The blue scarab
“He was,” she replied. “At present he is settled at Ramsgate as
manager of a company in the ice trade, but formerly he was a sailor. I
have heard him say that he was one of the crew of an exploring ship
that went in search of the North Pole and that he was locked up in the
ice for months and months. I should have thought he would have had
enough of ice after that.”
With this view I expressed warm agreement, and having now obtained all
the information that appeared to be available, I proceeded to bring
the interview to an end.
“Well, Mrs. Beddingfield,” I said, “it is a rather mysterious affair.
Perhaps more light may be thrown on it at the inquest. Meanwhile, I
should think that it will be wise of you to keep your own counsel as
far as outsiders are concerned.”
The remainder of the morning I spent pacing the smooth stretch of sand
that lies to the east of the jetty, and reflecting on the evidence
that I had acquired in respect of this singular crime. Evidently there
was no lack of clues in this case. On the contrary, there were two
quite obvious lines of inquiry, for both the Swede and the missing
husband presented the characters of the hypothetical murderer. Both
had been exposed to the conditions which tend to produce frost-bite;
one of them had probably been a consumer of rye meal, and both might
be said to have a motive--though, to be sure, it was a very
insufficient one--for committing the crime. Still, in both cases the
evidence was merely speculative; it suggested a line of investigation,
but it did nothing more.
When I met Foxton at lunch I was sensible of a curious change in his
manner. His previous expansiveness had given place to marked reticence
and a certain official secretiveness.
“I don’t think, you know, Jervis,” he said, when I opened the subject,
“that we had better discuss this affair. You see, I am the principal
witness, and while the case is _sub judice_--well, in fact the police
don’t want the case talked about.”
“But surely I am a witness, too, and an expert witness, moreover----”
“That isn’t the view of the police. They look on you as more or less
of an amateur, and as you have no official connection with the case, I
don’t think they propose to subpœna you. Superintendent Platt, who is
in charge of the case, wasn’t very pleased at my having taken you to
the house. Said it was quite irregular. Oh, and by the way, he says
you must hand over those photographs.”
“But isn’t Platt going to have the footprints photographed on his own
account?” I objected.
“Of course he is. He is going to have a set of proper photographs
taken by an expert photographer;--he was mightily amused when he heard
about your little snapshot affair. Oh, you can trust Platt. He is a
great man. He has had a course of instruction at the Finger Print
Department in London.”
“I don’t see how that is going to help him, as there aren’t any finger
prints in this case.” This was a mere fly-cast on my part, but Foxton
rose at once at the rather clumsy bait.
“Oh, aren’t there?” he exclaimed. “You didn’t happen to spot them, but
they were there. Platt has got the prints of a complete right hand.
This is in strict confidence, you know,” he added, with somewhat
belated caution.
Foxton’s sudden reticence restrained me from uttering the obvious
comment on the superintendent’s achievement. I returned to the subject
of the photographs.
“Supposing I decline to hand over my film?” said I.
“But I hope you won’t--and in fact you mustn’t. I am officially
connected with the case, and I’ve got to live with these people. As
the police-surgeon, I am responsible for the medical evidence, and
Platt expects me to get those photographs from you. Obviously you
can’t keep them. It would be most irregular.”
It was useless to argue. Evidently the police did not want me to be
introduced into the case, and after all, the superintendent was within
his rights, if he chose to regard me as a private individual and to
demand the surrender of the film.
Nevertheless I was loath to give up the photographs, at least, until I
had carefully studied them. The case was within my own specialty of
practice, and was a strange and interesting one. Moreover, it appeared
to be in unskilful hands, judging from the finger-print episode, and
then experience had taught me to treasure up small scraps of chance
evidence, since one never knew when one might be drawn into a case in
a professional capacity. In effect, I decided not to give up the
photographs, though that decision committed me to a ruse that I was
not very willing to adopt. I would rather have acted quite
straightforwardly.
“Well, if you insist, Foxton,” I said, “I will hand over the film or,
if you like, I will destroy it in your presence.”
“I think Platt would rather have the film uninjured,” said Foxton.
“Then he’ll know, you know,” he added, with a sly grin.
In my heart, I thanked Foxton for that grin. It made my own guileful
proceedings so much easier; for a suspicious man invites you to get
the better of him if you can.
After lunch I went up to my room, locked the door and took the little
camera from my pocket. Having fully wound up the film, I extracted it,
wrapped it up carefully and bestowed it in my inside breast-pocket.
Then I inserted a fresh film, and going to the open window, took four
successive snapshots of the sky. This done, I closed the camera,
slipped it into my pocket, and went downstairs. Foxton was in the
hall, brushing his hat, as I descended, and at once renewed his
demand.
“About those photographs, Jervis,” said he, “I shall be looking in at
the police station presently, so if you wouldn’t mind----”
“To be sure,” said I. “I will give you the film now, if you like.”
Taking the camera from my pocket, I solemnly wound up the remainder of
the film, extracted it, stuck down the loose end with ostentatious
care, and handed it to him.
“Better not expose it to the light,” I said, going the whole hog of
deception, “or you may fog the exposures.”
Foxton took the spool from me as if it were hot--he was not a
photographer--and thrust it into his hand-bag. He was still thanking
me quite profusely when the front-door bell rang.
The visitor who stood revealed when Foxton opened the door was a
small, spare gentleman with a complexion of the peculiar brown-papery
quality that suggests long residence in the Tropics. He stepped in
briskly and introduced himself and his business without preamble.
“My name is Wardale--boarder at Beddingfield’s. I’ve called with
reference to the tragic event which----”
Here Foxton interposed in his frostiest official tone. “I am afraid,
Mr. Wardale, I can’t give you any information about the case at
present.”
“I saw you two gentlemen at the house this morning,” Mr. Wardale
continued, but Foxton again cut him short.
“You did. We were there--or at least, I was--as the representative of
the Law, and while the case is _sub judice_----”
“It isn’t yet,” interrupted Wardale.
“Well, I can’t enter into any discussion of it----”
“I am not asking you to,” said Wardale, a little impatiently. “But I
understand that one of you is Dr. Jervis.”
“I am,” said I.
“I must really warn you,” Foxton began again; but Mr. Wardale
interrupted testily:
“My dear sir, I am a lawyer and a magistrate and understand perfectly
well what is and what is not permissible. I have come simply to make a
professional engagement with Dr. Jervis.”
“In what way can I be of service to you?” I asked.
“I will tell you,” said Mr. Wardale. “This poor lady, whose death has
occurred in so mysterious a manner, was the wife of a man who was,
like myself, a servant of the Government of Sierra Leone. I was the
friend of both of them; and in the absence of the husband, I should
like to have the inquiry into the circumstances of this lady’s death
watched by a competent lawyer with the necessary special knowledge of
medical evidence. Will you or your colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, undertake
to watch the case for me?”
Of course I was willing to undertake the case and said so.
“Then,” said Mr. Wardale, “I will instruct my solicitor to write to
you and formally retain you in the case. Here is my card. You will
find my name in the Colonial Office List, and you know my address
here.”
He handed me his card, wished us both good afternoon, and then, with a
stiff little bow, turned and took his departure.
“I think I had better run up to town and confer with Thorndyke,” said
I. “How do the trains run?”
“There is a good train in about three-quarters of an hour,” replied
Foxton.
“Then I will go by it, but I shall come down again to-morrow or the
next day, and probably Thorndyke will come down with me.”
“Very well,” said Foxton. “Bring him in to lunch or dinner, but I
can’t put him up, I am afraid.”
“It would be better not,” said I. “Your friend, Platt, wouldn’t like
it. He won’t want Thorndyke--or me either for that matter. And what
about those photographs? Thorndyke will want them, you know.”
“He can’t have them,” said Foxton doggedly, “unless Platt is willing
to hand them back; which I don’t suppose he will be.”
I had private reasons for thinking otherwise, but I kept them to
myself; and as Foxton went forth on his afternoon round, I returned
upstairs to pack my suit-case and write the telegram to Thorndyke
informing him of my movements.
It was only a quarter past five when I let myself into our chambers in
King’s Bench Walk. To my relief I found my colleague at home and our
laboratory assistant, Polton, in the act of laying tea for two.
“I gather,” said Thorndyke, as we shook hands, “that my learned
brother brings grist to the mill?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Nominally a watching brief, but I think you will
agree with me that it is a case for independent investigation.”
“Will there be anything in my line, sir?” inquired Polton, who was
always agog at the word “investigation.”
“There is a film to be developed. Four exposures of white footprints
on a dark ground.”
“Ah!” said Polton, “you’ll want good strong negatives and they ought
to be enlarged if they are from the little camera. Can you give me the
dimensions?”
I wrote out the measurements from my notebook and handed him the paper
together with the spool of film, with which he retired gleefully to
the laboratory.
“And now, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, “while Polton is operating on the
film and we are discussing our tea, let us have a sketch of the case.”
I gave him more than a sketch, for the events were recent and I had
carefully sorted out the facts during my journey to town, making rough
notes which I now consulted. To my rather lengthy recital he listened
in his usual attentive manner, without any comment, excepting in
regard to my manœuvre to retain possession of the exposed film.
“It’s almost a pity you didn’t refuse,” said he. “They could hardly
have enforced their demand, and my feeling is that it is more
convenient as well as more dignified to avoid direct deception unless
one is driven to it. But perhaps you considered that you were.”
As a matter of fact I had at the time, but I had since come to
Thorndyke’s opinion. My little manœuvre was going to be a source of
inconvenience presently.
“Well,” said Thorndyke, when I had finished my recital, “I think we
may take it that the police theory is, in the main, your own theory
derived from Foxton.”
“I think so, excepting that I learned from Foxton that Superintendent
Platt has obtained the complete finger-prints of a right hand.”
Thorndyke raised his eyebrows. “Finger-prints!” he exclaimed. “Why the
fellow must be a mere simpleton. But there,” he added,
“everybody--police, lawyers, judges, even Galton himself--seems to
lose every vestige of common sense as soon as the subject of