing Thorndyke that, on the following day, the
police would take possession of the ashes, which would be delivered to
him by an officer who would remain to witness the examination and to
resume possession of the remains when it was concluded.
I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but I gathered that he
was busy making the final arrangements for the important work of the
morrow and in clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself free
from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis’s society, for he,
too, was anxious to have the day free for the “Crucial Experiment,”
which was--we hoped--to solve the mystery of Septimus Maddock’s death
and explain the villain Samway’s strange vindictiveness towards me.
Left to myself, and by no means enamoured of my own society, I
wandered up to the laboratory to see what Polton was doing and to
distract my gloomy thoughts by a little gossip with him on the various
technical processes of which he possessed so much curious information.
I found him arrayed in a white apron, with his sleeves turned up,
busily occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough, which he had
spread on a pastry board and was levelling with a hard-wood
rolling-pin. He greeted me, as I entered with his queer, crinkly
smile, but made no remark; and I stood awhile in silence, watching him
cut the paste in halves, sprinkle it with flour, fold it up and once
more roll it out into a sheet with the wooden pin.
“Is this going to be a meat pie, Polton?” I asked, at length.
His smile broadened at my question--for which I suspect he had been
waiting.
“I don’t think you’d care much for the flavour of it, if it was, sir,”
he answered. “But it does look like dough, doesn’t it. It’s
moulding-wax; a special formula of the Doctor’s own.”
“I thought that white powder was flour.”
“So it is, sir; the best wheaten flour. It’s lighter than a mineral
powder and more tenacious. You have to use some powder to reduce the
stickiness of the wax, especially in a soft paste like this, which has
a lot of lard in it.”
“What are you going to use it for?” I asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Polton, pausing to give the paste a vicious whack with
the rolling-pin, “there you are, sir. That’s just what I’ve been
asking myself all the time I’ve been rolling it out. The Doctor,
sir--God bless him--is the most exasperating gentleman in the world.
He fairly drives me mad with curiosity, at times. He will give me a
piece of work to do--something to make, perhaps--with full
particulars--all the facts, you understand, perfectly clear and exact,
with working drawings if necessary. But he never says what the thing
is for. So I make a hypothesis for myself--whole bundles of
hypotheses, I make. And they always turn out wrong. I assure you,
sir,” he concluded with solemn emphasis, “that I spend the best part
of my life asking myself conundrums and giving myself the wrong
answers.”
“I should have thought,” said I, “that you would have got used to his
ways by now.”
“You can’t get used to him,” rejoined Polton. “It’s impossible. He
doesn’t think like any other man. Ordinary men’s brains are turned out
pretty much alike from a single mould, like a batch of pottery. But
the Doctor’s brain was a special order. If there was any mould at all,
that mould was broken up when the job was finished.”
“What you mean is,” said I, “that he has a great deal more
intelligence than is given to the rank and file of humanity.”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Polton. “It isn’t a question of quantity at
all. It’s a different kind of intelligence. Ordinary men have to
reason from visible facts. He doesn’t. He reasons from facts which his
imagination tells him exists, but which nobody else can see. He’s like
a portrait painter who can do you a likeness of your face by looking
at the back of your head. I suppose it’s what he calls constructive
imagination, such as Darwin and Harvey and Pasteur and other great
discoverers had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts that were
known to the common herd of humanity.”
I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of Polton’s views on the
transcendental intellect, though respectfully admiring of the
thoughtfulness of this curious little handicraftsman; accordingly I
returned to the more concrete subject of wax.
“Haven’t you any idea what this stuff is going to be used for?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied. “The Doctor’s instructions were to
make six pounds of it, to make it soft enough to take a squeeze of a
stiff feather if warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape in a
half-inch layer with a plaster backing, and to be sure to have it
ready by to-morrow morning. That’s all. I know there’s an important
analysis on to-morrow and I suppose this wax has got something to do
with it. But, as to what moulding wax can have to do with a chemical
analysis, that’s a question that I can’t make head or tail of.”
Neither could I, though I had more data than Polton appeared to
possess. Nor could Jervis, to whom I propounded the riddle when he
came in to tea. We went up to the laboratory together and inspected,
not only the wax, but the exterior of three large parcels addressed to
Professor Woodfield, care of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of
a firm of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could suggest any
solution of the mystery; and the only result of our visit to the
laboratory was that Polton was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of
his junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure by executing
with the wax, a life-sized and highly grotesque portrait of Father
Humperdinck.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE FINAL PROBLEM
At exactly half-past eleven in the following forenoon, Professor
Woodfield arrived, bearing a massive cowhide bag which he deposited on
a chair as a preliminary to taking off his hat and wiping his
forehead. He was a big, burly, heavy-browed man, sparing of speech and
rather gruff in manner.
“Stuff arrived yet?” he asked when he had brought his forehead to a
satisfactory polish.
“I think it came yesterday morning,” replied Thorndyke.
“The deuce it did!” exclaimed Woodfield.
“Yes. Three parcels from Townley and Draper’s--”
“Oh, you’re talking of the chemicals. I meant the other stuff.”
“No; the officer hasn’t arrived yet, but I expect he will be here in a
few minutes. Superintendent Miller is a scrupulously punctual man.”
The professor strode over to the window and glared out in the
direction of Crown Office Row.
“That man of yours got everything ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Thorndyke; “and I have looked over the laboratory
myself. Everything is ready. You can begin the instant the ashes are
delivered to us.”
Woodfield expressed his satisfaction--or whatever he intended to
express--by a grunt, without removing his eyes from the approach to
our chambers.
“Cab coming,” he announced a few moments later. “Man inside with a
parcel. That the officer?”
Jervis looked out over the professor’s shoulder.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s Miller; and, confound it! here’s Marchmont
with old Humperdinck. Shall we bolt up to the laboratory and send down
word that we’re all out of town?”
“I don’t see why we should,” said Thorndyke. “Woodfield won’t be
inconsolable if we have to leave him to work by himself for a while.”
The professor confirmed this statement by another grunt, and, shortly
afterwards, the clamour of the little brass knocker announced the
arrival of the first contingent, which, when I opened the door, was
seen to consist of the solicitor and his very reverend client.
“My dear Thorndyke!” exclaimed Marchmont, shaking our principal’s
hand; “what a shocking affair this is--this murder, I mean. I read
about it in the paper. A dreadful affair!”
“Yes, indeed,” Thorndyke assented; “a most callous and horrible
crime.”
“Terrible! Terrible!” said Marchmont. “So unpleasant for you, too, and
so inconvenient. Actually on your own stairs, I understand. But I hope
they’ll be able to catch the villain. Have you any idea who he is?”
“I have a very strong suspicion,” Thorndyke replied.
“Ah!” exclaimed Marchmont. “I thought so. The rascal brought his pigs
to the wrong market. What? Like doing a burglary at Scotland Yard. He
couldn’t have known who lived here. Hallo! why, here’s Mr. Miller.
Howdy-do, Superintendent?”
The officer, for whom I had left the door ajar, entered in his usual
brisk fashion, and, having bestowed a comprehensive salutation on the
assembled company, deposited on the table an apparently weighty
parcel, securely wrapped and decorated with a label bearing the
inscription “This side up.”
“There, sir,” said he, “there’s your box of mystery; and I don’t mind
telling you that I’m on tenterhooks of curiosity to see what you are
going to make of it.”
“Professor Woodfield is the presiding magician,” said Thorndyke, “so
we will hand it over to him. I suppose the casket is sealed?”
“Yes; it was sealed in my presence, and I’ve got to be present when
the seals are broken.”
“We’ll break the seals up in the laboratory,” said Woodfield, “but we
may as well undo the parcel here.”
He produced a solid-looking pocket-knife, fitted with a practicable
corkscrew, and, having cut the string, stripped off the wrappings of
the parcel.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Marchmont, as the last wrapping was
removed; “why, it’s a cremation urn! What in the name of Fortune are
you going to do?”
Miller tapped the lid of the urn with a dramatic gesture.
“Dr. Thorndyke,” said he, “is going, I hope, to extract from the ashes
in this casket an instrument of vengeance on the murderer of Mrs.
Samway.”
“Ach!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck, “do not speak of vengeance in ze
bresence of zese boor remains of a fellow greature. Chustice if you
laig, but not vengeance. ‘Vengeance is mine, saiz ze Lordt!’”
“M’yes,” agreed Miller, “that’s perfectly true, sir, and we quite
understand your point of view. Still, we’ve got our job to do, you
know.”
“But,” said Marchmont, “I don’t understand. What is the connection?
These appear to be the remains of Septimus Maddock, whoever he may
have been, and he seems to have died last November. What has he to do
with the murder of this poor woman, Samway?”
“The connection is this,” replied Thorndyke; “the man who murdered
Mrs. Samway murdered the man whose ashes are in this urn. That is my
proposition; and I hope, with the skilful aid of my friend Professor
Woodfield, to prove it.”
“Well,” said Marchmont, “it is a remarkable proposition and the proof