The blue scarab
He ran his eye over my report and nodded approvingly. “There is plenty
there to enable us to identify the typewriter if we can get hold of
it, and the paper is very distinctive. What do you think of the seal?”
he added, laying the enlarged photograph before me.
“It is magnificent,” I replied, with a grin. “Perfectly monumental.”
“What are you grinning at?” he demanded.
“I was thinking that you seem to be counting your chickens in pretty
good time,” said I. “You are making elaborate preparations to identify
the scarab, but you are rather disregarding the classical advice of
the prudent Mrs. Glasse.”
“I have a presentiment that we shall get that scarab,” said he. “At
any rate we ought to be in a position to identify it instantly and
certainly if we are able to get a sight of it.”
“We are not likely to,” said I. “Still, there is no harm in providing
for the improbable.”
This was evidently Thorndyke’s view, and he certainly made ample
provision for this most improbable contingency; for, having furnished
himself with a drawing-board and a sheet of tracing-paper, he pinned
the latter over the photograph on the board and proceeded, with a fine
pen and hectograph ink, to make a careful and minute tracing of the
intricate and bewildering hieroglyphic inscription on the seal. When
he had finished it he transferred it to a clay duplicator and took off
half a dozen copies, one of which he handed to me. I looked at it
dubiously and remarked: “You have said that the medical jurist must
make all knowledge his province. Has he got to be an Egyptologist,
too?”
“He will be the better medical jurist if he is,” was the reply, of
which I made a mental note for my future guidance. But meanwhile
Thorndyke’s proceedings were, to me, perfectly incomprehensible. What
was his object in making this minute tracing? The seal itself was
sufficient for identification. I lingered awhile hoping that some
fresh development might throw a light on the mystery. But his next
proceeding was like to have reduced me to stupefaction. I saw him go
to the bookshelves and take down a book. As he laid it on the table I
glanced at the title, and when I saw that it was Raper’s “Navigation
Tables” I stole softly out into the lobby, put on my hat and went for
a walk.
When I returned the investigation was apparently concluded, for
Thorndyke was seated in his easy chair, placidly reading “The Compleat
Angler.” On the table lay a large circular protractor, a
straight-edge, an architect’s scale and a sheet of tracing-paper on
which was a tracing in hectograph ink of Shawstead Manor.
“Why did you make this tracing?” I asked. “Why not take the map
itself?”
“We don’t want the whole of it,” he replied, “and I dislike cutting up
maps.”
By taking an informal lunch in the train, we arrived at Shawstead
Manor by half-past two. Our approach up the drive had evidently been
observed, for Blowgrave and his daughter were waiting at the porch to
receive us. The former came forward with outstretched hand, but a
distinctly woebegone expression, and exclaimed: “It is most kind of
you to come down; but alas! you are too late.”
“Too late for what?” demanded Thorndyke.
“I will show you,” replied Blowgrave, and seizing my colleague by the
arm, he strode off excitedly to a little wicket at the side of the
house, and, passing through it, hurried along a narrow alley that
skirted the garden wall and ended in a large meadow, at one end of
which stood a dilapidated windmill. Across this meadow he bustled,
dragging my colleague with him, until he reached a heap of
freshly-turned earth, where he halted and pointed tragically to a spot
where the turf had evidently been raised and untidily replaced.
“There!” he exclaimed, stooping to pull up the loose turfs and thereby
exposing what was evidently a large hole, recently and hastily filled
in. “That was done last night or early this morning, for I walked over
this meadow only yesterday evening and there was no sign of disturbed
ground then.”
Thorndyke stood looking down at the hole with a faint smile. “And what
do you infer from that?” he asked.
“Infer!” shrieked Blowgrave. “Why, I infer that whoever dug this hole
was searching for Uncle Reuben and the lost jewels!”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” Thorndyke said calmly. “He happened
to search in the wrong place, but that is his affair.”
“The wrong place!” Blowgrave and his daughter exclaimed in unison.
“How do you know it is the wrong place?”
“Because,” replied Thorndyke, “I believe I know the right place, and
this is not it. But we can put the matter to the test, and we had
better do so. Can you get a couple of men with picks and shovels? Or
shall we handle the tools ourselves?”
“I think that would be better,” said Blowgrave, who was quivering with
excitement. “We don’t want to take any one into our confidence if we
can help it.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “Then I suggest that you fetch the tools while
I locate the spot.”
Blowgrave assented eagerly and went off at a brisk trot, while the
young lady remained with us and watched Thorndyke with intense
curiosity.
“I mustn’t interrupt you with questions,” said she, “but I can’t
imagine how you found out where Uncle Reuben was buried.”
“We will go into that later,” he replied; “but first we have got to
find Uncle Reuben.” He laid his research-case down on the ground, and
opening it, took out three sheets of paper, each bearing a duplicate
of his tracing of the map; and on each was marked a spot on this
meadow from which a number of lines radiated like the spokes of a
wheel.
“You see, Jervis,” he said, exhibiting them to me, “the advantage of a
map. I have been able to rule off these sets of bearings regardless of
obstructions, such as those young trees, which have arisen since
Silas’s day, and mark the spot in its correct place. If the recent
obstructions prevent us from taking the bearings, we can still find
the spot by measurements with the land-chain or tape.”
“Why have you got three plans?” I asked.
“Because there are three imaginable places. No. 1 is the most likely;
No. 2 less likely, but possible; No. 3 is impossible. That is the one
that our friend tried last night. No. 1 is among those young trees,
and we will now see if we can pick up the bearings in spite of them.”
We moved on to the clump of young trees, where Thorndyke took from the
research-case a tall, folding camera-tripod and a large prismatic
compass with an aluminium dial. With the latter he took one or two
trial bearings and then, setting up the tripod, fixed the compass on
it. For some minutes Miss Blowgrave and I watched him as he shifted
the tripod from spot to spot, peering through the sight-vane of the
compass and glancing occasionally at the map. At length he turned to
us and said:
“We are in luck. None of these trees interferes with our bearings.” He
took from the research-case a surveyor’s arrow, and sticking it in the
ground under the tripod, added: “That is the spot. But we may have to
dig a good way round it, for a compass is only a rough instrument.”
At this moment Mr. Blowgrave staggered up, breathing hard, and flung
down on the ground three picks, two shovels and a spade. “I won’t
hinder you, Doctor, by asking for explanations,” said he, “but I am
utterly mystified. You must tell us what it all means when we have
finished our work.”
This Thorndyke promised to do, but meanwhile he took off his coat, and
rolling up his shirt sleeves, seized the spade and began cutting out a
large square of turf. As the soil was uncovered, Blowgrave and I
attacked it with picks and Miss Blowgrave shovelled away the loose
earth.
“Do you know how far down we have to go?” I asked.
“The body lies six feet below the surface,” Thorndyke replied; and as
he spoke he laid down his spade, and taking a telescope from the
research-case, swept it round the margin of the meadow and finally
pointed it at a farm-house some six hundred yards distant, of which he
made a somewhat prolonged inspection, after which he took the
remaining pick and fell to work on the opposite corner of the exposed
square of earth.
For nearly half an hour we worked on steadily, gradually eating our
way downwards, plying pick and shovel alternately, while Miss
Blowgrave cleared the loose earth away from the edges of the deepening
pit. Then a halt was called and we came to the surface, wiping our
faces.
“I think, Nellie,” said Blowgrave, divesting himself of his waistcoat,
“a jug of lemonade and four tumblers would be useful, unless our
visitors would prefer beer.”
We both gave our votes for lemonade, and Miss Nellie tripped away
towards the house, while Thorndyke, taking up his telescope, once more
inspected the farm-house.
“You seem greatly interested in that house,” I remarked.
“I am,” he replied, handing me the telescope. “Just take a look at the
window in the right hand gable, but keep under the tree.”
I pointed the telescope at the gable and there observed an open window
at which a man was seated. He held a binocular glass to his eyes and
the instrument appeared to be directed at us.
“We are being spied on, I fancy,” said I, passing the telescope to
Blowgrave, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is your land, isn’t
it?”
“Yes,” replied Blowgrave, “but still, we didn’t want any spectators.
That is Harold Bowker,” he added, steadying the telescope against a
tree, “my cousin Arthur’s nephew, whom I told you about as having
inherited the farm-house. He seems mighty interested in us; but small
things interest one in the country.”
Here the appearance of Miss Nellie, advancing across the meadow with
an inviting looking basket, diverted our attention from our
inquisitive watcher. Six thirsty eyes were riveted on that basket
until it drew near and presently disgorged a great glass jug and four
tumblers, when we each took off a long and delicious draught and then
jumped down into the pit to resume our labours.
Another half-hour passed. We had excavated in some places to nearly
the full depth and were just discussing the advisability of another
short rest when Blowgrave, who was working in one corner, uttered a
loud cry and stood up suddenly, holding something in his fingers. A
glance at the object showed it to be a bone, brown and earth-stained,
but evidently a bone. Evidently, too, a human bone, as Thorndyke
decided when Blowgrave handed it to him triumphantly.
“We have been very fortunate,” said he, “to get so near at the first
trial. This is from the right great toe, so we may assume that the
skeleton lies just outside this pit, but we had better excavate
carefully in your corner and see exactly how the bones lie.” This he
proceeded to do himself, probing cautiously with the spade and
clearing the earth away from the corner. Very soon the remaining bones
of the right foot came into view and then the ends of the two
leg-bones and a portion of the left foot.
“We can see now,” said he, “how the skeleton lies, and all we have to
do is to extend the excavation in that direction. But there is only
room for one to work down here. I think you and Mr. Blowgrave had
better dig down from the surface.”
On this, I climbed out of the pit, followed reluctantly by Blowgrave,
who still held the little brown bone in his hand and was in a state of
wild excitement and exultation that somewhat scandalized his daughter.
“It seems rather ghoulish,” she remarked, “to be gloating over poor
Uncle Reuben’s body in this way.”
“I know,” said Blowgrave, “it isn’t reverent. But I didn’t kill Uncle
Reuben, you know, whereas--well it was a long time ago.” With this
rather inconsequent conclusion he took a draught of lemonade, seized
his pick and fell to work with a will. I, too, indulged in a draught