The magic casket
Blakey’s protector, preceded by that of a gash in the tyre and
followed by that of a projecting lump.
“But this is astounding!” I exclaimed. “It is almost certainly the
same track that we saw in Ponder’s Road.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I noticed it as we came along.” He brought out his
spring-tape and note-book, and handing the latter to me, stooped and
measured the distances between the three impressions. I wrote them
down as he called them out, and then we compared them with the note
made in Ponder’s Road. The measurements were identical, as were the
relative positions of the impressions.
“This is an important piece of evidence,” said he. “I wish we were
able to take casts, but the notes will be pretty conclusive. And now,”
he continued as we resumed our progress towards the station, “to
return to your question. Parton’s evidence at the inquest proved that
Cyrus Pedley was drowned in water which contained duck-weed. He
produced a specimen and we both saw it. We saw the duck-weed in it and
also two Planorbis shells. The presence of those two shells proved
that the water in which he was drowned must have swarmed with them. We
saw the body, and observed that one hand grasped a wisp of horn-weed.
Then we went to view the ditch and we examined it. That was when I
got, not a mere hint, but a crucial and conclusive fact. The ditch was
covered with duck-weed, as we expected. _But it was the wrong
duck-weed._”
“The wrong duck-weed!” I exclaimed. “Why, how many kinds of duck-weed
are there?”
“There are four British species,” he replied. “The Greater Duck-weed,
the Lesser Duck-weed, the Thick Duck-weed, and the Ivy-leaved
Duck-weed. Now the specimens in Parton’s jar I noticed were the
Greater Duck-weed, which is easily distinguished by its roots, which
are multiple and form a sort of tassel. But the duck-weed on the
Bantree ditch was the Lesser Duck-weed, which is smaller than the
other, but is especially distinguished by having only a single root.
It is impossible to mistake one for the other.
“Here, then, was practically conclusive evidence of murder. Cyrus
Pedley had been drowned in a pond or ditch. But not in the ditch in
which his body was found. Therefore his dead body had been conveyed
from some other place and put into this ditch. Such a proceeding
furnishes _prima facie_ evidence of murder. But as soon as the
question was raised, there was an abundance of confirmatory evidence.
There was no horn-weed or Planorbis shells in the ditch, but there
were swarms of succineæ, some of which would inevitably have been
swallowed with the water. There was an obscure linear pressure mark on
the arm of the dead man, just above the elbow: such a mark as might be
made by a cord if a man were pinioned to render him helpless. Then the
body would have had to be conveyed to this place in some kind of
vehicle; and we found the traces of what appeared to be a motor-van,
which had approached the cart-track on the wrong side of the road, as
if to pull up there. It was a very conclusive mass of evidence; but it
would have been useless but for the extraordinarily lucky chance that
poor Pedley had lost his railway ticket and preserved the receipt; by
which we were able to ascertain where he was on the day of his death
and in what locality the murder was probably committed. But that is
not the only way in which Fortune has favoured us. The
station-master’s information was, and will be, invaluable. Then it was
most fortunate for us that there was only one ditch on the factory
land; and that that ditch was accessible at only one point, which must
have been the place where Pedley was drowned.”
“The duck-weed in this ditch is, of course, the Greater Duck-weed?”
“Yes. I have taken some specimens as well as the horn-weed and
shells.”
He opened the vasculum and picked out one of the tiny plants,
exhibiting the characteristic tassel of roots.
“I shall write to Parton and tell him to preserve the jar and the
horn-weed if it has not been thrown away. But the duck-weed alone,
produced in evidence, would be proof enough that Pedley was not
drowned in the Bantree ditch; and the dental plate will show where he
was drowned.”
“Are you going to pursue the case any farther?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I shall call at Scotland Yard on my way home and
report what I have learned and what I can prove in court. Then I shall
have finished with the case. The rest is for the police, and I imagine
they won’t have much difficulty. The circumstances seem to tell their
own story. Pedley was employed by the Foreign Office, probably on some
kind of secret service. I imagine that he discovered the existence of
a gang of evil-doers--probably foreign revolutionaries, of whom we may
assume that our friend the manager of the factory is one; that he
contrived to associate himself with them and to visit the factory
occasionally to ascertain what was made there besides Golomite--if
Golomite is not itself an illicit product. Then I assume that he was
discovered to be a spy, that he was lured down here; that he was
pinioned and drowned some time on Tuesday night and his body put into
the van and conveyed to a place miles away from the scene of his
death, where it was deposited in a ditch apparently identical in
character with that in which he was drowned. It was an extremely
ingenious and well-thought-out plan. It seemed to have provided for
every kind of inquiry, and it very narrowly missed being successful.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But it didn’t provide for Dr. John Thorndyke.”
“It didn’t provide for a searching examination of all the details,” he
replied; “and no criminal plan that I have ever met has done so. The
completeness of the scheme is limited by the knowledge of the
schemers, and, in practice, there is always something overlooked. In
this case, the criminals were unlearned in the natural history of
ditches.”
Thorndyke’s theory of the crime turned out to be substantially
correct. The Golomite Works proved to be a factory where high
explosives were made by a gang of cosmopolitan revolutionaries who
were all known to the police. But the work of the latter was
simplified by a detailed report which the dead man had deposited at
his bank and which was discovered in time to enable the police to raid
the factory and secure the whole gang. When once they were under lock
and key, further information was forthcoming; for a charge of murder
against them jointly soon produced King’s Evidence sufficient to
procure a conviction of the three actual perpetrators of the murder.
V.
MR. PONTING’S ALIBI
Thorndyke looked doubtfully at the pleasant-faced, athletic-looking
clergyman who had just come in, bearing Mr. Brodribb’s card as an
explanatory credential.
“I don’t quite see,” said he, “why Mr. Brodribb sent you to me. It
seems to be a purely legal matter which he could have dealt with
himself, at least as well as I can.”
“He appeared to think otherwise,” said the clergyman. (“The Revd.
Charles Meade” was written on the card.) “At any rate,” he added with
a persuasive smile, “here I am, and I hope you are not going to send
me away.”
“I shouldn’t offer that affront to my old friend Brodribb,” replied
Thorndyke, smiling in return; “so we may as well get to business,
which, in the first place, involves the setting out of all the
particulars. Let us begin with the lady who is the subject of the
threats of which you spoke.”
“Her name,” said Mr. Meade, “is Miss Millicent Fawcett. She is a
person of independent means, which she employs in works of charity.
She was formerly a hospital sister, and she does a certain amount of
voluntary work in the parish as a sort of district nurse. She has been
a very valuable help to me and we have been close friends for several
years; and I may add, as a very material fact, that she has consented
to marry me in about two months’ time. So that, you see, I am properly
entitled to act on her behalf.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “You are an interested party. And now, as to
the threats. What do they amount to?”
“That,” replied Meade, “I can’t tell you. I gathered quite by chance
from some words that she dropped, that she had been threatened. But
she was unwilling to say more on the subject, as she did not take the
matter seriously. She is not at all nervous. However, I told her I was
taking advice; and I hope you will be able to extract more details
from her. For my own part, I am decidedly uneasy.”
“And as to the person or persons who have uttered the threats. Who are
they? and out of what circumstances have the threats arisen?”
“The person is a certain William Ponting, who is Miss Fawcett’s
step-brother--if that is the right term. Her father married, as his
second wife, a Mrs. Ponting, a widow with one son. This is the son.
His mother died before Mr. Fawcett, and the latter, when he died, left
his daughter, Millicent, sole heir to his property. That has always
been a grievance to Ponting. But now he has another. Miss Fawcett made
a will some years ago by which the bulk of her rather considerable
property is left to two cousins, Frederick and James Barnett, the sons
of her father’s sister. A comparatively small amount goes to Ponting.
When he heard this he was furious. He demanded a portion at least
equal to the others, and has continued to make this demand from time
to time. In fact, he has been extremely troublesome, and appears to be
getting still more so. I gathered that the threats were due to her
refusal to alter the will.”
“But,” said I, “doesn’t he realize that her marriage will render that
will null and void?”
“Apparently not,” replied Meade; “nor, to tell the truth, did I
realize it myself. Will she have to make a new will?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “And as that new will may be expected to be
still less favourable to him, that will presumably be a further
grievance.”
“One doesn’t understand,” said Thorndyke, “why he should excite
himself so much about her will. What are their respective ages?”
“Miss Fawcett is thirty-six and Ponting is about forty.”
“And what kind of man is he?” Thorndyke asked.
“A very unpleasant kind of man, I am sorry to say. Morose, rude, and
violent-tempered. A spendthrift and a cadger. He has had quite a lot
of money from Miss Fawcett--loans, which, of course, are never repaid.
And he is none too industrious, though he has a regular job on the
staff of a weekly paper. But he seems to be always in debt.”
“We may as well note his address,” said Thorndyke.
“He lives in a small flat in Bloomsbury--alone, now, since he
quarrelled with the man who used to share it with him. The address is
12 Borneo House, Devonshire Street.”
“What sort of terms is he on with the cousins, his rivals?”
“No sort of terms now,” replied Meade. “They used to be great friends.
So much so that he took his present flat to be near them--they live in
the adjoining flat, number 12 Sumatra House. But since the trouble
about the will, he is hardly on speaking terms with them.”
“They live together, then?”
“Yes, Frederick and his wife and James, who is unmarried. They are
rather a queer lot, too. Frederick is a singer on the variety stage,
and James accompanies him on various instruments. But they are both
sporting characters of a kind, especially James, who does a bit on the
turf and engages in other odd activities. Of course, their musical
habits are a grievance to Ponting. He is constantly making complaints
of their disturbing him at his work.”
Mr. Meade paused and looked wistfully at Thorndyke, who was making
full notes of the conversation.
“Well,” said the latter, “we seem to have got all the facts excepting
the most important--the nature of the threats. What do you want us to
do?”
“I want you to see Miss Fawcett--with me, if possible--and induce her