The blue scarab
probably jettisoned at once, and this is the most probable route for
the robber to have taken, if he knew of it. You see by the map that it
must lead nearly directly to the race-course, and it avoids both the
path and the main road. While the wax is setting we might as well look
round.”
It seemed a hopeless enough proceeding and I agreed to it without
enthusiasm. Leaving the track on the opposite side to that which
Thorndyke was searching, I wandered among the bushes and the little
open spaces, peering about me and reminding myself of that “aged, aged
man” who
“Sometimes searched the grassy knolls,
For wheels of hansom cabs.”
I had worked my way nearly back to where I could see Thorndyke, also
returning, when my glance fell on a small, brown object caught among
the branches of a bush. It was a man’s pigskin purse; and as I picked
it out of the bush I saw that it was open and empty.
With my prize in my hand, I hastened to the spot where Thorndyke was
lifting the wax casts. He looked up and asked, “No luck, I suppose?”
I held out the purse, on which he pounced eagerly. “But this is most
important, Jervis,” he exclaimed. “It is almost certainly Harewood’s
purse. You see the initials, ‘J.H.,’ stamped on the flap. Then we were
right as to the direction that the robber took. And it would pay to
search this place exhaustively for the will, though we can’t do that
now, as we have to go on to Barwood. I wrote to say we were coming. We
had better get back to the path now and make for the road. Barwood is
only half an hour’s run.”
We packed the casts in the research case (which was strapped to
Thorndyke’s bicycle), and turning back, made our way to the path. As
it was still deserted, we ventured to mount, and soon reached the
road, along which we started at a good pace towards Barwood.
Half an hour’s ride brought us into the main street of the little
town, and when we dismounted at the police station we found the Chief
Constable himself waiting to receive us, courteously eager to assist
us, but possessed by a devouring curiosity which was somewhat
inconvenient.
“I have done as you asked me in your letter, sir,” he said.
“Fletcher’s body is, of course, in the mortuary, but I have had all
his clothes and effects brought here; and I have had them put in my
private office, so that you can look them over in comfort.”
“It is exceedingly good of you,” said Thorndyke, “and most helpful.”
He unstrapped the research case, and following the officer into his
sanctum, looked round with deep approval. A large table had been
cleared for the examination, and the dead pickpocket’s clothes and
effects neatly arranged at one end.
Thorndyke’s first proceeding was to pick up the dead man’s boots--a
smart but flimsy pair of light brown leather, rather down at heel and
in need of re-soling. Neither toes nor heels bore any tips or even
nails excepting the small fastening brads. Having exhibited them to me
without remark, Thorndyke placed them on a sheet of white paper and
made a careful tracing of the soles, a proceeding that seemed to
surprise the Chief Constable, for he remarked, “I should hardly have
thought that the question of footprints would arise in this case. You
can’t charge a dead man.”
Thorndyke agreed that this seemed to be true; and then he proceeded to
an operation that fairly made the officer’s eyes bulge. Opening the
research case--into which the officer cast an inquisitive glance--he
took out the dust-aspirator, the nozzle of which he inserted into one
after another of the dead thief’s pockets while I worked the pump.
When he had gone through them all, he opened the receiver and
extracted quite a considerable ball of dusty fluff. Placing this on a
glass slide, he tore it in halves with a pair of mounted needles and
passed one half to me, when we both fell to work “teasing” it out into
an open mesh, portions of which we separated and laid--each in a tiny
pool of glycerine--on blank-labelled glass slides, applying to each
slide its cover-glass and writing on the label, “Dust from Fletcher’s
pockets.”
When the series was complete, Thorndyke brought out the microscope,
and fitting on a one-inch objective, quickly examined the slides, one
after another, and then pushed the microscope to me. So far as I could
see, the dust was just ordinary dust--principally made up of broken
cotton fibres with a few fibres of wool, linen, wood, jute, and others
that I could not name and some undistinguishable mineral particles.
But I made no comment, and resigning the microscope to the Chief
Constable--who glared through it, breathing hard, and remarked that
the dust was “rummy-looking stuff”--watched Thorndyke’s further
proceedings. And very odd proceedings they were.
First he laid the five stolen watches in a row, and with a Coddington
lens minutely examined the dial of each. Then he opened the back of
each in turn and copied into his notebook the watch-repairers’
scratched inscriptions. Next he produced from the case a number of
little vulcanite rods, and laying out five labelled slides, dropped a
tiny drop of glycerine on each, covering it at once with a watch-glass
to protect it from falling dust. Then he stuck a little label on each
watch, wrote a number on it and similarly numbered the five slides.
His next proceeding was to take out the glass of watch No. 1 and pick
up one of the vulcanite rods, which he rubbed briskly on a silk
handkerchief and passed slowly across and around the dial of the
watch, after which he held the rod close to the glycerine on slide No.
1 and tapped it sharply with the blade of his pocket-knife. Then he
dropped a cover-glass on to the glycerine and made a rapid inspection
of the specimen through the microscope.
This operation he repeated on the other four watches, using a fresh
rod for each, and when he had finished he turned to the open-mouthed
officer. “I take it,” said he, “that the watch which has the chain
attached to it is Mr. Harewood’s watch?”
“Yes, sir. That helped us to identify it.”
Thorndyke looked at the watch reflectively. Attached to the bow by a
short length of green tape was a small, rather elaborate key. This my
friend picked up, and taking a fresh mounted needle, inserted it into
the barrel of the key, from which he then withdrew it with a tiny ball
of fluff on its point. I hastily prepared a slide and handed it to
him, when, with a pair of dissecting scissors, he cut off a piece of
the fluff and let it fall into the glycerine. He repeated this
manœuvre with two more slides and then labelled the three, “Key,
outside,” “middle” and “inside,” and in that order examined them under
the microscope.
My own examination of the specimens yielded very little. They all
seemed to be common dust, though that from the face of watch No. 3
contained a few broken fragments of what looked like animal
hairs--possibly cat’s--as also did the key-fluff marked “outside.” But
if this had any significance, I could not guess what it was. As to the
Chief Constable, he clearly looked on the whole proceeding as a sort
of legerdemain with no obvious purpose, for he remarked, as we were
packing up to go, “I am glad I’ve seen how you do it, sir. But all the
same, I think you are flogging a dead horse. We know who committed the
crime and we know he’s beyond the reach of the law.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “one must earn one’s fee, you know. I shall
put Fletcher’s boots and the five watches in evidence at the inquest
to-morrow, and I will ask you to leave the labels on the watches.”
With renewed thanks and a hearty handshake he bade the courteous
officer adieu, and we rode off to catch the train to London.
That evening, after dinner, we brought out the specimens and went over
them at our leisure; and Thorndyke added a further specimen by drawing
a knotted piece of twine through the cigarette-holder that he had
salved from the chalk-pit, and teasing out the unsavoury, black
substance that came out on the string in glycerine on a slide. When he
had examined it, he passed it to me. The dark, tarry liquid somewhat
obscured the detail, but I could make out fragments of the same animal
hairs that I had noted in the other specimens, only here they were
much more numerous. I mentioned my observation to Thorndyke. “They are
certainly parts of mammalian hairs,” I said, “and they look like the
hairs of a cat. Are they from a cat?”
“Rabbit,” Thorndyke replied curtly; and even then, I am ashamed to
admit, I did not perceive the drift of the investigation.
The room in the Welsbury Town Hall had filled up some minutes before
the time fixed for the opening of the inquest, and in the interval,
when the jury had retired to view the body in the adjacent mortuary, I
looked round the assembly. Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Crowhurst were
present, and a youngish, horsey-looking man in cord breeches and
leggings, whom I correctly guessed to be Arthur Baxfield. Our friend
the Chief Constable of Barwood was also there, and with him Thorndyke
exchanged a few words in a retired corner. The rest of the company
were strangers.
As soon as the coroner and the jury had taken their places the medical
witness was called. The cause of death, he stated, was dislocation of
the neck, accompanied by a depressed fracture of the skull. The
fracture might have been produced by a blow with a heavy, blunt
weapon, or by the deceased falling on his head. The witness adopted
the latter view, as the dislocation showed that deceased had fallen in
that manner.
The next witness was Mr. Crowhurst, who repeated to the Court what he
had told us, and further stated that on leaving deceased’s house he
went straight home, as he had an appointment with a friend. He was
followed by Baxfield, who gave evidence to the same effect, and stated
that on leaving the house of deceased he went to his place of business
at Welsbury. He was about to retire when Thorndyke rose to
cross-examine.
“At what time did you reach your place of business?” he asked.
The witness hesitated for a few moments and then replied, “Half-past
four.”
“And what time did you leave deceased’s house?”
“Two o’clock,” was the reply.
“What is the distance?”
“In a direct line, about two miles. But I didn’t go direct. I took a
round in the country by Lenfield.”
“That would take you near the race-course on the way back. Did you go
to the races?”
“No. The races were just over when I returned.”
There was a slight pause and then Thorndyke asked, “Do you smoke much,
Mr. Baxfield?”
The witness looked surprised, and so did the jury, but the former
replied, “A fair amount. About fifteen cigarettes a day.”
“What brand of cigarettes do you smoke, and what kind of tobacco is
it?”
“I make my own cigarettes. I make them of shag.”
Here protesting murmurs arose from the jury, and the coroner remarked
stiffly, “These questions do not appear to have much connection with
the subject of this inquiry.”
“You may take it, sir,” replied Thorndyke, “that they have a very
direct bearing on it.” Then, turning to the witness he asked, “Do you
use a cigarette-tube?”
“Sometimes I do,” was the reply.
“Have you lost a cigarette-tube lately?”
The witness directed a startled glance at Thorndyke and replied after
some hesitation, “I believe I mislaid one a little time ago.”
“When and where did you lose that tube?” Thorndyke asked.
“I--I really couldn’t say,” replied Baxfield, turning perceptibly
pale.
Thorndyke opened his dispatch box, and taking out the tube that he had
salved at so much risk, handed it to the witness. “Is that the tube
that you lost?” he asked.
At this question Baxfield turned pale as death, and the hand in which
he received the tube shook as if with a palsy. “It may be,” he