The blue scarab
be shrivelled and tapered, whereas, if you remember, the toes of these
feet were quite plump and full, to judge by the large impressions they
made. So I think we may safely reject Raynaud’s disease. There remain
ergotism and frost-bite; and the choice between them is just a
question of relative frequency. Frost-bite is more common; therefore
frost-bite is more probable.”
“Do they tend equally to affect the little toes?” asked Foxton.
“As a matter of probability, yes. The poison of ergot acting from
within, and intense cold acting from without, contract the small
blood-vessels and arrest the circulation. The feet, being the most
distant parts of the body from the heart, are the first to feel the
effects; and the little toes, which are the most distant parts of the
feet, are the most susceptible of all.”
Foxton reflected awhile, and then remarked:
“This is all very well, Jervis, but I don’t see that you are much
forrarder. This man has lost both his little toes, and on your
showing, the probabilities are that the loss was due either to chronic
ergot poisoning or to frost-bite, with a balance of probability in
favour of frost-bite. That’s all. No proof, no verification. Just the
law of probability applied to a particular case, which is always
unsatisfactory. He may have lost his toes in some totally different
way. But even if the probabilities work out correctly, I don’t see
what use your conclusions would be to the police. They wouldn’t tell
them what sort of man to look for.”
There was a good deal of truth in Foxton’s objection. A man who has
suffered from ergotism or frost-bite is not externally different from
any other man. Still, we had not exhausted the case, as I ventured to
point out.
“Don’t be premature, Foxton,” said I. “Let us pursue our argument a
little farther. We have established a probability that this unknown
man has suffered either from ergotism or frost-bite. That, as you say,
is of no use by itself; but supposing we can show that these
conditions tend to affect a particular class of persons, we shall have
established a fact that will indicate a line of investigation. And I
think we can. Let us take the case of ergotism first.
“Now how is chronic ergot poisoning caused? Not by the medicinal use
of the drug, but by the consumption of the diseased rye in which ergot
occurs. It is therefore peculiar to countries in which rye is used
extensively as food. Those countries, broadly speaking, are the
countries of North Eastern Europe, and especially Russia and Poland.
“Then take the case of frost-bite. Obviously the most likely person to
get frost-bitten is the inhabitant of a country with a cold climate.
The most rigorous climates inhabited by white people are North America
and North Eastern Europe, especially Russia and Poland. So you see,
the areas associated with ergotism and frost-bite overlap to some
extent. In fact they do more than overlap; for a person even slightly
affected by ergot would be specially liable to frost-bite, owing to
the impaired circulation. The conclusion is that, racially, in both
ergotism and frost-bite, the balance of probability is in favour of a
Russian, a Pole, or a Scandinavian.
“Then in the case of frost-bite there is the occupation factor. What
class of men tend most to become frost-bitten? Well, beyond all doubt,
the greatest sufferers from frost-bite are sailors, especially those
on sailing ships, and, naturally, on ships trading to arctic and
sub-arctic countries. But the bulk of such sailing ships are those
engaged in the Baltic and Archangel trade; and the crews of those
ships are almost exclusively Scandinavians, Finns, Russians and Poles.
So that, again, the probabilities point to a native of North Eastern
Europe, and, taken as a whole, by the overlapping of factors, to a
Russian, a Pole, or a Scandinavian.”
Foxton smiled sardonically. “Very ingenious, Jervis,” said he. “Most
ingenious. As an academic statement of probabilities, quite excellent.
But for practical purposes absolutely useless. However, here we are at
the police station. I’ll just run in and give them the facts and then
go on to the coroner’s office.”
“I suppose I’d better not come in with you?” I said.
“Well, no,” he replied. “You see, you have no official connection with
the case, and they mightn’t like it. You’d better go and amuse
yourself while I get the morning’s visits done. We can talk things
over at lunch.”
With this he disappeared into the police station, and I turned away
with a smile of grim amusement. Experience is apt to make us a trifle
uncharitable, and experience had taught me that those who are the most
scornful of academic reasoning are often not above retailing it with
some reticence as to its original authorship. I had a shrewd suspicion
that Foxton was at this very moment disgorging my despised “academic
statement of probabilities” to an admiring police-inspector.
My way towards the sea lay through Ethelred Road, and I had traversed
about half its length and was approaching the house of the tragedy
when I observed Mrs. Beddingfield at the bay window. Evidently she
recognized me, for a few moments later she appeared in outdoor clothes
on the doorstep and advanced to meet me.
“Have you seen the police?” she asked as we met. I replied that Dr.
Foxton was even now at the police station.
“Ah!” she said, “it’s a dreadful affair; most unfortunate, too, just
at the beginning of the season. A scandal is absolute ruin to a
boarding-house. What do you think of the case? Will it be possible to
hush it up? Dr. Foxton said you were a lawyer, I think, Dr. Jervis?”
“Yes, I am a lawyer, but really I know nothing of the circumstances of
this case. Did I understand that there had been something in the
nature of a love affair?”
“Yes--at least--well, perhaps I oughtn’t to have said that. But hadn’t
I better tell you the whole story?--that is, if I am not taking up too
much of your time.”
“I should be interested to hear what led to the disaster,” said I.
“Then,” she said, “I will tell you all about it. Will you come
indoors, or shall I walk a little way with you?”
As I suspected that the police were at that moment on their way to the
house, I chose the latter alternative and led her away seawards at a
pretty brisk pace.
“Was this poor lady a widow?” I asked as we started up the street.
“No, she wasn’t,” replied Mrs. Beddingfield, “and that was the
trouble. Her husband was abroad--at least, he had been, and he was
just coming home. A pretty home-coming it will be for him, poor man.
He is an officer in the civil police at Sierra Leone, but he hasn’t
been there long. He went there for his health.”
“What! To Sierra Leone!” I exclaimed, for the “White Man’s Grave”
seemed a queer health resort.
“Yes. You see, Mr. Toussaint is a French Canadian, and it seems that
he has always been somewhat of a rolling stone. For some time he was
in the Klondike, but he suffered so much from the cold that he had to
come away. It injured his health very severely; I don’t quite know in
what way, but I do know that he was quite a cripple for a time. When
he got better he looked out for a post in a warm climate and
eventually obtained the appointment of Inspector of Civil Police at
Sierra Leone. That was about ten months ago, and when he sailed for
Africa his wife came to stay with me, and has been here ever since.”
“And this love affair that you spoke of?”
“Yes, but I oughtn’t to have called it that. Let me explain what
happened. About three months ago a Swedish gentleman--a Mr.
Bergson--came to stay here, and he seemed to be very much smitten with
Mrs. Toussaint.”
“And she?”
“Oh, she liked him well enough. He is a tall, good-looking man--though
for that matter he is no taller than her husband, nor any better
looking. Both men are over six feet. But there was no harm so far as
she was concerned, excepting that she didn’t see the position quite
soon enough. She wasn’t very discreet, in fact I thought it necessary
to give her a little advice. However, Mr. Bergson left here and went
to live at Ramsgate to superintend the unloading of the ice ships (he
came from Sweden in one), and I thought the trouble was at an end. But
it wasn’t, for he took to coming over to see Mrs. Toussaint, and of
course I couldn’t have that. So at last I had to tell him that he
mustn’t come to the house again. It was very unfortunate, for on that
occasion I think he had been ‘tasting,’ as they say in Scotland. He
wasn’t drunk, but he was excitable and noisy, and when I told him he
mustn’t come again he made such a disturbance that two of the
gentlemen boarders--Mr. Wardale and Mr. Macauley--had to interfere.
And then he was most insulting to them, especially to Mr. Macauley,
who is a coloured gentleman; called him a ‘buck nigger’ and all sorts
of offensive names.”
“And how did the coloured gentleman take it?”
“Not very well, I am sorry to say, considering that he is a
gentleman--a law student with chambers in the Temple. In fact, his
language was so objectionable that Mr. Wardale insisted on my giving
him notice on the spot. But I managed to get him taken in next door
but one; you see, Mr. Wardale had been a Commissioner at Sierra
Leone--it was through him that Mr. Toussaint got his appointment--so I
suppose he was rather on his dignity with coloured people.”
“And was that the last you heard of Mr. Bergson?”
“He never came here again, but he wrote several times to Mrs.
Toussaint, asking her to meet him. At last, only a few days ago, she
wrote to him and told him that the acquaintance must cease.”
“And has it ceased?”
“As far as I know, it has.”
“Then, Mrs. Beddingfield,” said I, “what makes you connect the affair
with--with what has happened?”
“Well, you see,” she explained, “there is the husband. He was coming
home, and is probably in England already.”
“Indeed!” said I.
“Yes,” she continued. “He went up into the bush to arrest some natives
belonging to one of these gangs of murderers--Leopard Societies, I
think they are called--and he got seriously wounded. He wrote to his
wife from hospital, saying that he would be sent home as soon as he
was fit to travel, and about ten days ago she got a letter from him
saying that he was coming by the next ship.
“I noticed that she seemed very nervous and upset when she got the
letters from hospital, and still more so when the last letter came. Of
course, I don’t know what he said to her in those letters. It may be
that he had heard something about Mr. Bergson, and threatened to take
some action. Of course, I can’t say. I only know that she was very
nervous and restless, and when we saw in the paper four days ago that
the ship he would be coming by had arrived in Liverpool, she seemed
dreadfully upset. And she got worse and worse until--well, until last
night.”
“Has anything been heard of the husband since the ship arrived?” I
asked.
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mrs. Beddingfield, with a meaning look at
me which I had no difficulty in interpreting. “No letter, no telegram,
not a word. And you see, if he hadn’t come by that ship he would
almost certainly have sent a letter by her. He must have arrived in
England, but why hasn’t he turned up, or at least sent a wire? What is
he doing? Why is he staying away? Can he have heard something? And
what does he mean to do? That’s what kept the poor thing on wires, and
that, I feel certain, is what drove her to make away with herself.”
It was not my business to contest Mrs. Beddingfield’s erroneous
deductions. I was seeking information--it seemed that I had nearly
exhausted the present source. But one point required amplifying.
“To return to Mr. Bergson, Mrs. Beddingfield,” said I. “Do I
understand that he is a seafaring man?”